IR : Geineamhain Ghrigo̅ir
À titre provisoire, nous proposons ici la transcription de l’édition de Sheila Falconer (1958) qui est une transcription normalisée de l’unique manuscrit avec subdivision du texte en 103 paragraphes, 331 lignes numérotées de manière continue, résolution des abréviations en italiques, parenthèses autour des passages peu lisibles et des lacunes, crochets autour des conjectures et ajouts dont le titre, une ponctuation moderne, régularisation de la casse et 144 notes. Celles-ci ne sont pas reprises dans cette transcription qui précise en revanche le numéro des épisodes entre crochets. Nous proposons parallèlement cette transcription dans des documents PDF et Word respectant les coupures des 243 lignes du manuscrit et pourvue d’une nouvelle numérotation correspondant à ce nombre de lignes. Nous avons également transcription la traduction anglaise de Falconer selon les mêmes principes. Ultérieurement, nous publierons une transcription TEI et une traduction française, ainsi qu’un alignement entre les numérisations, la transcription TEI et la traduction. L’édition de Falconer comporte 3332 mots et 7 lacunes. Pour des raisons de simplicité technique, l’italique de l’édition et de la traduction a été remplacée par des romains sur cette page, la virgule devant le discours direct par deux points.
Transcription de l’édition de Falconer (2024)
- PDF (avec respect des coupures de ligne du manuscrit)
- Word (avec respect des coupures de ligne du manuscrit)
Transcription de la traduction anglaise de Falconer (2024)
Transcription de l’édition de Falconer (2024)
[GEINEAMHAIN GHRIGO̅IR.]
[1/5v] IMPIR DO BHÍ ISAN DOMHAN thoir in airoile aimsir agus ní roibh do chloinn aige acht aonmhac agus aoninghean namá. Agus ó tha̅inic an bás chum an impire do ghoir a mhac agus maithe a mho̅rthi̅re da̅ ionnsaighe, agus do labhuir (re)na mhac agus as eadh ro ra̅idh fris:
‘A mhic ionnmhain,’ ol se̅, ‘aithnim d(h)uit m’inghean ghra̅dhach fe̅in, o̅r do bhi̅ do mhe̅id mo ghra̅dh uirthe na̅r leigios chum fir í, ⁊ fa̅gbhuim thusa mur athair ⁊ mur bhra̅thair agus a n-ionadh fir aice no̅ go bhfaghair fear maith oile dhi̅.’
‘Do-dhe̅an-sa sin,’ ol se̅.
(Do)-fuair an t-impir bás iar sin aguz do goireadh impire don mac sin an impir iaramh. [2] Agus do mhe̅aduigh onóir na hinghine ní asa mhó ina̅ mur do bhi̅ ariamh. Ní he̅ ’mháin, acht an pa̅la̅s ina roibh an inghean sin re linn a hathar ni̅or leig an mac sin an impir ann í acht a breith leis ina pha̅l(a̅i)s fe̅in do mhe̅adughadh a honóra. Agus do ordaigh cathoír go n-imdhe̅anamh n-ordha ar aghaidh an bhuird ina mbiadh fe̅in dhí, agus gach ono̅ir do-(bheirti̅) ’mach isan ccu̅irt as i̅ an inghean do-bheireadh ’mach é.
La̅ n-aon do bha̅dur (a)mhlaidh sin far an mbord .i. an t-impir agus a dheirbhshiúr. Do fhe̅ach (an t-impire far a shiair agus do bhi̅ aga si̅orfhe̅achoin, óir is d’easgaidh seirce síorfhe̅achoinn. Agus do ghra̅dhuigh se̅ an inghean go hiomur[c]ach iar ⁊ sin ni̅or chaith biadh no̅ deoch da̅ mbia san ccúirt ina dhiadh sin acht a (bheith) aga si̅or(shilleadh) no̅ gur chaitheadur a bhfleadh. Agus ar ndul dho̅iph co a seomra do-chuaidh an t-impir chum na hiom(dha) ina roibh an inghean agus do labhuir an inghean fris agus do fhiarfaigh dhe:
‘Ce tha̅inic san iomdha?’ ar sí.
‘Misi, an t-impire,’ ol sé.
‘’Athair ⁊ a bhra̅thair,’ ol si̅, ‘ciodh uma tt(a̅ingis) um an tra̅th sa? ⁊ ma̅s do mhe̅adughadh m’ono̅ra-sa tha̅inic tú cre̅ad um (nach ttucais lucht mhe̅adoighthe m’ono̅ra leat go lo̅chrannadh agus go soillsi (soinn)eamhla?’
‘Ni̅ do sin ata̅inic,’ ol an t-impire, ‘acht do-ghe̅abhad [6r] bás muna luighfid (1)eat-sa agus muna ndearnar bean dhi̅ot.’
‘Ni ha̅il le Día an gni̅omh sin do dhe̅anamh dhuit-si,’ ol an inghean, ‘o̅ir do chuirfeadh sin Dia agus an saoghal do dhi̅oth ort.’
‘Deimhin sin,’ ol an t-impire, agus do-rinne ‘thoil féin frisan inghin iaramh.
[4] Agus do bha̅dur amhlaidh sin go ceann bliadhna. Agus tarla are an impire go mo̅r forsan inghin agus do-chonnairc drochgne̅ uirthe agus do fhiarfaigh dhi̅ cre̅ad é an t-adhbhur ima roibh drochgne̅ fuirre.
‘Neimhiongnadh ge̅ go mbiadh drochgné form,’ ar si̅, agus me̅ torrach ó mo dhearbhra̅thair fe̅in re leithbhliadhain.’
Ar chloisdin sin don impire do-chuaidh cruth maith a n-e̅gcruth dhó ⁊ mur do aithrigh an inghean athmhe̅l[a] forsan impire do ghabh l(u̅)thar la̅nabaidh í ⁊ do ra̅idh fris:
‘Ní sinde an che̅iddias do-rinne peacadh riamh, ⁊ da̅ ndearnair-si mo chomharle-si ge̅abhaidh ( ).
