Chapter 1

THE PEARL

A MIDDLE ENGLISH POEM

A MODERN VERSION IN THE METRE OF THE ORIGINAL

BY

SOPHIE JEWETT

ASSOCIATE PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE IN WELLESLEY COLLEGE

1908

To KATHARINE LEE BATES

THE TRANSLATOR TO THE AUTHOR

Poet of beauty, pardon me If touch of mine have tarnishèd Thy Pearl's pure luster, loved by thee; Or dimmed thy vision of the dead Alive in light and gaiety. Thy life is like a shadow fled; Thy place we know not nor degree, The stock that bore thee, school that bred; Yet shall thy fame be sung and said. Poet of wonder, pain, and peace, Hold high thy nameless, laurelled head Where Dante dwells with Beatrice.

PREFACE

Among the treasures of the British Museum is a manuscript which contains four anonymous poems, apparently of common authorship: "The Pearl," "Cleanness," "Patience," "Sir Gawayne and the Green Knight." From the language of the writer, it seems clear that he was a native of some Northwestern district of England, and that he lived in the second half of the Fourteenth Century. He is quite unknown, save as his work reveals him, a man of aristocratic breeding, of religious and secular education, of a deeply emotional and spiritual nature, gifted with imagination and perception of beauty. He shows a liking for technique that leads him to adopt elaborate devices of rhyme, while retaining the alliteration characteristic of Northern Middle English verse. He wrote as was the fashion of his time, allegory, homily, lament, chivalric romance, but the distinction of his poetry is that of a finely accentuated individuality.

The poems called "Cleanness" and "Patience," retell incidents of biblical history for a definitely didactic purpose, but even these are frequently lifted into the region of imaginative literature by the author's power of graphic description. "Sir Gawayne and the Green Knight" is a priceless contribution to Arthurian story. "The Pearl," though it takes the form of symbolic narrative, is essentially lyric and elegiac, the lament, it would seem, of a father for a little, long-lost daughter.

The present translation of "The Pearl" was begun with no larger design than that of turning a few passages into modern English, by way of illustrating to a group of students engaged in reading the original, the possibility of preserving intricate stanzaic form, and something of alliteration, without an entire sacrifice of poetic beauty. The experiment was persisted in because its problems are such as baffle and fascinate a translator, and the finished version is offered not merely to students of Middle English but to college classes in the history of English literature, and to non-academic readers.

If "The Pearl" presented no greater obstacle to a modern reader than is offered by Chaucer's English, a translation might be a gratuitous task, but the Northwest-Midland dialect of the poem is, in fact, incomparably more difficult than the diction of Chaucer, more difficult even than that of Langland. The meaning of many passages remains obscure, and a translator is often forced to choose what seems the least dubious among doubtful readings.

The poem in the original passes frequently from imaginative beauty to conversational commonplace, from deep feeling to didactic aphorism or theological dogma, and it has been my endeavor faithfully to interpret these variations of matter and of style, sometimes substituting modern colloquialisms for such as are obsolete, or in other ways paraphrasing a stubborn passage, but striving never to polish the dullest lines nor to strengthen the weakest.

A reader who will observe the difficult rhyming scheme, a scheme that calls for six words of one rhyme and four of another, will understand the presence of forced lines, an intrusion that one must needs suffer in even "The Faerie Queene." These padded lines are a serious blemish to the poem, but the introduction of naïve and familiar expressions is one of its charms, as when the Pearl, protesting like Piccarda in Paradise[1] that among beatified spirits there can be no rivalry, exclaims: "The more the merrier."[2]

The translation may, at many points, need apology, but the original needs only explanation. Readers familiar with mediæval poetry expect to encounter moral platitudes and theological subtlety. Dogma takes large and vital place in the sublimest cantos of Dante's "Paradise," and the English poet is consciously following his noblest master when he puts a sermon into the lips of his "little queen." To modern ears such exposition is at harsh discord with the simple human grief and longing of the poet, but to the mediaevalist symbolic theology was a passion. Precisely in the moment when she begins a discourse concerning the doctrine of redemption, Beatrice turns upon Dante "eyes that might make a man happy in the fire," and at its close he looks upon her and beholds her "grow more beautiful."[3] If even Beatrice has been considered mere personification, it is natural that the Pearl should be so regarded, but the plain reader finds in the symbolic maiden of the English poem, as in the transfigured lady of the Italian, some record of a human being whose loss was anguish, and whose presence rapture, to a poet long ago.

