The Lay of Aotrou and Itroun Read online

  She is seen here as she is most often pictured in fairy-lore, near water, seductively combing out her long hair. Tolkien himself later applied the term fay to his Guinever in The Fall of Arthur, written circa 1934 but not published until 2013, where she is described as being ‘fair as fay-woman in the world walking for the woe of men’.

  Now shalt thou wed me (l.51). See note to Aotrou and Itroun above on ‘With love thou shalt me here requite’ (here).

  Make me my bed! (l.70). A traditional ballad line signifying the Lord’s awareness of his fatal illness. It occurs with incremental repetition in the Child ballad ‘Lord Randall’, where the dying Lord, who comes home from ‘the greenwood’ where he has been poisoned by his lover, first tells his mother:

  ‘Mother mak my bed soon, For I’m wearied wi huntin, and fain wad lie down.’

  Halfway through, the line changes to:

  ‘Mother mak my bed soon, For I’m sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.’

  Tolkien’s use of the trope may be a conscious reference to the ‘Lord Randall’ ballad.

  Good mother, what is the noise they make? (l.78). In Villemarqué’s ‘Notes et Éclaircissements’ on the ballad he includes six stanzas in French which, he writes, ‘le peuple la chante encore dans la haute Bretagne’, and which are ‘une traduction exacte de stances bretonnes’.

  – Oh! dites-moi, ma mère, ma mie,

  Pourquoi les sings (cloches) sonnent ainsi?

  – Ma fille, on fait la procession

  Tout à l’entour de la maison.

  – Oh! Dites-moi, ma mère, ma mie,

  Quel habit mettrai-je aujourd’hui?

  – Prenez du noir, prenez du blanc;

  Mais le noir est plus convenant.

  * * * * *

  – Oh! dites-moi, ma mère, ma mie,

  Pourquoi la terre est refrâichie?

  – Je ne peux plus vous le cacher:

  Votre mari est enterré.

  (ibid. 46)

  There sang a fay (l.104). Contrast with the laughter of the fay in the published Aotrou and Itroun. Tolkien’s poem, darker than its Barzaz-Breiz source, closes with the singing of the fay. He has chosen to omit the Breton ending in which the wife is buried in the same grave as her lord, and twin holly-oaks (pagan emblems of rebirth) grow from the tomb. In their branches are two white doves who sing at sunrise and fly up toward heaven.

  PART THREE

  THE FRAGMENT, MANUSCRIPT DRAFTS AND TYPESCRIPT

  THE FRAGMENT

  This incomplete, untitled poem, breaking off in mid-sentence, marks Tolkien’s transition, first from the two ballad-like ‘Corrigan’ poems to the much longer and more psychologically complex Aotrou and Itroun, and second from reworking existing material to producing a newly created poem. The fragment, a brief 29 lines, is written in italic script on a ragged sheet of lined paper whose dog-eared condition distinguishes it from the relatively good state of the ‘Corrigan’ pages.

  The fragment has no title, though it obviously presages Tolkien’s much longer and more elaborate treatments of both the fair-copy manuscript and the typescript of ‘Aotrou and Itroun’, as well as the final version published in The Welsh Review. The verse is alliterative and unrhymed, though the line is metrical, in iambic tetrameter. The story breaks off at the moment of the lord’s approach ‘with lagging feet’ to the cave of the fay.

  The fragment is significant for its first introduction into the story of the childlessness of the lord and his initial visit to the fay, neither of which element is present in its precursors.

  Of old a lord in archéd halls,

  whose standing stones were strong and grey,

  whose towers were tall o’er trees upraised,

  once dwelt till dark his doom befell.

  No child he had to cheer his house,

  no son or heir to sword and land,

  though wife he wooed and wed with ring,

  and long his bed in love she shared.

  Long did his heart a lonely eld,

  his house’s end, an unheeded tomb

  forebode, and blackly brooding bound

  his mind to a mad and monstrous rede.22

  A witch there was who webs contrived

  and span dark spells with spider-craft

  and potions brewed of power and dread.

  In a cave she housed where cats and owls

  their harbour sought from hunting came,

  night-stalking near with needle-eyes.

  In the houseless hills was a hollow dale

  black was its bowl and bleak its edge

  returned23 with ruinous24 rocks and cold.

  There sat she silent on seat of stone

  at cavern’s mouth or cried and spake

  to her secret self. There seldom dared

  or25 man or beast that man hath tamed.

  Yet there one day as drooping low

  a sullen sun was sinking dead,

  and red the rocks the rays did slant,

  that lord alone with lagging feet

  THE MANUSCRIPT DRAFTS

  A fair copy, described in Christopher Tolkien’s Note on the Text as, ‘a good but incomplete manuscript’ of five pages clipped together as a unit, incorporates the fragment, cast now in rhymed couplets instead of alliterative verse, and preceded by an introductory verse locating the scene ‘in Britain’s land beyond the seas’, that is to say, in Brittany. It covers the Lord’s first visit to the fay, and the birth of two children, and goes as far as the Lord’s adjuration to Itroun to name her desire, but is missing a page. The first three pages, consisting of respectively 42, 44, and 42 lines numbered in the margin up to line 128, are contiguous and end on the third complete page with the lord’s speech to his wife. I give the line number as it appears in the manuscript.