‘Cre̅ad é an chomhuirle sin do-bheir tu̅ oram?’ ar an t-impire.
‘Do-bheirim,’ ar an inghean, ‘dul gusan athair fhaoisidin as eolcha do-ghe̅abhair (san) ccathraigh agus t’fhaoisidin do dhe̅anamh fris, ⁊ tar e̅is sin, an comharle(ach) do bhi̅ aga hathair maridh fós ⁊ ni̅or fha̅guibh an chathair ( ) riamh, ⁊ e̅irighim-ne chuige agus beanam luidh dhe um (ru̅n) do dhe̅anamh ar gach ní da̅r imthigh oruin.’
[5] Agus do-rinne siad (amhlaidh sin) uile. Agus as i̅ comhuirle thug dho̅ibh .i. maithe ’mhuintire do ( ) ⁊ a ra̅dh friú bheith umhal da̅ shiair-siomh an feadh do bheith fe̅in ( ) ⁊ go rachadh da̅ oillithre gusan Tallamh Naomhtha. ⁊ do-(rinne) an t-impire amhail do ra̅idheamur romhuind, (.i.) é fe̅in d’imtheacht (agus) an tír do bheith umhal da̅ sheathair.
[6] Agus ar n-imtheacht don (impir) o̅n gcri̅och sin do rug an ridire adubhr(a)mur .i. an co(mharleach) do bhi̅ aca, an inghean leis chum a dhu̅naidh fe̅in, agus ní leigtí ( ) fios ann acht an ridire fe̅in amháin. Do labhuir bean an ridire (leis) la̅ e̅igin agus as eadh ro ra̅idh.
‘Ni chreidim fe̅in nach bhfuil ( ) [6v] e̅igin ar an mbanimpire.’
‘De̅an-sa rún ar an sge̅al do inneo̅satt-sa dhuit,’ ar an ridire.
‘Do-dhe̅ana,’ ar an bhean.
‘E̅irigh-si mur a bhfuil an bhanimpire,’ ol se̅, ‘o̅r ata̅ si̅ re n-i̅odhnuibh.’
‘An leis an impire an toirchios?’ ol an bhean.
‘Is leis,’ ol an ridire.
[7] Do-chuaidh bean an ridire mur a roibh an bhanimpire agus do-fuair an ri̅oghan ar mbreith mic, ⁊ ní roibh san mbith naoidh budh fearr dealph ina̅ an naoidh sin. ⁊ do fhiarfaigh an ridire don mbanimpire cre̅ad do dhe̅anadh frisan leanamh sin, no̅ an mbe̅aradh da̅ bhaisdeadh é.
‘Ni be̅arthar,’ ar an bheanimpire, ‘acht de̅an-sa tuinne do cheangal do chresuibh iarnaidhe uile ⁊ piseacla do cheangal isan tunna sin mur an gce̅adhna, ⁊ a’ naoidh beag do chur isan bpiseacla ⁊ x. bpunta d’ór ar fona cheann agus xx. ponta d’argead do chur fona chosaibh, agus litreacha do chur leis leis an mac da̅ innsin amhail mur do-rineadh é .i. gur dearbhra̅thair do-rinne ris an deirblishiair é, ⁊ ge be̅ ar a tteagamhadh an leanamh é da̅ oileamhuin ar a chuid fe̅in .i. a chuid argid do chaitheamh rena oileamhuin agus a chuid o̅ir do chaitheamh rena ealadhain ⁊ re foghluim gaisgidh do dhe̅anamh dhó, ⁊ Grigo̅ir do thaphuirt d’ainm fair, ⁊ oileamhuin (mic ri̅gh) no̅ rofhlatha do dhe̅anamh air.’
⁊ do-rinne an rid[ir]e amhail do ra̅idheamur romhuinn fris an leanamh ⁊ do rug leis gusan muir é agus do-chuaidh eadh cían leis isin muir agus do theilg an macaoimh isin bhfarge.
[8] ⁊ ta̅inic an ridire a ttír iar sin ⁊ ag dul chum na cathreacha dhó tarla o̅glach air ⁊ sgri̅bhin bheag ina la̅imh ⁊ tug don ridire í. Agus (mur) do le̅igh an ridire an sgri̅bhin do-chuaidh go haineigeantach chum na cathrach. ⁊ do-chuaidh iaramh mur a roibh a bhean ⁊ do innis di̅ go bhfuair an t-impire ba̅s (⁊ do) bha̅dur araon ag doghrain urn an impire.
⁊ do-chuadur iar sin mur a roibh (an bhan)impire ⁊ do-(chon)airc an bhanimpire sliocht na ndeo̅r ar a ngruadhaibh agus (do fhiarfaigh) di̅oph cre̅ad um a roibhadur ag caoí.
‘Neimhiongnadh ge̅ go [7r] mbeithmuis-ne ag doghrain agus ag caoí, agus tusa mur an cce̅adhna, agus aonmhac an impire do theilgean isan muir.’
‘Ní de̅ana bre̅ig,’ ol an bhanimpire,’ ⁊ go bfhuighthear a fhios.’
‘Ní dhe̅an’ ar an ridire, ‘da̅ madh a̅il leat-sa gan scceineadh lais an sge̅al do inneo̅suinn duit.’
‘Ní dhe̅an,’ arsan bhanimpire.
⁊ do innis dhí amhail mur do-fuair an t-impir bás agus gurbh í an che̅adoidhche tha̅inic isin ccri̅ch sin ar nde̅anamh oillithre fuair an bás sin. Agus do ra̅idh frisan mbanimpire dul do dhe̅anamb ono̅ra da̅ chorp agus do ioloughadh amhail mur do-rineadh rena athair ⁊ rena shinsearadh. Agus do ra̅idh an bhanimpire:
‘Ni̅orbh a̅il re Dia a leigean chum na cri̅ch si d’eagla go ndiongnadh mur do-rinne roimhe. ⁊ beir-si maithe na tíre si leat gusan a̅it ina bhfuil se̅ agus de̅ana ono̅ir da̅ chorp amhail mur is dual ⁊ mur is cubhaidh dhó.’ Agus do-rinneadh amhlaidh sin uille.
