His heart bled for Lancelot. It seemed inconceivable to him that anyone should suffer so much for love. He too, in his youth, had been something of a ladies’ man. But ever since one grim husband had taken his revenge on him in a manner so cruel that even today one cannot write about it without blushing, he had forgotten what love was, and he felt decidedly the better for it.
He spent a long time wondering whether or not he should help his friend. He knew the world would misconstrue whatever he did, and it could all end up with Lancelot seizing him by the beard yet again. But that wasn’t enough to stop him. His feelings of pity were far too strong.
He rummaged through his instruments, looking for his magic pincers and the blue spectacles that allowed him to see spirits. Then he took off his shoes and crept into Lancelot’s room.
A small candle was burning in the darkness. With the aid of the magic spectacles he could see through the bedclothes, through Lancelot’s shirt and skin, and into his body. Looking closely, he was able to follow the mischievous frolickings of the little life spirits as they chased one another up and down the labyrinth of blood vessels. It took him a while to discover which was the Love spirit, but eventually he succeeded. There it sat, astride Lancelot’s spine, tickling him with a little feather brush. After a while it grew tired of this game. It wriggled its way adroitly between the folds of the lung and set about squeezing the knight’s heart. But it must have got bored with that too, because it then slipped into the aorta, where the flow of blood carried it into the brain. It fiddled about for a while among the convolutions, pulling all sorts of things out of the drawers and then stuffing them back again, got itself tangled up in the network of nerve endings, gave a great yawn and jumped out through Lancelot’s mouth onto the bed. There it sat, dangling its legs over the edge and gazing at itself in a little mirror. Love is always rather vain. But it wasn’t exactly beautiful. It was pale and gaunt, restless and malformed, and its veins were knotted from years of stress. Of course it saw nothing of its own ugliness, for, as we all know, Love is also blind.
The spirit perched on the edge of the bed — this was Klingsor’s chance. He grabbed the pincers and gripped it firmly by the neck. Love uttered a few squawks and dropped the mirror.
The noise woke Lancelot — always a light sleeper. In an instant he was on his feet, his hand on the sword drawn from under the pillow, and he started towards Klingsor. When he realised who was standing there he lowered the weapon, feeling at once confused and rather suspicious.
“Is that you, Klingsor?” Lancelot was sorry to have caught his host in such an embarrassing situation.
“Yes… I came in… I thought I’d see how you were sleeping.”
“But why have you got those pincers in your hand?”
“Well, you know, if an insect happened to be disturbing your sleep, I could catch it.”
“You’d use a thing like that to catch it? I find a sheet of paper works very well.”
“I’m very squeamish by nature.”
“And have you caught anything?”
“Oh, yes… but nothing important.”
And he showed him the Love spirit.
“Phew, it’s ugly,” said Lancelot, and he lay down again, still feeling rather doubtful.
Klingsor went back to his room. He stuffed the spirit into a bottle, carefully capped it with some parchment and string and stamped it with the royal seal of Solomon. On the side he attached a little label bearing the words “Amor, amoris, masc.”, and placed it up on a shelf with the other bottles of spirits. The Love spirit swam round and round in the liquid, like a mournful frog. Satisfied with his night’s work, Klingsor went back to bed.
“If only I could do such a good deed every day,” he sighed earnestly, and quickly fell asleep.
The next day Lancelot woke to something remarkable: the sun was already high in the sky. He was so astonished he simply remained where he was, not moving, for ages. For the last seven years he had woken every day at dawn and leapt out of bed in a state of frantic anxiety, and now he felt little inclination even to get up. He dressed very slowly, and gave little thought to putting his long curls in order. As for shaving, he just didn’t bother.
“I look quite elegant enough for the dragon,” he thought to himself.
Eventually he made his way down to breakfast. Klingsor gave him a delighted reception.
“How did you sleep? And what did you dream about?” he wanted to know.
“What? Oh, yes, that I lost my spurs in a muddy field.”
“That’s a pity. Because the first dream you have in an unfamiliar place usually comes true.”
“That would be a shame. You know, what with the price of wheat these days, my estates aren’t doing as well as they used to, and I really hate unnecessary expense.”
“It might have been better if you had dreamt of the fair Queen.”
The colour drained from Lancelot’s face. It was true! For the last seven years he had dreamt of Guinevere every night, and now… he had even left her blessed name out of his morning prayers, for the simple reason that he had entirely forgotten to say them. And he’d been awake for a whole hour, and if the magician hadn’t mentioned her he wouldn’t have given her a moment’s thought.
Still in a daze, he took his leave of Klingsor and set off for the road that wound up the mountain. The magician stood waving after him.
“Not happy yet,” he murmured, stroking his beard. “He still hasn’t noticed the blissful transformation inside him. But sure enough, in time he’ll come to bless an old man’s memory.”
And he sobbed with emotion.
Lancelot trotted along the road for several hours, deep in thought. Then the way turned into a little beechwood. A woman on a donkey was approaching from the opposite direction. Before her and behind, the donkey’s back was piled high with fine-looking loaves. A baker’s wife, evidently.
“God give you good day,” he called out politely. The knight without a stain always made a point of greeting women first, including peasant women. The baker’s wife returned his greeting.
The wench was not unattractive. Indeed, her plump, homely manner had a fragrance of its own, like the bread.
“Aha, you must be Amalasuntha,” Lancelot began. “Didn’t your late grandfather make wafers for the Bishop, and didn’t you offer three candles last Easter so that you might see the Archangel Gabriel face to face?”
“No,” the woman replied.
“Ah, then your name can only be Merethén. Two of your four children have died of smallpox, but the third is doing wonderfully well. There is a blue hedgehog on the sign over your shop, and you are rather partial to trout?”
“No,” the woman replied.
“Right, that’s enough small talk,” said Lancelot. He dismounted, tied the woman’s donkey to a tree and lifted her down from its back. The loaves on either side stayed where they were.
Some time later they returned to the highway. Lancelot helped her back up onto the donkey, settled her in between the loaves, untied the beast and sent it off down the road. He stood for a while waving after them in a friendly fashion, then mounted his steed and continued on his way.