VIII THE WEREWOLF

In the Great Palace of English Literature over one of the golden doors hangs a horn of ivory, and a sword of which the name is Durendal. Above that door is written Chanson de Roland, which means the Song of Roland. Often in the stillness of the early morning or at dusk the Great Palace rings faintly with the music from that ivory horn which belonged to Roland, and which he sounded for the last time in the Pass of Roncevaux. Or there is heard the clinking of Durendal against the stone of the palace walls—no doubt the wind stirring it where it hangs beside the door it guards.

"Chanson de Roland!" You see the story is French. The Normans brought it with them when they came to conquer Britain in 1066 under William of Normandy. Before the soldiers of William, the minstrel, Taillefer, rode singing of "Charlemagne, and of Roland, and of Oliver, and the vassals who fell at Roncevaux."

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"Roland, comrade," said Oliver, "blow thy horn of ivory, and Charles shall hear it and bring hither again his army, and ... succor us."

"Nay, first will I lay on with Durendal, the good sword girded at my side."

"Roland, comrade," urged Oliver, "blow thy horn of ivory, that Charles may hear it."

"God forbid that they should say I sounded my horn for dread of the heathen."

"Prithee look!" begged Oliver. "They are close upon us. Thou wouldst not deign to sound thy horn of ivory. Were the King here we should suffer no hurt."

Oliver was wise and Roland was brave, and the song that the minstrel Taillefer chanted before the conquering hosts of William of Normandy was a wonderful, stirring song. No doubt there flows in English veins to-day much of the courage of Roland and the wisdom of Oliver. Although the English continued English, yet for a long time following the conquest of England by the Normans songs were sung in French rather than in English. And ready and witty was all that was written down in French, for the literature of the Normans was as brightly colored as a jewel and not grand and melancholy as was that of the Anglo-Saxons. "Beowulf" was the battle song of the Anglo-Saxons, the "Song of Roland" that of the Normans. Melancholy was the poem of [Pg 70]"Beowulf." White and clear, stirring and flashing in the sunshine was the "Chanson de Roland," even as Roland's beloved sword Durendal, which is heard clinking against the stone of the Great Palace of English Literature.

But "Roland" represented only a fraction of the story-telling in the French poetry of that time. The most exquisite and delightful story-teller of that twelfth century collected and wrote here charming stories on English soil and dedicated them to Henry II., who died in 1189. Her name was Marie de France, and of her lays a rival poet wrote:
All love them much and hold them dear, Baron, count and chevalier, Applaud their form and take delight To hear them told by day and night. In chief, these tales the ladies please; They listen glad their hearts to ease.

Marie de France's lays are based on British tradition. There are many of these delightful stories. Among the most interesting of them is "The Werewolf."

Once upon a time in the days of King Arthur—for later there are some lines in Malory's "Morte d'Arthur" which tells us that this story must have been true—there lived a man who for part of the week was a wolf—that is, he had the form [Pg 71]and the appetite of a wolf, and was called a werewolf. But nobody knew that he was a werewolf for three days in the week. Not even his wife, whom he loved well and devotedly, knew what happened to her husband while he was away from her these three days every week.

It vexed the wife very much that she did not know, but she was afraid to question her husband, lest he be angry. At last one day she did question him.

"Ask me no more," replied the husband, "for if I answered you you would cease to love me."

Nevertheless she gave him no peace until he had told her that three days in the week, because of a spell which was over him, he was forced to be a werewolf, and that when he felt the change coming over him he hid himself in the very thickest part of the forest.

Then the wife demanded to know what became of his clothes, and he answered that he laid them aside. The wife asked where he put them. He begged her not to ask him, for only the garments made it possible for him to return to human shape again. But the wife cried and begged until the knight, her husband, had told her all.

"Wife," he said, "inside the forest on a crossroad is a chapel. Near the chapel under a shrub is a stone. Beneath the stone is a hole, and in that hole do I hide my clothes until the enchantment makes it possible for me to take my human shape again."

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Now the wife was not a good wife. Instead of trying to help her husband to get free from the wolf shape he had to assume three days in every week, thereafter she loathed him and was afraid of him. And what is worse still, she betrayed him to another knight. She took this other knight into her confidence and told him where her husband hid his clothes when the spell came upon him and he took the form of a wolf. Thereupon the knight to whom she had told this dreadful secret stole the clothes, and they hid them where the poor wolf could never find them again. After that these two wicked people were married, while the poor wolf wandered about in the forest, grieving, for he had loved his wife well and truly.

Some time after this the King was hunting one day in the forest, and his hounds gave chase to a wolf. At last, when the wretched beast was in danger of being overtaken by the hounds and torn into a thousand pieces, he fled to the King, seized him by the stirrup, and licked his foot submissively.

The King was astonished. He called his companions, and they drove off the dogs, for the King would not have the wolf harmed. But when they started to leave the forest the wolf followed the King and would not be driven away. The King was much pleased, for he had taken a great liking to the wolf. He therefore made a pet of the lonely beast, and at night he slept in the King's own[Pg 73] chamber. All the courtiers came to love the wolf, too, for he was a gentle wolf and did no one any harm.

A long time had passed when one day the King had occasion to hold a court. His barons came from far and near, and among them the knight who had betrayed the werewolf. No sooner did the wolf see him than he sprang at him to kill him. And had the King not called the wolf off he would have torn the false knight to pieces. Every one was astonished that this gentle beast should show such rage. But after the court was over and as time went on they forgot the beast's savage act.

At length the King decided to make a tour throughout his kingdom. And he took the wolf with him, for that was his custom. Now the werewolf's false wife heard that the King was to spend some time in the part of the country where she lived. So she begged for an audience. But no sooner did she enter the presence-chamber than the wolf sprang at her and bit off her nose.

The courtiers were going to slay the beast, but a wise man stayed their weapons.

"Sire," said the councilor, "we have all caressed this wolf and he has never done us any harm. This lady was the wife of a man you held dear, but of whose fate we none of us know anything. Take my counsel and make this lady answer your[Pg 74] questions, so shall we come to know why the wolf sprang at her."

This was done. The false knight who had married her was brought also, and they told all the wickedness they had done to the poor wolf. Then the King caused the wolf's stolen clothes to be fetched. But the wolf acted as if he did not see the clothes.

"Sire," said the councilor, "if this beast is a werewolf he will not change back into his human shape until he is alone."

They left him alone in the King's chamber, and put the clothes beside him. Then they waited for a long time. Lo, when they entered the chamber again, there lay the long-lost knight in a deep sleep on the King's bed! Quickly did the King run to him and embrace him, and after that he restored to him all his lost lands, and he banished the false wife and her second husband from the country. And they who were banished lived in a strange land, and all the girls among their children and grandchildren were without noses.

So close we this little golden door—not the less precious because little—over which is written in letters all boys and girls should love: Marie de France, who wrote "The Werewolf."