[10] Iomthu̅s an mhacaoimh do teill(geadh isin) bhfarrge agus don tunna, ar mbeith aimsir forsan muir dho̅ (ra̅inic) dochum oille̅in ina roibh comhthionno̅ll manach é agus tarla dias manach (ar an tunna) agus do rugadur leó a ttír é, ⁊ do ra̅idh fear aca:
‘Is cosmhail ris ( ) sa e̅ada̅ill mho̅r do bheith ann.’
‘Fe̅achmuid sin,’ ar [an] manach oile.
‘Ní dhe̅an(am),’ ar an ce̅adfhear, ‘no̅ go ttí an t-ab agus an comhthiono̅l uile.’
Agus do-chuaidh manach dhi̅oph ar cheann an ab agus tug leis gusan tonna é. Agus do fosgladh an tunna risan ab ⁊ do-frith an piseaccla ann go [n]glasuibh iarnaidhe fair agus do fhe̅achsad é iar sin. Agus do-fritheadh a’ naoidh ba ha̅ile do naoidheanuibh an bheatha ann agus .x. bponta d’o̅r fon’ cheann agus a dha̅ chudrum d’airgead fona chosaibh ⁊ litrecha (sgri̅bhtha isin b)piseacla ag innsin gurbho mac do-rinne dearbhra̅thair re(na dheirbhshiair) sin agus da̅ innsin Grigo̅ir do thabhairt d’ainm fair agus da̅ (oilleamhain) ar’ chuid fe̅in .i. a chuid o̅ir do chaitheamh rena (ealadhuin) agus rena [7v] ngaisgidh do dhe̅anamh dhó ⁊ a chuid argid rena [fh]oghluim.
Agus ar bhfaicsin an mhacaoimh agus ar le̅aghadh na litreacha don ab do fhear fa̅ilte fris an leanamh ⁊ adubhairt:
‘Mochean romhad,’ ar sé, ‘o̅r saoilim gomadh fearrde an tra̅dh sa go bra̅th an mac sa do thoigheacht ann.’
Agus do ghabh an t-ab an leanamh ina ucht agus do-rinne ga̅ire fris agus do-rad an t-ab po̅g dhó ⁊ do rug leis é gusan mainistir.
Agus do bhí bean iasguire isan mainistir ar n-e̅ag a leanaimh uaithe agus tug an t-ab chuige í agus tug an macaiomh da̅ oilleamhain dhí agus do oil é go ceann a sheacht mbliadhan. [11] Agus do-rinneadh le̅ighean do̅ iar sin ⁊ ba heolach egnach é um an am sin.
[12] La̅ n-aon da̅ roibh an macaomh sa farre macaomh a chomhaoisi ag de̅anamh cluiche agus ioma̅na ⁊ tarla imreasan idir mac na banaltra agus Grigo̅ir gur bhuail Grigo̅ir eisiomh da̅ chomma̅n. Agus do-chuaidh an mac gusan mbanaltra ag caoí agus ag doghrain ⁊ do innis dhi̅ Grigo̅ir da̅ bhualadh. ⁊ mur thainic Grigo̅ir don tigh do ra̅idh a bhuime fris gurbh olc re torchuire nach fios athair no̅ mha̅thair dhó do bhuail a mac féin. ⁊ mur do-chuala Grigo̅ir an aithios sin da̅ thabhairt dó do himdheargadh uime [13] ⁊ do-chuaidh ag caoi gusan ab don muinistir.
Agus do fhiarfaigh an t-ab da̅ dhalta cre̅ad do bhi̅ fair, ⁊ do innis dhó amhail do ra̅idh a bhuime fris gurab toirchuire é agus gur shaoil sé gur mac don ab é gusan uair sin. ⁊ do ra̅idh frisan ab innsin dho̅ cre̅ad uime inar dhubhairt a bhuime an aitheasg sin fris agus gomadh e̅igean ’fhios dh’fha̅ghail dhó.
Do innis an t-ab amhail do e̅irigh dhó ó thu̅s go deireadh agus amhail do chuireadh a chuid ionnmhuis leis. ⁊ ni̅or ghabh an macaoimh gan an litir d’fhaicsin ⁊ ar le̅aghadh na litre dho̅ do ra̅idh frisan ab a chur d’fhoghluim gaisgidh. ⁊ do-rineadh samhlaidh gurbho foirfe an gaisgeadhach é ⁊ do goireadh ridire dhe iaramh. Agus tug an t-ab culaidh ridire dho̅ ⁊ do rug ní da̅ ionnmhus leis agus [8r] a litreacha. [14] ⁊ do imthigh mo̅ra̅n don domhan, ⁊ ní ghabhthaoí fris a ccath no̅’ ccomhrac seachneo̅in an bheatha, no̅ go ra̅inic isan chri̅ch ina roibh an bhanimpire ba ma̅thair dho̅ féin.
[15] Agus is amhlaidh tarla don bhanimpir an uair sin gur milleadh a mo̅rthír ’na timcheall. Occus dob é adhbhur na cri̅che do mhilleadh .i. mac Ri̅gh na Hungari tha̅inic d’iarraidh na banimpire mur mhnaoí dho̅ fe̅in, ⁊ do dhiu̅lt an bhanimpire dul leis ⁊ do ra̅idh nach bhfaoifeadh le fior go bra̅th. ⁊ do mhill mac Ri̅gh na Hungari an chri̅ch ’na timcheall conna̅ir fha̅guibh aice gan mhilleadh acht tri̅ cathracha rodhaighne do [bhi̅] san ccri̅ch, ⁊ ni̅or fha̅gaibh ridire no̅ gaisgeadhach re hiarraidh tuillmhe no̅ tu̅rusdail nach ttabhradh an bhanimpir tu̅rusdal dhó gach aon dhíobh a n-aghaidh mic Ri̅gh na Hungari.
