Sitting one day, lost in thought,
Tristan began to review
his congenital despondency.
He brooded, deep within his heart
over the many kinds of want
his other life Isolt,
the lovely blonde queen,
the key to his passion,
had borne for his sake
while remaining so steadfast
in every affliction.
He felt it like a deep wound
to the center of his being
that he had let no woman,
except Isolt, share his passion,
or ever thought of such a thing.
Despairing, he accused himself—
"how can I act so faithlessly?
This I know, sure as death—
Isolt, my heart and my life,
have I been so thoughtless of you,
who neither thinks nor cares
of anything on earth
nor admits to your affections
anything but me alone,
and now I admit to mine			19150
some life apart from yours—
what can have so perverted me?
What has got into me,
me, Tristan, faithless wretch?
I'm in love with two Isolts,
very fond of them both,
while my other life, Isolt,
holds only a single Tristan dear.
She alone will no other
Tristan but me alone,
and the one I'm courting compulsively
is yet another Isolt.
Woe to thee, senseless man,
Tristan, utterly confounded!
Leave off this blinded travesty,
have done with this depraved notion!"

Thus he recovered from his craving,
and laid aside the love and fondness
he had conceived for the maid Isolt,
although he continued to pay her
such sweet solicitations
that she still thought she had
all the evidence of his love,
when that was no longer so.
Things went as they were destined to—
Isolt had stolen from Isolt
Tristan's inner mindfulness,
but Tristan again grew mindful
of his love-heritage.
Now his heart and his senses
were consumed with their old pain.
Still he remained courteous—
when he saw in the maid
that yearning dissatisfaction
was beginning to take hold,
he spared himself no effort
to please her and divert her.
He told her pretty legends,
he sang to her, he wrote and read,
and remained at all times attentive
to whatever might be her pleasure
by keeping her company,
and helped her while away the hours,
now with his singing,
again when he played.
Tristan also invented
for every different instrument
many lays and pleasing music
which are still much loved today.
At this time he also composed		19200
the noble lay of Tristan
which is now so well known
and loved in all lands,
and will be while the world lasts.

He often performed for them
when they sat in company,
he and Isolt and Kaedin,
the duke and his duchess,
ladies and noblemen,
improvising schanzune,
rundate, and courtly tunes,
ending always with the refrain,
"Isolt ma drue, Isolt mamie,
en vus ma mort, en vus ma vie!"
Because he sang with such fervor
it was only natural
for all of them to suppose
he meant by this their Isolt,
at which they were greatly pleased,
no one among them more so
than Tristan's comrade Kaedin,
who was always there to see
that Tristan was seated
at the side of his sister.
And this was her heart's delight—
she took him into her care
and gave him her full attention.
Her clear eyes and thoughtfulness
then took him for their playground.
On not a few occasions
the tender name of virginity
averted its steady gaze
of modesty and chasteness
when in plain sight of all
she laid her hand in his,
as though she meant the gesture
as a favor to Kaedin.
However he may have seen it,
she did it for her own pleasure.

All this time the girl
made herself so inviting
with bright smiles and laughter,
a constant stream of patter,
flattering, and coquetry
that she aroused him again,
and once more he began
to waver in his thoughts and mind
from his resolve of love.
He didn't know what he wanted
when it came to Isolt.			19250
He responded to her charm
with feelings of irresolution.
Again and again he thought to himself,
"is this what I want or not?
It is not, and it is."
Then Steadfastness spoke:
"Sir Tristan, it is not.
Consider your faith in Isolt—
you must remember
Isolt in her loyalty,
who never swerved an inch from you."
This at once put an end
to his fruitless brooding
and cast him back in to pain
through passion for Isolt,
still the queen of his heart.
His custom and demeanor
underwent such a change
that everywhere and always
he now could only sorrow.
When he sat with Isolt
and tried to talk with her again
he fell into reverie,
able only to sit and sigh.