The lover of things mediæval will find in this little book not only the familiar garden of Guillaume de Lorris, of Boccaccio and of Chaucer, but an unexpected and enchanting vision of great forest and rushing water, of hillside and plain, of crystal cliffs and flame-winged birds; of the Pearl among her white peers; of the Apocalyptic Jerusalem, discovered to the poet, it may be, as a goodly Gothic city, though its walls are built of precious stone, and its towers rise from neither church nor minster.

If even a few readers turn from the modern to the original version, the translation will have had fair fortune, for the author of "The Pearl" is, though unknown and unnamed, a poet second only to Chaucer in Chaucer's generation.

It is a pleasure to record my many debts of gratitude: to Professor Frank H. Chase of Beloit, Professor John L. Lowes of Swarthmore, and Dr. Charles G. Osgood of Princeton, for their careful reading of the translation in manuscript, with invaluable assistance and suggestion; to Professor Martha Hale Shackford, and Miss Laura A. Hibbard, for constant aid while the work was in making, and, above all, to Professor Katharine Lee Bates for a critical, line by line, comparison of this version with the original.

[Footnote 1: Par. III.]

[Footnote 2: Pearl, stanza 71.]

[Footnote 3: Par. VII, II. 17-18; Par. VIII, I. 15.]

S.J. WELLESLEY COLLEGE, June, 1908.

EDITIONS: R. Morris, Early English text Sc. 1864; I. Gollancz, London, 1891; C.G. Osgood, Boston, 1906 (with admirable introduction, etc.). TRANSLATIONS: Gollancz (above); S. Weir Mitchell, New York, 1906 (poetic, but incomplete); G.G. Coulton, London, 1906 (metre of the original); C.G. Osgood, Princeton, 1907 (prose).

THE PEARL

I

Pearl that the Prince full well might prize, So surely set in shining gold! No pearl of Orient with her vies; To prove her peerless I make bold: So round, so radiant to mine eyes, smooth she seemed, so small to hold, Among all jewels judges wise Would count her best an hundred fold. Alas! I lost my pearl of old! I pine with heart-pain unforgot; Down through my arbour grass it rolled, My own pearl, precious, without spot.

Since in that spot it slipped from me I wait, and wish, and oft complain; Once it would bid my sorrow flee, And my fair fortune turn again; It wounds my heart now ceaselessly, And burns my breast with bitter pain. Yet never so sweet a song may be As, this still hour, steals through my brain, While verity I muse in vain How clay should her bright beauty clot; O Earth! a brave gem thou dost stain, My own pearl, precious, without spot!

Needs must that spot with spices spread, Where such wealth falleth to decay; Fair flowers, golden and blue and red, Shine in the sunlight day by day; Nor flower nor fruit have witherèd On turf wherein such treasure lay; The blade grows where the grain lies dead, Else were no ripe wheat stored away; Of good come good things, so we say, Then surely such seed faileth not, But spices spring in sweet array From my pearl, precious, without spot.

Once, to that spot of which I rhyme, I entered, in the arbour green, In August, the high summer-time When corn is cut with sickles keen; Upon the mound where my pearl fell, Tall, shadowing herbs grew bright and sheen, Gilliflower, ginger and gromwell, With peonies powdered all between. As it was lovely to be seen, So sweet the fragrance there, I wot, Worthy her dwelling who hath been My own pearl, precious, without spot.

Upon that spot my hands I crossed In prayer, for cold at my heart caught, And sudden sorrow surged and tossed, Though reason reconcilement sought. I mourned my pearl, dear beyond cost, And strange fears with my fancy fought; My will in wretchedness was lost, And yet Christ comforted my thought. Such odours to my sense were brought, I fell upon that flowery plot, Sleeping,--a sleep with dreams inwrought Of my pearl, precious, without spot.

II

From the spot my spirit springs into space, The while my body sleeping lies; My ghost is gone in God's good grace, Adventuring mid mysteries; I know not what might be the place, But I looked where tall cliffs cleave the skies, Toward a forest I turned my face, Where ranks of radiant rocks arise. A man might scarce believe his eyes, Such gleaming glory was from them sent; No woven web may men devise Of half such wondrous beauties blent.