[14] ⁊ ar ndol do Ghrigo̅ir don ccathraigh ina roibh an bhanimpire do shir tigh o̅sda, agus as e̅ tigh o̅sda ina ttarla é .i. go tigh iasguire do bhi̅ isan mbaille. ⁊ arnamha̅rrach do [fh]iarfaigh an t-iasguire don ridire o̅g sin a’ nge̅abhadh tu̅rusdal o̅n mbanimpire a n-aghaidh mic Ri̅gh na Hungari.
‘Ge̅abhad,’ ar an ridire, [15] ⁊ do imthigh an t-iasguire mur a roibh an bhanimpire ⁊ do innis tu̅ruisgbha̅il an ridire o̅g tha̅inic don ccathraigh dhi .i. nach roibh isan domhan a shamhuil ar dheilbh no̅ ar dhe̅anamh agus go [n]ge̅abhadh tu̅rusdul o̅n bhanimpire.
⁊ do fhura̅ill a thabhairt ’na fiadhnuise agus ó tha̅inic do-rinneadur aimsear re che̅ile go ceann bliadhna ⁊ ni̅ roibh a̅it lis no̅ leathbhaile fás no̅ follamh fó cheann bliadhna don chri̅ch. Agus do fho̅gair mac Ri̅gh na Hungari cath ar an mbanimpire ⁊ do-chuaidh siad di̅bh leithibh isan ccath.
Iomu̅s an ridire o̅ig, ni̅or gabhadh fris no̅ go ra̅inic d’ionnsaighe mic Ri̅gh na Hungari ⁊ do-rinn siad comhrac borbneartmhur re che̅ile gur thuit mac Ri̅gh na Hungari risan ridire o̅g arrachtach sin ⁊ do mharbh a mhuintear uile. ⁊ ta̅ngadur ca̅ch chum Grigo̅ir gusan ccathraigh air mbuaidh ccosguir ⁊ com(aoidhmhe.
[16] ⁊ ar cha)theamh na bliadhna sin don ridire do chuir teachtoireacht (gusan mbanimpir) [8v] d’iarraidh a thu̅arusduil. ⁊ do ra̅idh an bhanimpire gur maith do thuill sé a thu̅arusdul agus go bhfuigheadh a bhreith fe̅in uaithe.
Agus do ra̅idh maithe a muinntire da̅ gcluinti̅ an ridire do chosain an ri̅oghacht da̅ fa̅gbha̅il go ttiocfadh Ri̅ogh na Hungari do dhioghailt a mhic san ccri̅ch.
‘Cre̅ad dob a̅il libh-si uime sin?’ ar an bhanimpire.
‘Dob a̅ill linn thu̅sa do dhe̅anamh ar ccomharle fe̅in um daingneadh an ridire o̅ig úd san ri̅oghacht,’ ar siad, ⁊ do gheall an bhanimpire go ndiongnadh.
‘As i̅ comharle dob a̅il linne,’ ar siad, ‘an ridire iolldhealphach úd is fearr la̅mh isan domhan do pho̅sadh riot-sa.’
‘Tugus gealladh do Dhia nach bhfaoifeadh fear riom go bra̅th,’ ar an bhanimpire.
‘Do-bheirmid-ne dar mbre̅ithir,’ ar maithe a muintir[e] go mbeanfuim-ne ar n-umhlacht fe̅in di̅ot muna ndioghnair ar ccomharle,’ ⁊ ba he̅igion don mbanimpire a ccomhuirle do dhe̅anamh.
⁊ do-chuadur mur a roibh an ridire iar sin ⁊ do innsiodar dho̅ crioch a ccomharle frisan mbanimpire, agus ba maith laisin ridire ar chansad fris. Agus do po̅sadh an bhanimpire fris iar sin ⁊ ba maith gach ní fria ’na linn araon.
[17] Aon do ló labhuir an bhean choimhideacht frisan bhanimpire agus do fhiarfaigh cre̅ad é an t-olc do-ni̅odh ar an impire.
‘Ciodh ima ar fhiarfaighis sin?’ ar an bhanimpire.
‘Do-ni̅m,’ ar sí, ‘gach uair thig óna sheomra do-chi̅m-si sliocht na ndér far a ghruadhaibh.’
Ba hiongnadh mo̅r lais an mbanimpire a’ ní sin, agus do bhí coimhe̅ad aice air no̅ go bhfuair si̅ an t-impire agus na litreacha do cuireadh lais san muir aige da̅ le̅aghadh. [18] Agus do-chuaidh an bhanimpire gan fhios do̅ ’na cheann ⁊ fuair deora far a ghruadhaibh ⁊ do fhe̅ach farsna litreacha agus dob a̅il leis a bhfollach. ⁊ ni̅orbh fheirde dhó o̅ir ni̅or ghabh an bhanimpire gan a bhfaicsin. ⁊ ó do-chonnairc na litreacha do aithin íad ⁊ do-chuaidh cruth maith a n-e̅agcruth dhí.
⁊ do fhiarfaigh an t-impire cre̅ad é an chor do bhi̅ uirre, ⁊ do innis an bhanimpire dho̅ gurbh i̅ fe̅in a mha̅thair ⁊ deirbhshiu̅r ’athar ⁊ gurbh í chuir an tunna (⁊ an) t-ionnmhus lais isin muir. ⁊ do chuir sin go hadhbhul air, ⁊ ó do[9r]-chonairc an bhanimpire sin do labhuir frisiomh.
‘De̅an-sa amhail do-rinne h’athair .i. dol do dhe̅anamh oilithri ar ghra̅dh Dé.’