  A merry feast we’ll make this year,

  and there shall sit nor sigh nor tear;

  and we will feign our love begun

  125

  in joy anew, anew to run

  down happy paths – and yet maybe,

  we’ll pray that this time we may see

  The fourth page, written in a slightly smaller hand, as though part of a different copy, and comprising only 32 lines, is not continuous with the preceding three, but appears to be an inclusion from a different text. It opens with line 221. Again, the line number are in the manuscript.

  from greenwood, haply fallow deer,

  or fowl that swims the shallow mere

  you crave, then I will bring it thee,

  though I should search oer land and lea.

  No gold nor silk nor jewel bright

  225

  can match my gladness and delight,

  the boy and maiden lily-fair

  that here do lie and thou didst bear’.

  and ends with lines 245–252.

  His lance of ash the lord then caught,

  the wine was to his stirrup brought;

  his black horse bore him oer the land

  to the green boughs of Broceliand,

  to the green glades where the listening deer

  seldom hunter or hoof do hear;

  his horn they harken, as they stare and stand,

  echoing in Broceliand.

  The following complete page of 46 lines, page 5 of those clipped together, opens with ‘Though spring and summer wear and fade’ and depicts the passing of seasons and with the return of spring the birth of twin children as in the Welsh Review version. Written in the left margin and marked for insertion are the eight lines of dialogue spoken by the anonymous ‘humbler men’ who comment on the lord’s good fortune that, ‘Would every prayer were answered twice!’ and end with ‘long live her lord her joy to share!’ The page ends with the Lord’s speech, ‘If, more than gold or jewel rare.’ It is in this draft that the terms Aotrou and Itroun appear for the first time, used in direct address between the Lord and Lady. The manuscript is untitled, but the word Aotrou (underlined) is written in the margin beside the first lines of the last
page.

  There is as well a complete fair manuscript copy of 12 pages with a separate hand-written title-page: ‘Aotrou & Itroun’, the sub-title ‘Lord and Lady’ and below in parenthesis ‘(a Breton Lay)’. The pages are numbered consecutively, and the last page bears the notation in Tolkien’s hand ‘JRRT Sept. 23 1930’ (see Christopher’s Note on the Text, here).

  The lai was a popular poetic form in twelfth- and thirteenth-century France. The best and best-known lais are by a twelfth-century poet known only by the name she gave herself, Marie de France, regarded by many as the greatest woman poet of the Middle Ages. Marie’s lais, she tells us, are retellings in French of tales ‘from which the Bretons made their lais’, (Hanning and Ferrante 30), although there are no earlier Breton lais by which we can corroborate her statement. Editions of Marie’s Lais were among the books in Tolkien’s library, and it is not inconceivable that in recasting ‘The Corrigan’ II as a lai Tolkien was consciously following Marie’s example.

  In form the lai is a long narrative in rhymed, octosyllabic couplets, traditionally focused on a magical or supernatural object – in this case the magic potion of the fay. A legitimate comparison can be made with Tolkien’s Lay of Leithian with its focus on the Silmaril. Although it has no French antecedent, it is in form and subject matter a traditional lai. It is worth recalling, here, that Christopher Tolkien dates the writing to the period (1930) when Tolkien was also working on The Lay of Leithian.

  AOTROU & ITROUN

  (Fair copy manuscript)

  * *

  *

  In Britain’s land beyond the seas

  the wind blows ever through the trees;

  in Britain’s land beyond the waves

  are stony shores and stony caves.

  There stands a ruined toft now green,

  5

  where lords and ladies once were seen;

  where towers were piled above the trees,

  and watchmen scanned the sailing seas.

  Of old a lord in archéd hall

  with standing stones yet grey and tall

  10

  there dwelt, till dark his doom befell,

  as yet the Briton harpers tell.

  No children he had his house to cheer,

  his gardens lacked their laughter clear;

  though wife he wooed and wed with ring,

  15

  who long her love to bed did bring,

  his bowers were empty, vain his hoard,

  without an heir did26 to land and sword.

  * * *

  His hungry heart did lonely eld,

  his house’s end, his banners felled,

  20

  his tomb unheeded, long forbode,

  till brooding black his mind did goad

  a mad and monstrous rede27 to take,

  pondering oft at night awake.

  A witch there was, who webs did weave

  25

  to snare the heart and wits to reave,

  who span dark spells with spider-craft,

  and, spinning, soundless shook and laughed;

  and draughts she brews of strength and dread

  to bind the live and stir the dead.

  30

  In a cave she housed, where winging bats

  their harbour sought, and owls and cats

  from hunting came with mournful cries

  night-stalking near with needle-eyes.