In beauty shone each fair hillside With crystal cliffs in shining row, While bright woods everywhere abide, Their boles as blue as indigo; Like silver clear the leaves spread wide, That on each spray thick-quivering grow; If a flash of light across them glide With shimmering sheen they gleam and glow; The gravel on the ground below Seemed precious pearls of Orient; The sunbeams did but darkling show So gloriously those beauties blent.

The beauty of the hills so fair Made me forget my sufferings; I breathed fruit fragrance fine and rare, As if I fed on unseen things; Brave birds fly through the woodland there, Of flaming hues, and each one sings; With their mad mirth may not compare Cithern nor gayest citole-strings; For when those bright birds beat their wings, They sing together, all content; Keen joy to any man it brings To hear and see such beauties blent.

So beautiful was all the wood Where, guided forth by Chance, I strayed, There is no tongue that fully could Describe it, though all men essayed. Onward I walked in merriest mood Nor any highest hill delayed My feet. Far through the forest stood The plain with fairest trees arrayed, Hedges and slopes and rivers wide, Like gold thread their banks' garnishment; And when I won the waterside, Dear Lord! what wondrous beauties blent!

The beauties of that stream were steep, All-radiant banks of beryl bright; Sweet-sighing did the water sweep, With murmuring music running light; Within its bed fair stones lay deep; As if through glass they glowed, as white As streaming stars when tired men sleep Shine in the sky on a winter night. Pure emerald even the pebbles seemed, Sapphire, or other gems that lent Luster, till all the water gleamed With the glory of such beauties blent.

III

For the beauteousness of downs and dales, Of wood and water and proud plains, My joy springs up and my grief quails, My anguish ends, and all my pains. A swift stream down the valley hales My feet along. Bliss brims my brains; The farther I follow those watery vales, The stronger joy my heart constrains. While Fortune fares as her proud will deigns, Sending solace or sending sore, When a man her fickle favour gains, He looketh to have aye more and more.

There was more of marvel and of grace Than I could tell, howe'er I tried; The human heart that could embrace A tenth part were well satisfied; For Paradise, the very place, Must be upon that farther side; The water by a narrow space Pleasance from pleasance did divide. Beyond, on some slope undescried The City stood, I thought, wherefore I strove to cross the river's tide, And ever I longed, yet more and more.

More, and still more wistfully, The banks beyond the brook I scanned; If, where I stood, 't was fair to see, Still lovelier lay that farther land. I sought if any ford might be Found, up or down, by rock or sand; But perils plainer appeared to me, The farther I strode along the strand; I thought I ought not thus to stand Timid, with such bright bliss before; Then a new matter came to hand That moved my heart yet more and more.

Marvels more and more amaze My mind beyond that water fair: From a cliff of crystal, splendid rays, Reflected, quiver in the air. At the cliff's foot a vision stays My glance, a maiden debonaire, All glimmering white before my gaze; And I know her,--have seen her otherwhere. Like fine gold leaf one cuts with care, Shone the maiden on the farther shore. Long time I looked upon her there, And ever I knew her more and more.

As more and more I scanned her face And form, when I had found her so, A glory of gladness filled the place Beyond all it was wont to show. My joy would call her and give chase, But wonder struck my courage low; I saw her in so strange a place, The shock turned my heart dull and slow. But now she lifts that brow aglow, Like ivory smooth, even as of yore, It made my senses straying go, It stung my heart aye more and more.

IV

More than I liked did my fear rise. Stock still I stood and dared not call; With lips close shut and watchful eyes, I stood as quiet as hawk in hall. I thought her a spirit from the skies; I doubted what thing might befall; If to escape me now she tries, How shall my voice her flight forestall? Then graciously and gay withal, In royal robes, so sweet, so slight, She rose, so modest and so small, That precious one in pearls bedight.

Pearl bedight full royally, Adown the bank with merry mien, Came the maiden, fresh as fleur-de-lys. Her surcoat linen must have been Shining in whitest purity, Slashed at the sides and caught between With the fairest pearls, it seemed to me, That ever yet mine eyes had seen; With large folds falling loose, I ween, Arrayed with double pearls, her white Kirtle, of the same linen sheen, With precious pearls all round was dight.