This concealed agony
soon became so obvious
that everyone at court declared
that Isolt must be the cause
of his sorrow and distress.
And indeed, they were right.
All Tristan's gloom and anguish
were due to nothing but Isolt.
Isolt was his nemesis,
but not at all the one 
they believed it to be,
she of the white hands.
No, it was Isolt la bele,
not the one of Arundel,
as they imagined it to be.
Isolt, too, was much affected,
quite thrown into confusion,
because the yearning Tristan suffered
for this particular Isolt
was at no time so severe
as was hers for him.
The two of them passed the hours
in unequal disconsolation.
Both were filled with yearning
and their share of sorrow,
but different for each of them.		19300
They did not share between them
their loves and affections.
As to love for each other
neither of them kept pace,
Tristan nor the maid Isolt.
Tristan needed desperately
a different Isolt,
and Isolt had no desire
for any other Tristan.
She of the white hands
loved and preferred him
with all her heart and feelings,
and so his sorrow distressed her.
She noticed how often
his face grew pale
and how he then sighed
with inward intensity.
She watched him inwardly,
and matched him sigh for sigh.
Out of true companionship
she bore with him a sorrow
that concerned her not at all.
His pain hurt her greatly,
which made it bear down harder
on him than on her.
He felt deeply sorry
for this kind, loving girl
who remained so faithful to him.
He could only have pity
that she was so far in love
for nothing in return,
and had put all her heart
into such a vain illusion.
He showed her every courtesy,
trying to entertain her
with his most diverting skills,
with performances and stories.
It would have pleased him greatly
to relieve her of her sorrow.
But she had descended
a long way into its depths.

Redoubling his exertions
to retrieve and console her,
he began to arouse
the sorrowing maid Isolt
at first little by little,
but with the result in the end
that love again reclaimed her.
Again she showered on him
all her enticements			19350
with actions, talk, and glances.
For the third time he succumbed
to his old indecision
and the ship of his heart
was again cast adrift
on the seas of uncertainty.
That was not at all surprising,
for when Desire, God knows,
laughs before a man's eyes
every hour of the day,
she blinds both his eyes and senses
and drags his heart after her.
Lovers all, you may learn
by the example of this story
that it's much easier to endure
a distant pain for distant love
than to love in the neighborhood
with a love that isn't close.
Indeed, as far as I can see,
it's much easier for a man
to love and lose at a distance
than to lose a love close at hand,
or divest himself of the one afar
than abstain from the nearer.

Tristan was caught in this tangle.
He longed for distant love,
suffering much because of something
he could neither hear nor see,
and renounced one much closer
that was always there in plain sight.
He desired at all times
that distant blonde Isolt,
the radiance of Irlant,
fleeing from the white-handed,
highborn maid of Karke.
He longed greatly for the former,
and withdrew from the nearer,
straying thus from both.
He wanted and he didn't want
this Isolt and that Isolt.
He fled this one and sought that.
The maid Isolt had invested
her faith, longing, and integrity
in a most unwise endeavor.
She desired what withdrew from her
and pursued what fled her presence.
It was her object that deceived her.
Tristan had misled her so
by means of subtle operation
with his eyes and his tongue		19400
that she was led to believe
she had won his mind and heart.
and of all the trickery
that Tristan had committed,
it was the one artifice
that had so won her heart
and compelled her to love him,
that he sang so earnestly,
"Isolt ma drue, Isolt mamie,
en vus ma mort, en vus ma vie!"
This completed her temptation
and bore the ripe fruit of love.
What he sang took her in.
She pursued her fleeing man
with such tender attentions
that on the fourth try for love
she caught up with her quarry
and drew him back to herself
so that he submitted,
but still he spent night and day
deep in anxious contemplation
of himself and his life,
always brooding uselessly.

