It’s the snowy mid-winter of Christmastime in Camelot. The ladies and men of the court are carousing and rejoicing in their exchanges of kisses and gifts. With the change of the calendar on New Year’s Day, and the doubling of courses at the top table, King Arthur requests from his guests to hear a story of marvel before starting the feast. As if in answer, a great and strange green figure appears in his hall: a massive knight all in green armour and attire, with green hair and beard, sitting atop a green steed and armed with a great green axe ornamented with gold. Amid his play and taunts to Arthur and his knights, he lays down the terms of a deal: he’ll receive a single blow on this day from one who is willing, but in exchange he’ll return the blow in a year and a day. Arthur, at first, steps up to deal the blow himself. But, interrupting on behalf of the King’s honour, in steps the chivalrous Sir Gawain, and with words to Arthur and one swift blow decapitates the Green Knight. And here, without faltering or falling, the headless knight picks up his head. And that head speaks; it reiterates the terms of the agreement and bids Gawain seek out the Green Chapel when the times comes. With that oddness done, the headless knight rides off. And Arthur and Gawain, and indeed the queen and the whole court, are left to marvel at what has taken place. Soon the dread of the deal becomes apparent and Sir Gawain sets out northerly and solitary on his venture, to find the Green Chapel and meet his foe and to honour the deal and be struck his blow. What follows is a remarkable tale of magic and adventure, chivalry, romance, and faith.
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is a long poem written in Middle English and dated roughly to the late period of the fourteenth century. Its author is known alternatively as the Pearl Poet and the Gawain Poet, because the single manuscript by which the poem is known and survived is shared with several other poems, including the long dream narrative poem (itself of some substantial acclaim) Pearl. And there is reasonable evidence through analysis of the shared dialect of these poems, situated as North West Midland, and the shared formal structures and skill with these structures, that they are from the same poet.
The original poem is written in alliterative verse and is often considered of a piece with the alliterative revival as it’s theorised to have taken place in English poetry and of note in this time and region – “revival”, because it was a form common to or dominant in Old English poetry. Now, the alliterative verse form in Sir Gawain is quite famous not only for its adherence to this structure and tradition but also for its looseness and its dissents from it, and perhaps best so for the author’s technique of ending stanzas with the work's characteristic “bob and wheel”. In this technique, a short line of sometimes two syllables (the bob) proceeds from the longer alliterative part of the stanza and is then proceeded by a four-line rhyming quatrain (the wheel) that tidily ends the stanza.
Though the author of Gawain is thought to have been contemporaneous with Chaucer, the history of the latter’s work is one of saturation or continued presence throughout the subsequent generations of English literature, whereas the former's comes down to us perhaps by an accident of survival and has a new history of less than 200 years. There have been various translations over that time, including a notable but now somewhat flowery and archaic version from Tolkien, a vivid example from Armitage, a highly skilled and equally vivid attempt by Borroff, and also the modernised translation I have in my hands by O’Donoghue. This late edition of the text is admirable: it attempts to draw on the poem’s energy and form. But it’s also worth noting that it gives up substantial parts of that form, such as the alliteration and the full alliterative and rhyming effect of the bob and wheel, to achieve this. And so, while it gives a closer glimpse of the original poem by way of its sprint and its directness and voice, it concedes some of the poem's most famous and respected ornaments to its cost.
Gawain is a great tale and the richest excursion into, and evocation of, Arthurian legend and romance that I’ve read. It’s closer to modern sensibilities of readership than you might think a Middle English poem has a right to be. Its frank sexual politics and almost outright homoeroticism in its approximation of homosociality make it sharp to modern interpretive efforts. Its narrative variety and strengths, its ironic and characteristic Gawain poet voice and delight in descriptive details, also make it just a terrific gift to a reader. There are stanzas about the sensual qualities of a knight dressing and being attired, of lively courts feasting and carousing, of an adventurer in his own wilderness of feats and isolation; there are vicious hunts and kills, there are slaughters and whole passages about butchering; and there are the touchstones of romance put into the service of a tale that somehow seems more than a chivalrous romance. Several devices of the time (the beheading game, the seduction, the exchange of winnings, and the tradition of romance) are woven together into one ornate structure. And they turn the poem into something that at first glance is just a paradigmatic and traditional form of these, but that somehow becomes a resolution of all of them into each other.
It’s a terrific story put into beautiful form. And it’s an excellent piece of English literature.