She greeted him; he her. She bashfully began: “My lord, may God enrich your heart and courage; but I harbour something against you.”
“Sweet one, what have I done?”
“You have done violence to my best friend”—it was her heart, she meant.
“Beauty, bear me no hate for that; command, and I will do your bidding.”
“Then I will not hate you bitterly. I will see what atonement you will make.”
He bowed, and carried with him her image. Love’s will mastered his heart, as he thought of Blancheflur, of her hair, her brow, her cheek, her mouth, her chin, and the glad Easter day that smiling lay in her eyes. Love the heartburner set his heart aflame, and lo! he entered upon another life; purpose and habit changed, he was another man.
Sad is the short tale of these lovers. Riwalin is killed in battle, and at the news of his death Blancheflur expires, giving birth to a son. Rual the Faithful names the child Tristan, to symbolize the sorrow of its birth.
The story of Tristan’s early years draws the reader to the accomplished, happy youth. He is the delight of all; for his young manhood is courtliness itself, and valour and generosity. He is loved, and afterwards recognized and knighted, by his uncle Mark. Then he sets out and avenges his father’s death; after which he returns to Mark’s Court, and vanquishes the Irish champion Morold. A fragment of Tristan’s sword remained in Morold’s head; Tristan himself received a poisoned wound, which could be healed, as the dying Morold told him, only by Ireland’s queen, Iseult. Very charming is the story of Tristan’s first visit to Ireland, disguised as a harper, under the name of Tantris. The queen hearing of his skill, has him brought to the palace, where she heals him, and he in return becomes the teacher of her daughter, the younger Iseult, whom he instructs in letters, music and singing, French and Latin, ethics, courtly arts and manners, till the girl became as accomplished as she was beautiful, and could write and read, and compose and sing pastorelles and rondeaux and other songs.
On his return to Cornwall he told Mark of the young Iseult, and then, at Mark’s request, set forth again to woo her for him. The Irish king has promised his daughter to whoever shall slay the dragon. Tristan does the deed, cuts out the dragon’s tongue as proof, and then falls overcome and fainting. The king’s cupbearer comes by, breaks his lance on the dead dragon, and, riding on, announces that he has slain the monster; he has the great head brought to the Court upon a wagon. Iseult is in despair at the thought of marrying the cupbearer; her mother doubts his story, and bids Iseult ride out and search for the real slayer. The ladies discover Tristan, with him the dragon’s tongue. They carry him to the palace to heal him, and the young Iseult recognizes him as the harper Tantris, and redoubles her kind care. But after a while she noticed the notch in his sword, and saw that it fitted the fragment found in Morold’s head—and is not Tantris just Tristan reversed? This is the man who slew Morold, her mother’s brother! She seizes the sword and rushes in to kill him in his bath. Her mother checks her, and at last she is appeased, Tristan letting them see that an important mission has brought him to Ireland. There is truce between them, and Tristan goes to the king with Mark’s demand for Iseult’s hand. Then the cupbearer is discomfited, peace is made between the Irish king and Mark, and the young Iseult, with Brangaene her cousin, makes ready to sail with Tristan. The queen secretly gave a love-drink into Brangaene’s care, which Iseult and Mark should drink together. The people followed down to the haven, and all wept and lamented that with fair Iseult the sunshine had left Ireland.
Iseult is sad. She cannot forget that it is Tristan who slew her uncle and is now taking her from her home. Tristan fails to comfort her. They see land. Tristan calls for wine to pledge Iseult. A little maid brings—the love-drink! They drink together, not wine but that endless heart’s pain which shall be their common death. Too late, Brangaene with a cry throws the goblet into the sea. Love stole into both their hearts; gone was Iseult’s hate. They were no longer two, but one; the sinner, love, had done it. They were each other’s joy and pain; doubt and shame seized them. Tristan bethought him of his loyalty and honour, struggling against love vainly. Iseult was like a bird caught with the fowler’s lime; shame drove her eyes away from him; but love drew her heart. She gave over the contest as she looked on him, and he also began to yield. They thought each other fairer than before; love was conquering.