‘Do-dhe̅in,’ ol Grigo̅ir, [19] ⁊ do imthigh iaramh ⁊ beaca̅n da̅ ionnmhus lais.
⁊ ar n-imtheacht mo̅ra̅n don domhan dho̅ ⁊ ar ccur a bheirte impireachte dhe tarrla go tigh iasguire é, agus do fhiarfaigh don iasguire narbh aithne dhó san muir ionadh a ndiongnadh comhnaidhe ⁊ ina bhfuigheadh uaigneas.
Do fhreguir an t-iasguire e̅ ⁊ as eadh ro ra̅idh, ‘La̅ da̅ ndeachais d’iasguireacht asan ccathraigh si ⁊ do fhuadaigh in ghaoith mo long a bfhudhoimhuin na mara. ⁊ do bha̅dhus tri̅ la̅ forsan bhfuadach sin no̅ go ttarla carruic oram fursan muir ⁊ do fhanus ar sga̅th na carge no̅ gur mhi̅nigh an mhuir. Agus fuairus teampall fursan ccaruic sin go [n]glas fair, ⁊ ní fhaca riamh ionadh is foide o̅ dhaoinuiph ina̅ sin.’
‘Beir misi gusan gcarruic sin,’ ar Grigo̅ir, ‘⁊ do-bhe̅ara mé an bhfuil d’ionmhus agam dhuit.’
[20] ⁊ do-rinsead amhlaidh sin ⁊ do imthigh Grigo̅ir laisan iasguire gusan gcarruic sin adubhramur romhuin. ⁊ ar ndol dho̅iph gusan ccarruic fuaradur teampall agus glas fair ⁊ eochair isan glas ⁊ do osg(ail) an t-iasguire é. ⁊ ar ndol asteach do Ghrigo̅ir adubhairt frisan iasguire an glas do chor farsan dorus arís ⁊ imeacht chum a chri̅che fe̅in.
⁊ do ra̅idh an t-iasguire, ‘Ciodh um ar iarruis an dorus d’iadhadh ort ⁊ gan do bhiadh agad acht luibhreadh na talmhan?’
‘De̅ana mo chomharle fe̅in oram,’ ar Grigo̅ir, (‘⁊ beir) an eochair leat isan luing, ⁊ mur rachair eadh cian o̅n gcarruic amach teilg an eochair isin muir.’
Agus do-rinne an t-iasguire amhail do ra̅idh fris [21] agus do bhi̅ Grigo̅ir ocht mbliadhna de̅ag san teampall sin.
⁊ do-fuair an Pa̅pa do bhi̅ isin Ro̅imh ba̅s um an am sin. Agus do labhuir an guth for la̅r na Ro̅imhe agus as eadh ro ra̅idh:
‘An neoch naomhtha ar a bhfuighe sibh Grigo̅ir d’ainm fair, tabhraidh libh e̅ agus de̅anaidh Pa̅pa Ro̅mha̅nach dhe.’
⁊ do buaidhreadh a roibh san ccu̅irt Ro̅mha̅naigh tre̅san ghuth sin.
Ta̅inic dhe sin na Ro̅mha̅naigh uile do theacht a n-aonionadh, ⁊ as i̅ comharle do-roinn siat an Ro̅imh uile d’iarraidh d’fhior an anma sin. ⁊ do-roinn siat amhlaidh agus ni̅or fritheadh é. Agus o̅ nachar fritheadh leó e̅ do shir siad an domhan go ceann bliadhna ⁊ ni̅ fhuaradur fear an anma a n-aonionadh da̅ ndeachadur.
⁊ ta̅inic an guth ce̅adna ’rís isan Ro̅imh ⁊ do ra̅idh riú dul go tigh an iasguire a̅ithridhe do bhi̅ ina leithid sin do [9v] chathraigh agus go bhfuighdis sge̅ala Ghrigo̅ir aige. Agus do chuir siad na Ro̅mha̅naigh teachta gusan ccathraigh go tig an iasguire agus do fhiarfaighdur sge̅ala Ghrigo̅ir dhe ⁊ do ra̅idh friu.
‘Ata̅id ocht mbliadhna de̅ag gusan la̅ aniodh ó do bhí fear an anma sin as tigh si. ⁊ do fha̅gbhus-[s]a far charruic maro é ⁊ saoilim gurab a [bh]fada ó fuair bás.’
‘An rachair-si linne da̅ iarraidh?’ ar siad.
‘Da̅ ttugthaoi luach dhamh, rachad,’ ar sé, ⁊ tug siad ionnmhus dho̅ agus dol leó d’iarraidh Ghrigo̅ir.
[23] ⁊ do-chuaidh an t-iasguire leo isin luing arnamha̅reachs ⁊ do bha̅dur tri̅ la̅ fursan muir gan rochtain na carge. [22] ⁊ do ling brada̅n as an muir isin luing chuca ⁊ do ghabh an t-iasguir[e] an brada̅n ina la̅imh iar sin ⁊ do spoilt air. ⁊ do-fuair an eochair do theilg isin muir a mbroinn an bhrada̅n agus do aithin go roibh ra̅th De̅ a ccoimhideacht Ghrigo̅ir. [23] ⁊ do-chuadur fursan gcarruic ⁊ gusan teampall agus do cuireadh an eochair isan glas agus do fosgladh e̅. ⁊ ar ndul asteach dho̅ibh fuaradur Grigo̅ir ar a ghlu̅inibh san n-eaglais ag guidh De̅.
Iomthu̅s Ghrigo̅ir, do bhi̅ aingeal De̅ dha̅ innsinn dho̅ go roibh an Spiorad Naomhtha ag a tho̅gbha̅il gusan Ro̅imh a n-ionadh Pheadair, ⁊ do fhear fa̅ilte frisna Ro̅mha̅nacha ⁊ ni̅or chuir fuireach orra acht gluasacht leó chum na Ro̅mha. [24] ⁊ do goireadh Pa̅pa dhe sin Ro̅imh iar sin ⁊ do-ghni̅odh Dia mi̅orbhuile mo̅ra difhaisne̅s[e] fair ⁊ ba hoirdhearc a chlú san domhan uile.