"Ah, me," he reflected,
"how I have gone astray in love.
This love, that so afflicts me,
that's stealing my life and senses,
that has so weighed me down—
if ever on this earth
it can somehow be lightened,
it will take an alien love.
I have often read in books
and know myself that one alliance
can reduce the force of another.
Not all the rushing of the Rin
is anywhere so powerful
that it could not be diverted
through many much smaller channels
by which it should be much reduced
and left with but little force,
leaving the mighty Rin itself
little more than a trickle.
No great blaze is so strong,
if one is persistent,
that it cannot be scattered
into lesser glowing brands
leaving but a small fire.
So is it for the lover,
who faces a similar task.
He may divide the mainstream		19450
of his affections so often
into separate rivulets,
scatter the heat of his mind
among many smaller sparks
until of the whole so little remains
that it can do but slight damage.
It may be that I too
can succeed in dispersing
my passions and desires
into many smaller ones.
If I focus my intent
on more that a single love,
I could well become thereby
a Tristan free of sorrows.
I have but to try it.
If my luck is with me,
it's time I should begin.
All this love and loyalty
I so hold to for my lady
can do me but little good.
On her I waste my life and being
but get small comfort in return
for either my being or my life.
It is for nothing that I suffer
this burden and anxiety.
Oh, my amie, beloved Isolt,
this one life is now too much
torn apart between us.
Things are not as they once were,
when we bore, you and I,
a single weal, a single woe,
one love and one pain.
Sadly, that's no longer so.
Now I sorrow, you do not.
All my feelings are consumed
with longing for your love,
while yours, I rather think,
are consumed less for mine.
The pleasures I renounce for you,
you indulge, alas, alas,
as often as it pleases you.
In this you have company.
You and your lord Marke
have each other all the time.
Here I am alone, a stranger.
I think I never shall receive
more from you than small comfort,
although it is impossible
for my heart to escape from you.
Why have you robbed me of myself,		19500
since you have no desire for me
and can do without me very well?
Ah, sweetest Queen Isolt,
with how many a heartache
my life with you is passing by,
while I mean so little to you
that never once have you tried
to learn something of my life!
Ask about me? What do I say?
Where would she go to inquire,
or how could she learn of me?
So long have I been blown about
by the winds of uncertainty—
how could anyone find me now?
By no means can I imagine how.
You seek me there—I am here.
You look here—now I am there.
How shall you find me, or where?
Find me where?  Why, where I am!
Countries do not run away,
and I am there in those countries
where Tristan is to be found.
Yes, whoever would attempt it
would search until I was found,
for if you seek a wanderer,
there can be no certain goal
or target for your quest.
You must continue your efforts
whether they pay off or not
or you can accomplish nothing.
My lady, God knows, my other life,
should by now have inquired
in secret about me everywhere,
through entire Curnewal, 
Engelant, Franze and Normandie,
my own land Parmenie,
or wherever it might be rumored
that her lover Tristan was—
she would have searched thoroughly
if she cared for me at all—
but she cares nothing for me,
she whom I love and cherish
more than my life and soul.
I forsake all other women
for her, and am deprived of her.
I have no right to ask of her
that which would give me in this world
a joyful life and happiness . . ." 		19548 




(I condensed the following brief summary from A.T. Hatto’s complete translation
of the surviving part of Thomas of Brittany’s story, in Tristan [Penguin,
1960], 301-353:)


After much soul-searching, Tristran marries Ysolt as blanche mains for her
beauty and the bitter solace of her name, but pleading an old wound, avoids 
consummation.  He orders a statuary hall of facsimiles including his true Ysolt, 
Brengvein holding a vial, and a golden Peticru whose soothing bells tinkle. It 
causes him nothing but sorrow, while in reality Marke possesses his grieving queen 
at will.

As Tristran, Ysolt, and her brother Caerdin are riding, water splashes Ysolt, who 
laughs.  Caerdin demands to know why.  She declares the water came farther up her 
thigh than Tristran ever ventured.  To the gravely indignant Caerdin Tristan then 
shows the statuary hall to prove how superior is his true love.  Caerdin, enamored 
of Brengvein’s waxen counterfeit, adventures with Tristran into Mark’s land, where 
by stealth they tryst with Ysolt and Brengvein, but must quickly escape again. 

Twice more the disguised Tristran returns to seek Ysolt, but in vain.  Then, trying 
to help the powerful knight Tristran the Dwarf regain his abducted lady, he 
sustains another poisoned thrust to his loins.  White-Hands overhears his charge to 
Caerdin to summon the true Ysolt, who alone can cure him.  The ship bringing her 
shall set a white sail if she is aboard.  Repeatedly he sends White-Hands to watch, 
who at last falsely reports a black sail approaching.  Tristran expires in agony, 
just as Ysolt arrives to die also in his lifeless arms.