A crown with pearls bedight, the girl Was wearing, and no other stone; High pinnacled of clear white pearl, Wrought as if pearls to flowers were grown. No band nor fillet else did furl The long locks all about her thrown. Her air demure as duke or earl, Her hue more white than walrus-bone; Like sheer gold thread the bright hair strown Loose on her shoulders, lying light. Her colour took a deeper tone With bordering pearls so fair bedight.

Bedight was every hem, and bound, At wrists, sides, and each aperture, With pearls the whitest ever found,-- White all her brave investiture; But a wondrous pearl, a flawless round, Upon her breast was set full sure; A man's mind it might well astound, And all his wits to madness lure. I thought that no tongue might endure Fully to tell of that sweet sight, So was it perfect, clear and pure, That precious pearl with pearls bedight.

Bedight in pearls, lest my joy cease, That lovely one came down the shore; The gladdest man from here to Greece, The eagerest, was I, therefore; She was nearer kin than aunt or niece, And thus my joy was much the more. She spoke to me for my soul's peace, Courtesied with her quaint woman's lore, Caught off the shining crown she wore, And greeted me with glance alight. I blessed my birth; my bliss brimmed o'er To answer her in pearls bedight.

V

"O Pearl," I said, "in pearls bedight, Art thou my pearl for which I mourn, Lamenting all alone at night? With hidden grief my heart is worn. Since thou through grass didst slip from sight, Pensive and pained, I pass forlorn, And thou livest in a life of light, A world where enters sin nor scorn. What fate has hither my jewel borne, And left me in earth's strife and stir? Oh, sweet, since we in twain were torn, I have been a joyless jeweler."

That Jewel then with gems besprent Glanced up at me with eyes of grey, Put on her pearl crown orient, And soberly began to say: "You tell your tale with wrong intent, Thinking your pearl gone quite away. Like a jewel within a coffer pent, In this gracious garden bright and gay, Your pearl may ever dwell at play, Where sin nor mourning come to her; It were a joy to thee alway Wert thou a gentle jeweler.

"But, Jeweler, if thou dost lose Thy joy for a gem once dear to thee, Methinks thou dost thy mind abuse, Bewildered by a fantasy; Thou hast lost nothing save a rose That flowered and failed by life's decree: Because the coffer did round it close, A precious pearl it came to be. A thief thou hast dubbed thy destiny That something for nothing gives thee, sir; Thou blamest thy sorrow's remedy, Thou art no grateful jeweler."

Like jewels did her story fall, A jewel, every gentle clause; "Truly," I said, "thou best of all! My great distress thy voice withdraws. I thought my pearl lost past recall, My jewel shut within earth's jaws; But now I shall keep festival, And dwell with it in bright wood-shaws; And love my Lord and all His laws, Who hath brought this bliss. Ah! if I were Beyond these waves, I should have cause To be a joyful jeweler."

"Jeweler," said that Gem so dear, "Why jest ye men, so mad ye be? Three sayings thou hast spoken clear, And unconsidered were all three; Their meaning thou canst not come near, Thy word before thy thought doth flee. First, thou believest me truly here, Because with eyes thou mayst me see; Second, with me in this country Thou wilt dwell, whatever may deter; Third, that to cross here thou art free: That may no joyful jeweler."

VI

The jeweler merits little praise, Who loves but what he sees with eye, And it were a discourteous phrase To say our Lord would make a lie, Who surely pledged thy soul to raise, Though fate should cause thy flesh to die. Thou dost twist His words in crooked ways Believing only what is nigh; This is but pride and bigotry, That a good man may ill assume, To hold no matter trustworthy Till like a judge he hear and doom.

"Whate'er thy doom, dost thou complain As man should speak to God most high? Thou wouldst gladly dwell in this domain; 'T were best, methinks, for leave to apply. Even so, perchance, thou pleadest in vain. Across this water thou wouldst fly,-- To other end thou must attain. Thy corpse to clay comes verily,-- In Paradise 't was ruined by Our forefather. Now in the womb Of dreary death each man must lie, Ere God on this bank gives his doom."

"Doom me not, sweet, to my old fears And pain again wherein I pine. My pearl that, long, long lost, appears, Shall I again forego, in fine? Meet it, and miss it through more years? Thou hast hurt me with that threat of thine. For what serves treasure but for tears, One must so soon his bliss resign? I reck not how my days decline, Though far from earth my soul seek room, Parted from that dear pearl of mine. Save endless dole what is man's doom?"

