Jaufry the Knight and the Fair Brunissende: A Tale of the Times of King Arthur — A Closer Reading

The Translator's Voice and the Occitan Original

Elwes's preface acknowledges that the romance was composed in “the langue d'oc, or Provençal tongue,” and that his version is based on a French prose translation by Mary Lafon. The English text retains traces of its layered transmission: archaic diction (“quoth,” “wrapt,” “hither”) sits alongside more natural speech rhythms. In the orchard episode, the translator inserts a footnote with the original Occitan lines, comparing his rendering to the source. This scholarly gesture reminds the reader that the English is a mediation, not a transparent window. The voice is consistently formal, yet it varies register—from the clipped commands of the seneschal (“Go, quickly find it out”) to the lyrical description of Brunissende's beauty, where the prose becomes almost incantatory: “She was more fresh, more fair, more purely white than snow that lies upon the frosted dew.”

Pacing Through Direct Speech and Action

The narrative accelerates during combat and dialogue. Jaufry's encounters are punctuated by terse exchanges: “Halt, knight,” he cried; “I'll have a word with thee.” Such lines propel the plot forward with minimal exposition. Conversely, when the story lingers on Brunissende's grief—she “four times a day she sadly wept and mourned; and thrice she rose at night to mourn again”—the pace becomes almost ritualistic. The repetition of numbers and actions creates a hypnotic rhythm that contrasts with the sudden, violent interruptions of the seneschal's arrival. This alternation is a structural feature: the romance moves from swift, linear quest episodes to static, circular moments of waiting and lament, each change in pace signaling a shift in the hero's objective.

Descriptive Set-Pieces and Their Effect on Momentum

The orchard of Brunissende is the most elaborate descriptive passage in the excerpts. It opens with a catalogue of sensory details: “fragrant herbs,” “balmy breath like paradise,” birds warbling “till matin prime.” The architecture is itemized—seven gates, towers “blackened o'er by time”—and the court's population enumerated: “Five hundred damsels waited her commands.” This accumulation halts the forward motion of the adventure, immersing the reader in a static, almost tableau-like scene. The effect is deliberate: the pause allows the emotional weight of Brunissende's sorrow to register before the action resumes. Later, when Jaufry sleeps and is discovered, the description gives way to dialogue and threat, restoring momentum. These set-pieces function as breathing spaces within the otherwise linear chivalric narrative.

Readers attentive to shifts in tempo will find that Jaufry the Knight and the Fair Brunissende rewards careful attention to its structural rhythms. The translation preserves a medieval sense of time, where action and contemplation are equally weighted. Observing how Elwes handles the transition from swift combat to ornate description can illuminate the romance's underlying concerns with honor, grief, and the testing of patience.

Reading about the translator’s quiet shaping of Jaufry’s voice, I found myself recalling how the same careful hand might treat Grettir’s grim solitude. Grettir the Outlaw: A Story of Iceland — A Closer Reading lingers in my mind the same way—not for grand action, but for the pauses between words, the weight of a long northern evening settling over each scene.