[25] Agus idir gach ionadh eile ra̅inic si̅ chlú naomhacht go ri̅acht na banimpire ⁊ mur do-chuala si̅ clú naomhacht Ghrigo̅ir do ghluais roimpe gusan Ro̅imh, ⁊ ni̅orbh a̅il le̅ fhaoisidin le neoch eile acht risan bPa̅pa amháin. Agus mur ra̅inic an bhanimpir gusan Ro̅imh do chuir litreacha chum an Pha̅pa da̅ innsin do̅ na̅rbh a̅il le̅ fe̅in choirtha d’innsin do neoch oile acht don bPa̅pa ’mháin. ⁊ do bhi̅ a [bh]fad ag gabha̅ill frisan mbanimpire na̅rbh a̅il leis a breith ’na fhiadhnuise.
⁊ mur ra̅inic mur a roibh an Pa̅pa rug le̅ é a n-iairgu̅il na heagluisi ⁊ do aithris amhuil do pheacaigh rena dearbhra̅thair fe̅in agus go rug mac dhó agus gur cuireadh an mac sin a ttunna fursan muir ⁊ gur hoileadh re hab naomhtha é. ⁊ do innis amhuil atarrla da̅ mac o̅ [10r] thu̅s go deireadh ⁊ mur fuair athair an mhic bás agus amhail do-chuaidh an mac sin ’na ridire o̅g gusan ccathraigh ina roibh si̅ fe̅in ⁊ gach ní dar imthigh uirthe o̅ shin amach do innis don bPa̅pa uile é.
⁊ tug an Pa̅pa absolo̅id dhi ar sin ⁊ do innis gurab e̅ fe̅in a mac ⁊ fo̅s do innis amhail atarla dho̅ féin ⁊ cionnus tha̅innic chum na Ro̅mha ⁊ mur do-rineadh Pa̅pa [dhe]. ⁊ adubhairt fria gan dol isin chri̅ch ina ndearna an peacadh.
‘Cre̅ad oile do-dhe̅an?’ ar an bhanimpire.
‘Do-dhe̅anair,’ ar an Pa̅pa, ‘fuireach san Ro̅imh, ⁊ do-dhe̅an-sa mainistir a n-onno̅ir do Mhuire ⁊ cuirfid comhthionno̅l cailleach ndubh at’ fhochair ⁊ do-[dhéan] banab dhi̅ot-sa orra.’
⁊ do-rineadh amhlaidh sin uile ⁊ do bha̅dur ar feadh a mbeatha ag foghnamh do Dhía ó shin ’mach go haimsir a mbáis.
Gurab í sin Geineamhinn Ghrigo̅ir go n-uige sin. [Épilogue] Finis.
An fithadh lá do December 1678.
Transcription de la traduction anglaise de Falconer (2024)
[THE BIRTH OF GREGORY.]
[1] Once upon a time there was an emperor in the eastern world, and he had no children but an only son and an only daughter. And when the emperor was about to die he called to him his son and the nobles of his realm and he addressed his son, saying, ‘My dear son,’ said he, ‘I commend to you my own beloved daughter, for such was my love for her that I did not permit her to go to any man, and I leave you as father and brother and in the place of a husband to her until you get another good husband for her.’ ‘I shall do that,’ said he.
Thereafter the emperor died and the son was proclaimed emperor. [2] And he increased the girl’s honour more than ever it had been. Not only that, he did not permit the girl to stay in the palace in which she had been in her father’s time, but brought her with him into his own palace to increase her honour. And he assigned a chair with ornamentation in gold to her facing the table at which he himself sat, and it was the girl who would confer every honour bestowed in the court.
[3] One day they were thus at the table, that is, the emperor and his sister. The emperor looked at his sister and gazed long upon her, for long looking is a sign of love. And then he loved the girl exceedingly and after that took neither food nor drink that was in the court but continued to gaze unceasingly upon her until they had partaken of their feast. When they had gone to their room the emperor went to the bed in which the girl lay, and the girl spoke to him and asked him:
‘Who has come to my bed?’ said she.
‘I, the emperor,’ said he.’
‘O father and brother,’ said she, ‘why have you come at this time? And if you have come to do me greater honour why have you not brought with you people to enhance my honour with lanterns and bright lights?’
‘It is not for that I have come,’ said the emperor, ‘but I shall die unless I lie with you and unless I make you my wife.’
‘It is not pleasing to God that you should commit that deed,’ said the girl, ‘for that would estrange you from both God and man.’
‘True’, said the emperor, but he had his way with the girl after that.
[4] For a year [sic] they continued so. And the emperor’s attention was greatly taken by the girl and he saw she looked ill and he asked her what was the cause that she looked ill.
‘It is no wonder that I should look ill,’ said she, ‘since I have been pregnant by my own brother for half a year.’
When the emperor heard that he changed colour, and when the girl perceived his remorse … seized her and she said to him:
‘We are not the first pair that ever sinned, and if you take my advice (you) shall get …’
‘What is the advice you give me?’ said the emperor.
‘I say,’ said the girl, ‘go to the wisest father confessor you will find in the city and make your confession to him, and after that let us go to the counsellor that her [sic] father had and who still lives and has never left the city …, and make him swear to keep secret everything that has happened to us.’
[5] And all these things they did. And the advice he gave them [sic] was to gather his nobles to him and bid them be obedient to his sister while he himself should be … and that he would go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. And the emperor did as we have said, that is, he himself departed and the country was subject to his sister.
[6] And when the emperor had gone away from that land the knight we have mentioned, namely, their counsellor, took the girl with him to his own castle, and none was allowed (to visit her) there save only the knight himself. One day the knight’s wife spoke to him and said
,‘For my part I do not believe that the empress has not some (ailment).’
