At this phrase I turned, and found him clothed in a costume of blood red velvet which seemed to me too warm for the weather, but is his most fine, and I had fear that I had taken him from some important affair. I presented all my excuses and told him of why I wished him present: That I must know the life of St. Ivo before I can write the mystery of it.
At this he had the look of a soule of which the air has left. And he took from his shoulders the outer houppelande, with clenched jaw, and placed it around my chair and laid himself the length of the bed and began to speak.
Ivo, patron saint of Bretagne, is also advocate of the poor. Ivo was born in Kermartin near Treguier, the son of a noble man. When he is grown, he is gone to Paris to study the laws of the church and when he is done he is gone to Orleans to study the laws of the state. And all this time, he drinks no wine, eats no meat, and many times takes only bread and water. And often he wears a shirt of hair and he sleeps less than he would like.
When he is returned to Bretagne, he is become a judge of the church, first in Rennes and then in his own town of Treguier. There it was that he began to seek justice for those who could find none. It is said of Ivo that he was a lawyer, but was not dishonest. He refused bribes. He tried to arrange cases outside the courts so the peasants must not pay. And if they must pay, then St. Ivo would give the money himself. He defended the poor, and went to them in prison. He fought against unfair taxes and gave to the poor much that he had earned. And even those he must judge against later returned and thanked him for his judgments.
And then he became a priest to preach at Lovannec. And there he built a hospital with his own monies and himself cared for the sick who were poor. He gave his own clothes to those who had none and his own bed to those who had only ground on which to sleep. And when there was harvest, he gave to others all of the fruits of his field.
The miracles of Saint Ivo are many according to my lord. And these not occurring while Saint Ivo has life, but after his death. Among them, a sick man falling into a well who calls on Saint Ivo for aid and neither drowns, nor is lost beneath the waters.
A man who is condemned to death by hanging who swears to Saint Ivo that if he is delivered from death then he will visit the tomb of the saint; the man is hung and will not die. And although the hangman tries three times to kill him, he is not able.
A man crossing a bridge falls with his black horse into the river in a spot so deep they cannot touch the bottom; and as they flounder, the leather bag in which are important documents detaches itself from the horse and sinks. They are certain to drown, but the man calls on Saint Ivo for help. At this, the horse bounds from the water onto land, and as the man watches, the bag also comes to the surface. And the man retrieves this from the water and he finds after he has this opened that not one of the papers has become even wet.
One day, as a knight and fifteen persons take a boat to gain the ile of Teven, they are overtaken by a storm which breaks twelve of the oars and engulfs the boat. They have fear of being drowned when they pray to Saint Ivo for aid. And their boat, filled still with water, is pushed to the land in the place exact where they had left.
And then my lord gave pause and I demanded of him if these were all.
He replied to me that if I had three days then I might hear the end of them.
And so I have begun to record these four. And most commendable to me are not the miracles and not the fact that Saint Ivo quit the law to take care of the poor, but that he was honest in law from the start.
And while I am writing still, my lord has fallen asleep. It has taken my prodding and poking to wake him, but now that he has gone, I may finish the transcription.
18
I surprise myself with the effort the writing of a mystery must take. Habituated to translating texts and to keeping record of my days, I had not anticipated that writing verse must be so difficult. I have but ten. I miss 990. I suppose that I could leave writing for reading and no one would know what I have done not. But I remind myself that I have told my lord what I have thought to accomplish. I must still finish this task. And with enough time for the peasants to learn their verses.
two days after Saint Michel
I but write this day. And have only twenty more verses to add to my meager total.
four days after Saint Dynys
My lord has rendered me a visit this night. And has found me at my desk. My verses number 100 at this moment, but this is not enough. My lord demanded of me on what I work.
I replied to him on my mystery.
And he demanded of me if I will read these verses to him.
I trembled for what he will think: for myself, I think them poorly formed. But he must hear them on Easter the same.
He stopped me on the fifth verse and demanded of me who has told me Saint Ivo has worn a shirt of hair.
I replied to him that it was himself. Not two months before.
He commanded me to read on, but then stopped me on the fourteenth verse and demanded of me who has told me that those Saint Ivo has judged against return to thank him?
I replied to him again that it was himself.
He commanded me to read on, but again then stopped me on the seventeenth verse to tell me that perhaps the hangman does not try only three times to kill the man who is supposed to die.
I demanded of him if he had told me the story incorrectly at the first instance.
And he replied to me that stories change. It makes no difference if the hangman tries to kill the accused three times or twelve. He says me that I try to make history from legend and that to write a mystery, one must attend to the mystery, not the verity.
And so I demanded of him whether there ever was in existence a Saint Ivo.
And he replied to me for certain that there was. But perhaps the horse crossing the bridge was white and not black. And perhaps ten oars were broken in place of twelve. But that it matters not what exact parts of the miracles have been performed, but that they have been performed and witnessed at all.
As I surveyed my verses I reminded myself I spent one hour searching the rhyme for black. And one day to phrase ‘the waves had taken the oars of twelve; then snapped the sticks; left the boat to wend; through the waves, their souls to heaven were giv’n.’ And I looked up from my papers to the bed and found that my lord had risen to stand behind me.
And he says me that I have become too earnest. That the pleasure of a story is in the recounting, in the sound of the words, not in the small details. He says me that I must fit the story to the verse, and not the verse to the story.
That seems to me dishonest, but he demanded of me to try this for one week and then compare the results with what has gone before.
This I agreed to do.
two days after Saint Malo
My lord has rendered me a visit this night. He demanded of me how many verses I have written.
I replied him since, as truth matters not, 479. He looked well pleased, but I tell him this includes the 100 I have written before, and have returned to re-write.
I demanded of him if, in re-telling the stories he has recounted me, this day Arthur King of Bretons might have 100 knights at his great round table in place of the 350 my lord told me before.
He replied to me that this day here, he might even have just 12.
I demanded of him if in re-telling the story of Arthur fighting the Saxons, whether this day there might be 60,000 Saxons instead of 50,000.
He replied to me that this day here, there might even have been 100,000.
I demanded of him if in recounting the story of Arthur being cured by Guenievre whether she might have dark hair and high color of her skin.