"No doom save pain and soul's distress?" She answered: "Wherefore thinkst thou so? For pain of parting with the less, Man often lets the greater go. 'T were better thou thy fate shouldst bless, And love thy God, through weal and woe; For anger wins not happiness; Who must, shall bear; bend thy pride low; For though thou mayst dance to and fro, Struggle and shriek, and fret and fume, When thou canst stir not, swift nor slow, At last, thou must endure His doom."

"Let God doom as He doth ordain; He will not turn one foot aside; Thy good deeds mount up but in vain, Thou must in sorrow ever bide; Stint of thy strife, cease to complain, Seek His compassion safe and wide, Thy prayer His pity may obtain, Till Mercy all her might have tried. Thy anguish He will heal and hide, And lightly lift away thy gloom; For, be thou sore or satisfied, All is for Him to deal and doom."

VII

Doom me not, dearest damosel; It is not for wrath nor bitterness, If rash and raving thoughts I tell. For sin my heart seethed in distress, Like bubbling water in a well. I cry God mercy, and confess. Rebuke me not with words so fell; I have lost all that my life did bless; Comfort my sorrow and redress, Piteously thinking upon this: Grief and my soul thou hast made express One music,--thou who wert my bliss.

"My bliss and bale, thou hast been both, But joy by great grief was undone; When thou didst vanish, by my troth, I knew not where my Pearl was gone. To lose thee now I were most loth. Dear, when we parted we were one; Now God forbid that we be wroth, We meet beneath the moon or sun So seldom. Gently thy words run, But I am dust, my deeds amiss; The mercy of Christ and Mary and John Is root and ground of all my bliss."

"A blissful life I see thee lead, The while that I am sorrow's mate; Haply thou givest little heed What might my burning hurt abate. Since I may in thy presence plead, I do beseech thee thou narrate, Soberly, surely, word and deed, What life is thine, early and late? I am fain of thy most fair estate; The high road of my joy is this, That thou hast happiness so great; It is the ground of all my bliss."

She said, "May bliss to thee betide," Her face with beauty beaming clear, "Welcome thou art here to abide, For now thy speech is to me dear. Masterful mood and haughty pride, I warn thee win but hatred here; For my Lord loveth not to chide And meek are all that to Him come near. When in His place thou shalt appear, To kneel devout be not remiss, My Lord the Lamb loveth such cheer, Who is the ground of all my bliss."

"Thou sayest a blissful life I know, And thou wouldst learn of its degree. Thou rememberest when thy pearl fell low In earth, I was but young to see; But my Lord the Lamb, as if to show His grace, took me His bride to be, Crowned me a queen in bliss to go Through length of days eternally; And dowered with all His wealth is she Who is His love, and I am His; His worthiness and royalty Are root and ground of all my bliss."

VIII

"My blissful one, may this be true. Pardon if I speak ill," I prayed: "Art thou the queen o' the heaven's blue, To whom earth's honour shall be paid? We believe in Mary, of grace who grew, A mother, yet a blameless maid; To wear her crown were only due To one who purer worth displayed. For perfectness by none gainsaid, We call her the Phoenix of Araby, That flies in faultless charm arrayed, Like to the Queen of courtesy."

"Courteous Queen," that bright one said, And, kneeling, lifted up her face: "Matchless Mother and merriest Maid, Blessèd Beginner of every grace." Then she arose, and softly stayed, And spoke to me across that space: "Sir, many seek gain here, and are paid, But defrauders are none within this place; That Empress may all heaven embrace, And earth and hell in her empery; Her from her heritage none will chase, For she is Queen of courtesy."

"The court of the kingdom of God doth thrive Only because of this wondrous thing: Each one who therein may arrive, Of the realm is either queen or king; And no one the other doth deprive, But is fain of his fellow's guerdoning, And would wish each crown might be worth five, If possible were their bettering. But my Lady, from whom our Lord did spring, Rules over all our company, And for that we all rejoice and sing, Since she is Queen of courtesy."

"Of courtesy, as says St. Paul, Members of Christ we may be seen. As head and arm and leg, and all, Bound to the body close have been, Each Christian soul himself may call A living limb of his Lord, I ween. And see how neither hate nor gall 'Twixt limb and limb may intervene; The head shows neither spite nor spleen, Though arm and finger jewelled be, So fare we all in love serene, As kings and queens by courtesy."