  In the homeless hills was that hollow dale,

  35

  black was its bowl, its brink was pale;

  there silent sat she on a seat of stone

  at cavern’s mouth in the hills alone;

  there silent waited. Few there came,

  or man, or beast that man doth tame.

  40

  Thither one day, as drooping red

  the sullen sun was sinking dead,

  and darkly from the mountain-rims

  the slanting shadows reached their limbs,

  that lord, alone, with lagging feet

  45

  came halting to her stony seat,

  as if his quest he now half rued,

  half loathed his purpose yet pursued.

  In Britain’s land beyond the waves

  are stony hills and stony caves;

  50

  the wind blows ever over hills

  and hollow caves with wailing fills.

  His words came faltering on the wind,

  while silent sat the crone and grinned;

  but words he needed few – her eyes

  55

  were dark and piercing; filled with lies,

  yet needle-keen all lies to probe.

  He shuddered neath his sable robe.

  His name she knew, his need, his thought,

  the hunger that thither him had brought;

  60

  and ere his halting words were spent,

  she rose and nodded, head she bent,

  and stooped into her darkening cave,

  whose mouth was gaping like a grave.

  Returning swift in hand she laid

  65

  a phial of glass so fairly made

  ’twas wonder in that houseless place

  to see its cold and gleaming grace;

  and therewithin a liquid lay

  as pale as water thin and grey

  70

  that no light sees and no air moves

  lifeless lying under rocky rooves.

  He thanked her trembling, proffering gold

  to clawlike fingers shrunk and old.

  The thanks she took not, nor the fee,

  75

  but laughing croaked: ‘Nay, we shall see!

  Let thanks abide, till thanks be earned!

  Men say such potions some have burned,

  and some have cheated, unavailing,

  working naught. I’ll have no railing.

  80

  My fee shall wait, till fee I earn,

  and, maybe, master, you return,

  to pay me richly, or with gold,

  or with what other wealth you hold.’

  In Brittany the ways are long,

  85

  and woods are dark with danger strong;

  the sound of seas is in the leaves

  and wonder walks the forest-eaves.

  The way was long, the woods were dark;

  at last the lord beheld the spark

  90

  of living light from window high,

  and knew his halls and towers nigh.

  At last he slept in weary sleep

  beside his wife, in dreaming deep,

  and wandered with his children dear

  95

  in gardens fair, yet girt with fear,

  while dim the fingers slow did crawl

  of creeping dawn across the wall.

  The morning came with weathers fair,

  for windy rain had washed the air,

  100

  and blue and cloudless, clean and high,

  above the hills was arched the sky,

  and foaming in the northern breeze

  beneath the sky there shone the seas.

  Arising then to greet the sun,

  105

  and day with a new thought begun,

  that lord in guise of joy him clad,

  and masked his mind in seeming glad;

  his mouth unwonted laughter used,

  and words of mirth. He oft had mused,

  110

  walking alone with furrowed brow;

  a feast he bade prepare him now.

  And ‘Itroun mine’ he said, ‘my life,

  ’tis long that thou hast been my wife.

  Too swiftly by in love do slip

  115

  our gentle years, and as a ship

  returns to port, we soon shall find

  again that morn of spring we mind,

  when we were wed, and bells were rung;

  but still we love, and still are young.

 
120

  A merry feast we’ll make this year,

  and there shall sit nor sigh nor tear;

  and we will feign our love begun

  in joy anew, anew to run

  down happy paths – and yet, maybe,

  125

  we’ll pray that this time we may see

  our hearts’ desire more quick draw nigh

  than yet we have seen it, thou and I;

  for virtue is in hope and prayer’:

  so spake he gravely, seeming-fair.

  130

  In Britain’s land across the seas

  the spring is merry in the trees;

  in Britain’s land the birds do pair,

  when leaves are long and flowers are fair.

  A merry feast that year they made

  135

  when blossom white on bush was laid;

  there minstrels sang, and wine was poured,

  and flowers were hung on wall and board.

  A silver cup that lord there raised,

  and smiling on the lady gazed:

  140

  ‘I drink to thee for health and bliss,

  fair love,’ he said, ‘and with this kiss

  the pledge I pass. Come, drink it deep!

  The wine is sweet, the cup is steep!’

  The wine was red, the cup was grey;

  145

  but blended there a liquid lay

  as pale as water thin and frore

  in hollow pools of caverns hoar.

  She drank it, laughing with her eyes:

  ‘Aotrou, lord and love!’ she cries,

  150

  ‘all hail! and life both long and sweet –

  wherein desire at last to meet!’

  Dear love had been between the twain;

  but stronger now it grew again,

  and days ran on in great delight,

  155

  with hope at morn and mirth at night;

  and in the garden of his dream

  the fence of fear but faint did seem,

  a far-off shadow at the edge

  of lawns of sunlight without hedge:

  160