I first came across the tale of Tristan and Iseult when I was 21 and had developed a crush on the sales assistant at my local Readings' bookstore. I made a pact with myself that I could spend no more than $150 on books over a short period of repeated visits - all in the effort to catch Michael’s eye, get to know him, and hopefully become his girlfriend!
At the time, US musician Jeff Buckley, was about to do some Melbourne gigs, and Michael had decorated the Readings’ window display in homage to Buckley. He had included copies of Jeff's debut album ‘Grace’; posters; (unlit) candles; a crucifix or two; and propped all these trinkets in and among wooden crates. This rustic and somewhat gothic construct was at odds with other window displays in shopfronts along Glenferrie Road. We were in middle class Malvern – where ‘vanilla’ conservative was more the order of the day.
And thus, Michael's visual creative said more about him than the passerby the bookstore was trying to lure. It was a work of personal devotion. The beautiful and talented, Jeff Buckley, had androgynous appeal - a bit like Johnny Depp. Both girls and boys loved him. For this, I wasn’t sure whether Michael was straight but from the sweet glances at me across the counter, coy smiles and helpful nature in making reading recommendations, I was willing to take a punt.
In those two to three months it took for me to finally secure that date - I came to know Tristan.
The Psychology of Romantic Love by Carl Jung analyst Robert A Johnson: “explores the significance and symbolism of romantic love portrayed in the timeless myth of Tristan and Iseult."
The myth begins:
“My lords, if you would hear a high tale of love and of death, here is that of Tristan and Queen Iseult; how to their full joy, but to their sorrow also, they loved each other, and how at last, they died of that love together upon one day; she by him and he by her."
Johnson says: "Thus begins the marvellous story of Tristan and Iseult. It was with these words that travelling poets and minstrels of the Middle Ages would call together the lords and ladies, the knights and commonfolk, to hear a wondrous story of adventure and love." And continues: "…every great myth is the symbolic record of such a stage of growth in the life of a people. This explains why these powerful stories capture us so completely and go so deep in our feelings."
I first read The Psychology of Romantic Love after purchasing it from Michael and 17 years on I keep coming back to the myth - as it infers above, the story conveying love and adventure has stayed with me ever since.
Tristan became my favourite boy’s name and without a doubt the Tristan and Iseult myth had its major play in why I consciously made a decision to pursue Tristan (the name for a start), the young New Zealander I met in Auckland this February - despite the glaring obstacles a long distance romance presents.
Tristan (I will italic Tristan from the myth) travelled from Cornwall, England, across tumultuous seas to land in Whitehaven, Ireland. There he met the blonde Iseult. Tristan (England)/Iseult (Ireland) - Tristan (New Zealand)/Caroline (Australia).
When Tristan suggested via text one evening that I visit him in his hometown of Dunedin - I googled ‘Dunedin’ on my phone to instantly fall in love with the images of a rugged and picturesque terrain shouldered by sea. I text back: “yes”.
A passage from The Psychology of Romantic Love:
“As he grew, (Tristan’s) faithful squire taught him all the arts of barony:
Lance and sword,
‘Scutcheon and bow,
To cast stone quoits,
To leap wide dykes,
To hate each lie and felony,
To keep his word,
To sing and play the harp,
To do the hunter’s craft.”
New Zealand Tristan embodied characteristics of myth Tristan. He had equal mix of masculine and feminine traits. Tristan was outdoorsy and manly but also sweet and sensitive.
In my mind, Tristan had materialised from Tristan.
I knew I had stumbled on something special the day we were driving back to Dunedin after a two hour hike in a South Island national forest. As a local, Tristan knew the narrow and winding roads and I felt safe in his command. But not all drivers were as experienced and these roads on mountain range were writ with danger. Sure enough, on turning a corner, we came across a car accident.
The driver had overestimated the corner, tried to correct his wrong with a sharp turn, and the car had lost control skidding across the road to land heaped on its side. There had been two other passengers and we came across all three standing on the road by the car. They were young backpackers, and we later learned the girl had only just met her two travelling companions who had offered her a lift to the tourist attraction - the Glaciers.
Tristan didn’t hesitate to pull over. He parked his car safely on the side of the road, leapt from his seat and hurried to meet them. There he took immediate control. “Are you ok? Are you hurt?" Tristan asked gently. "Are you ok?” he continued as he moved to check their car to ensure it wasn’t leaking petrol.
“Have you called the police? Do you need me to call the police? Do you need a ride somewhere? We can give you a lift. Do you need a lift?” The questions kept firing.
I will take pause here. I am never short for words. But watching Tristan go about his way at the scene of the car crash rendered me speechless.
Meanwhile I had gotten out of Tristan's car and was standing at the passenger side. I kept my distance from the crash but watched the events unfold like a movie.
One of the men took the lead in speaking with Tristan. They were all Spanish but their English was excellent. At first he politely declined Tristan's help - it was under control, they had rung the police, now it was just a matter of waiting. It is around this moment, where most people would have accepted there was nothing much to do given the police were on their way - and left.
But Tristan held a firm hand.
He convinced the three Spaniards that the girl should come with us. We’d give her a lift to Wanaka (the nearest town) where she could settle at the backpackers and there organise rooms for the two boys who would later join. Within minutes another driver had stopped (while one had also passed by). The man who stopped was a local fireman who was on his way home from work. He said he’d be able to tow their car, so he too was there to offer his help. But the police soon showed up and the fireman left.
Tristan and I gave the young girl a lift to Wanaka (15 mins out of the way from our own route) where she sat in the back seat teary in shock. Her English was mostly fluent - she had been in New Zealand for a year already - working and travelling. She told us her mother was a psychic and that her mother had tried to call her from Spain at the exact time of accident. Amazingly spooky - we agreed.
All throughout the drive to Wanaka Tristan stroked my leg – a gesture showing care and reassurance. It was his unspoken acknowledgement that together we had witnessed something quite shocking, that could have gone a lot differently and had horrific consequences. But we were all lucky – everyone was physically unscathed. His touch said: “I know that was scary but we got through it and all will be well.”
I don’t think I’ll forget that day. Or Tristan stroking my leg(!) That moment; the feeling that rode through me. And I know the girl will never forget it - as well unlikely Tristan’s kindness in taking control and giving her a lift.
Tristan might. Because helping as he did is inherent in his nature. Being like that comes naturally to him and there will be many more occasions where he will step up to the plate. He would never have thought NOT to help.
I knew then that I wanted to be around that. I wanted to be with this person who makes no choice but to act selflessly and help another ahead of their own agenda.
I mentioned the Tristan and Iseult myth to Tristan on our last night in Dunedin together. “Have you heard of it?” I asked him. “I think so,” he replied. “But it has a tragic ending doesn’t it?” “Yes,” I supposed so. “But it’s also a story that fills you with hope.”
Sadly, I sensed from him my time with Tristan would be short. Deep down I knew he wasn’t going to give me his heart.
In revisiting The Psychology of Romantic Love: “Every great myth is the symbolic record of such a stage of growth in the life of a people. This explains why these powerful stories capture us so completely and go so deep in our feelings.”
Watching Tristan and his actions that day at the accident captured me so completely and (went) so deep in my feelings that the event spurred its own stage of growth in me:
“Wake up Caroline. There is more than just you!”
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