‘Keep secret what I shall tell you,’ said the knight.
‘I shall’, said the woman.
‘Go to die empress’, said he, ‘for she is in travail.’
‘Is it the emperor’s child?’ said the woman.
‘It is’, said the knight.
[7] The knight’s wife went to the empress and found that the queen had given birth to a son and there was not in the world a lovelier infant than he. And die knight asked the empress what he should do with the child, or should he take it to be baptised.
‘Do not’, said the empress, ‘but bind a cask all about with iron hoops and tie a piseacla in the cask likewise, and put the little infant into the piseacla with ten pounds of gold beneath his head and twenty pounds of silver under his feet, and put letters also with the boy telling how he was begotten, that a brother begot him upon his sister; and that he who should find the child should rear him on that gold and silver of his, that is, use the silver to bring him up and the gold to educate him and teach him the ways of chivalry; and that he be given the name of Gregory; and be brought up like the son of a king or a prince.’
And the knight did as we have said with the child and took him to the sea and went a long way out into the sea with him and cast the child into the sea.
[8] Then the knight came ashore and as he went to the city he met a youth with a short message in his hand which he gave to the knight. And when the knight read the message he went dejectedly towards the city. Then he went to his wife and told her that the emperor had died and both mourned for the emperor.
After that they went to the empress, and the empress saw the trace of the tears on their cheeks and asked them what they were weeping about.
‘No wonder that we should be sorrowing and weeping, and you likewise, having cast the emperor’s only son into the sea.’
‘Do not lie’, said the empress, ‘but let us have the truth [lit. knowledge of it]’.
‘I shall not lie’, said the knight, ‘if you would be pleased not to take fright at the story I would tell you.’
‘I shall not’, said the empress.
And he told her that the emperor had died, and that it was the first night that he came into that land after his pilgrimage that he died. And he bade the empress go and do honour to his body and to bury him as was done with his father and his forefathers. And the empress said:
‘God was not pleased to allow him [to return] to this land for fear he should do as before. And take the nobles of this country with you to the place where he lies and do honour to his body as is fitting and proper to him.’ And so it was done.
[10] As for the child that was cast into the sea and the cask, when it had been for some time on the sea it came to an island where a community of monks dwelt, and two monks happened to find the cask and brought it to land with them. And one of them said:
‘This cask seems likely to contain great treasure.’
‘Let us see’, said the other monk.
‘We will not’, said the first, ‘until the abbot comes with the whole community’.
And one of the monks went to fetch the abbot and brought him to the cask. And the cask was opened by the abbot and the piseacla with iron locks on it was found inside and they investigated it then. And in it they found the most beautiful child in the world with ten pounds of gold under his head and twice as much silver under his feet and letters in the piseacla telling that he was a boy which a brother begot on his sister, and that he was to be given the name of Gregory, and to (be brought up) on that gold and silver of his, that is, the gold to be spent for his education [and training] in the ways of chivalry and the silver to have him taught.
And when the abbot had seen the child and read the letters he welcomed the child and said:
‘Welcome’, said he, ‘for I think this shore will always be the better for this child having come here.’
And the abbot took the child in his arms and he smiled at him and the abbot kissed him and took him to the monastery.
And the abbot [had] brought to him the wife of a fisherman in the monastery whose child had just died and he gave her the child to bring up, and she reared him until he was seven years old. [11] Then he was educated and by that time he was learned and wise.
[12] One day when this child was with the boy of his own age playing a game of hurling a quarrel arose between the nurse’s son and Gregory, and Gregory struck him with his hurley. And the boy went to the nurse weeping and wailing and told her that Gregory had hit him. When Gregory reached the house his foster-mother said to him that it ill became a foundling whose father and mother were not known to strike her own son. And when Gregory heard that insult being cast at him he flushed up [13] and he went weeping to the abbot in the monastery.
The abbot asked his pupil what was the matter with him and he told him what his foster-mother had said to him, that he was a foundling and that he had thought he was the abbot’s son until then. And he said to the abbot to tell him why his foster-mother had insulted him in that way and that he must find out.
The abbot told how it had befallen him from beginning to end and how his wealth had been put in with him, but the boy was not satisfied till he had seen the letter. And when he had read the letter he bade the abbot have him instructed in the ways of chivalry. And so it was done till he was a perfect warrior. Then he was dubbed a knight and the abbot gave him a knight’s outfit and he took with him some of his wealth and his letters. [14] And he travelled through much of the world and was not overcome in battle or encounter throughout the world, until he reached the country in which was the empress who was his mother.
[15] And at that time the empress’s country had been ravaged on all sides. And the reason that the land was ravaged was that the son of the King of Hungary had come seeking the empress for his wife and she refused to go with him and said that she would never lie with any man. And the son of the King of Hungary ravaged the land on all sides till he had left her only three strong cities that had not been sacked. And no knight or champion was left seeking wages or hire but the empress gave wages to every one of them [to fight] against the son of the King of Hungary.
[14] And when Gregory came to the city where the empress was he searched for an inn, and the inn he happened upon was the house of a fisherman of the town. On the morrow the fisherman asked that young knight if he would accept wages from the empress [to fight] against the son of the King of Hungary.
‘I will’, said the knight, [15] and the fisherman went to the empress and gave her an account of the young knight who had come to the city, [saying] that there was not in the world the like of him for figure and form, and that he would accept wages from the empress.
And she ordered him to be brought before her, and when he came they made an agreement of service between them for a year, and at the end of a year no site of fort or townland in that country lay waste or empty. And the son of the King of Hungary declared war on the empress and both sides went into the battle.
As for the young knight, none prevailed over him till he came against the son of the King of Hungary, and they fought fiercely together and the son of the King of Hungary fell at the hands of that powerful young knight and he slew all his people. And everyone came to Gregory to the city after he had gained the victory.
