I hardly feel like the author of this tale which, in the foreground, is about a knight on quest to find his true love, though after another fashion the knight himself is a minor figure and what matters is the fairies, their magic, their beauty. Yes, I wrote it down, but the beginnings of it came to me long ago in a dream, and as for the rest, it seemed that I was being led by winds of imagination to uncover, in allegorical form, certain archetypes of human experience, so that the real author of the tale is the world, and the principle of beauty. Not only has this tale struck others as if it were written long, long ago, but it seems to me as well as if I had discovered an old legend in an old scroll in the gardens of a ruined castle. I feel, not so much proud to have written it, as grateful to have read it. I hope that it will refresh the spirits of others as it has often refreshed mine.