[16] At the end of that year the knight sent messengers to the empress, asking for his wages. And the empress said that he had earned his wages well and that he would get from her whatever he should ask.
And her nobles said that if it were known that the knight who had protected the realm had left it the King of Hungary would come into the land to avenge his son.
‘What would you wish [to be done] concerning that?’ said the empress.
‘We should like that you follow our advice and establish that young knight in the kingdom’, said they, and the empress promised that she would.
‘This is the counsel that we should like [to see done]’, said they, ‘that that handsome knight, strongest of arm in the world, be married to you.’
‘I vowed to God that never would man lie with me’, said the empress.
‘We swear’, said her nobles, ‘that we shall withdraw our allegiance from you if you do not carry out our counsel.’ And the empress was compelled to take their advice.
They went then to the knight and told him the outcome of their deliberation with the empress, and the knight was pleased with what they related to him. And the empress was married to him after that and everything went well with her while they were both together.
[17] One day the lady-in-waiting spoke to the empress and asked what harm had she been doing to the emperor.
‘Why did you ask that?’ said the empress.
‘I ask’, said she, ‘[for] every time he leaves his room I see the trace of tears on his cheeks.’
That was a great surprise to the empress and she kept watch on him until she found the emperor reading the letters that had been put along with him on the sea. [18] And the empress went to him without his knowing and found tears on his cheeks and she looked at the letters. He wanted to hide them but it was in vain for him, for the empress insisted on seeing them. When she saw the letters she recognised them and she changed colour.
And the emperor asked what had upset her, and the empress told him that she herself was his mother and his father’s sister and that it was she who had put the cask and the wealth in it out to sea. That afflicted him greatly, and when the empress saw that she spoke to him [saying]:
‘Do as your father did and go on a pilgrimage for the love of God.’
‘I shall’, said Gregory, [19] and departed afterwards, taking a little of his wealth with him.
When he had travelled much of the world and cast aside his emperor’s clothes he came to the house of a fisherman. He asked the fisherman whether he did not know some place in the sea where he might abide and where he would find solitude.
The fisherman answered him and said, ‘One day that I went out to fish from this city the wind drove my ship far out to sea. And I was for three days running before the wind until I came upon a rock in the sea and I remained in the shelter of the rock until the sea calmed. And I found a church on the rock that was locked. And I never saw a place farther from men than that.’
‘Take me to that rock’, said Gregory, ‘and I will give you all the wealth I have.’
[20]And they did so, and Gregory went with the fisherman to that rock we mentioned. And when they came to the rock they found a church with a lock on it and a key in the lock and the fisherman opened it. When Gregory had gone inside he said to the fisherman to lock the door again and return to his own country.
And the fisherman said: ‘Why did you ask for the door to be closed upon you since you have no food but the herbs of the earth?’ ‘Do for me as I have directed’, said Gregory, ‘and take the key with you in the boat and when you have gone a long distance out from the rock throw the key into the sea.’
And the fisherman did as he bade him [21] and Gregory was for eighteen years in that church.
At that time the Pope who was in Rome died, and a voice spoke in the middle of Rome saying:
‘The holy man whom you will find called Gregory, bring him with you and make him the Pope of Rome.’
All those in the Roman court were troubled by that voice, and as a result all the Romans came [together] in one place, and the plan they devised was to search the whole of Rome for the man of that name. And they did so and he was not found. And since they had not found him they searched the world for a year and [still] did not find a man of the name in any place they went.
And the same voice came again in Rome bidding them go to the house of a certain fisherman who was in such and such a city and that they would find that he had tidings of Gregory. And the Romans sent messengers to the city to the fisherman’s house and they asked him news of Gregory. And he said to them:
‘It is eighteen years this day since the man of that name was in this house. I left him on a rock in the sea and I think that he died a long time since.’
‘Will you go with us to seek him?’ said they.
‘If you give me payment I shall go’, said he, and they gave him money for going with them to find Gregory.
[23] And the fisherman went with them in the boat the next day, and they were three days on the sea before reaching the rock. [22]And a salmon leaped up out of the sea into the boat, and the fisherman caught the salmon in his hand and split it [open]. And he found the key he had cast into the sea in the belly of the salmon and he recognised that God’s grace was with Gregory. [23] And they landed on the rock and went to the church, and the key was put into the lock and it was opened. When they went in they found Gregory on his knees in the church praying to God.
As for Gregory, God’s angel had told him that the Holy Spirit was going to take him to Rome [to be] in Peter’s place, so he welcomed the Romans and did not cause them any delay but went with them to Rome. [24] And he was made Pope in Rome after that and God used to work wondrous great miracles through him and great was his fame throughout the whole world.
[25] And among other places his reputation for saintliness reached the kingdom of the empress. When she heard the fame of Gregory’s saintliness she proceeded to Rome and did not want to make confession to anyone else but the Pope himself. And when the empress reached Rome she sent letters to the Pope telling him that she did not wish to tell her sins to anyone else save the Pope alone. For a long time he withstood the empress, not wishing to bring her into his presence.
And when she got to the Pope she took him into a remote corner of the church and related how she had sinned with her own brother, that she had borne him a son and that that son had been put to sea in a cask and that he had been reared by a saintly abbot. And she told how it had befallen her son from beginning to end and how the father of the child died and how the son came as a young knight to the city where she herself dwelt, and everything that happened to her from that on she told it all to the Pope.
After that the Pope gave her absolution and told that he himself was her son. Moreover he told how it had happened with him and how he came to Rome and became Pope. And he said to her not to return to the country in which she had committed the sin.
‘And what shall I do?’ said the empress.
‘You shall remain in Rome’, said the Pope, ‘and I will build a monastery in honour of Mary and will put a community of nuns with you and make you abbess over them’.
And so it was done, and for the rest of their lives they continued serving God until the time of their death.
[Épilogue] That is the Birth of Gregory thus far. Finis.
The twentieth day of December 1678.