Idylls of the King and a New Selection of Poems Page 5

  Long-bearded, saying, “Who be ye, my sons?”

  Then Gareth: “We be tillers of the soil,

  Who leaving share in furrow come to see

  The glories of our King; but these, my men,—

  Your city moved so weirdly in the mist—

  Doubt if the King be king at all, or come

  From Fairyland; and whether this be built

  By magic, and by fairy kings and queens;

  Or whether there be any city at all,

  Or all a vision; and this music now

  Hath scared them both, but tell thou these the

  truth.”

  Then that old Seer made answer, playing on him

  And saying: “Son, I have seen the good ship sail

  Keel upward, and mast downward, in the heavens,

  And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air;

  And here is truth, but an it please thee not,

  Take thou the truth as thou hast told it me.

  For truly, as thou sayest, a fairy king

  And fairy queens have built the city, son;

  They came from out a sacred mountain-cleft

  Toward the sunrise, each with harp in hand,

  And built it to the music of their harps.

  And, as thou sayest, it is enchanted, son,

  For there is nothing in it as it seems

  Saving the King; tho’ some there be that hold

  The King a shadow, and the city real.

  Yet take thou heed of him, for, so thou pass

  Beneath this archway, then wilt thou become

  A thrall to his enchantments, for the King

  Will bind thee by such vows as is a shame

  A man should not be bound by, yet the which

  No man can keep; but, so thou dread to swear,

  Pass not beneath this gateway, but abide

  Without, among the cattle of the field.

  For an ye heard a music, like enow

  They are building still, seeing the city is built

  To music, therefore never built at all,

  And therefore built for ever.”

  Gareth spake

  Anger’d: “Old master, reverence thine own beard

  That looks as white as utter truth, and seems

  Wellnigh as long as thou art statured tall!

  Why mockest thou the stranger that hath been

  To thee fair-spoken?”

  But the Seer replied:

  “Know ye not then the Riddling of the Bards:

  ‘Confusion, and illusion, and relation,

  Elusion, and occasion, and evasion’?

  I mock thee not but as thou mockest me,

  And all that see thee, for thou art not who

  Thou seemest, but I know thee who thou art.

  And now thou goest up to mock the King,

  Who cannot brook the shadow of any lie.”

  Unmockingly the mocker ending here

  Turn’d to the right, and past along the plain;

  Whom Gareth looking after said: “My men,

  Our one white lie sits like a little ghost

  Here on the threshold of our enterprise.

  Let love be blamed for it, not she, nor I.

  Well, we will make amends.”

  With all good cheer

  He spake and laugh’d, then enter’d with his twain

  Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces

  And stately, rich in emblem and the work

  Of ancient kings who did their days in stone;

  Which Merlin’s hand, the Mage at Arthur’s court,

  Knowing all arts, had touch’d, and everywhere,

  At Arthur’s ordinance, tipt with lessening peak

  And pinnacle, and had made it spire to heaven.

  And ever and anon a knight would pass

  Outward, or inward to the hall; his arms

  Clash’d, and the sound was good to Gareth’s ear.

  And out of bower and casement shyly glanced

  Eyes of pure women, wholesome stars of love;

  And all about a healthful people stept

  As in the presence of a gracious king.

  Then into hall Gareth ascending heard

  A voice, the voice of Arthur, and beheld

  Far over heads in that long-vaulted hall

  The splendor of the presence of the King

  Throned, and delivering doom—and look’d no

  more—

  But felt his young heart hammering in his ears,

  And thought, “For this half-shadow of a lie

  The truthful King will doom me when I speak.”

  Yet pressing on, tho’ all in fear to find

  Sir Gawain or Sir Modred, saw nor one

  Nor other, but in all the listening eyes

  Of those tall knights that ranged about the throne

  Clear honor shining like the dewy star

  Of dawn, and faith in their great King, with pure

  Affection, and the light of victory,

  And glory gain’d, and evermore to gain.

  Then came a widow crying to the King:

  “A boon, Sir King! Thy father, Uther, reft

  From my dead lord a field with violence;

  For howsoe’er at first he proffer’d gold,

  Yet, for the field was pleasant in our eyes,

  We yielded not; and then he reft us of it

  Perforce and left us neither gold nor field.”

  Said Arthur, “Whether would ye, gold or field?”

  To whom the woman weeping, “Nay, my lord,

  The field was pleasant in my husband’s eye.”

  And Arthur: “Have thy pleasant field again,

  And thrice the gold for Uther’s use thereof,

  According to the years. No boon is here,

  But justice, so thy say be proven true.

  Accursed, who from the wrongs his father did

  Would shape himself a right!”

  And while she past,

  Came yet another widow crying to him:

  “A boon, Sir King! Thine enemy, King, am I.

  With thine own hand thou slewest my dear lord,

  A knight of Uther in the barons’ war,

  When Lot and many another rose and fought

  Against thee, saying thou wert basely born.

  I held with these, and loathe to ask thee aught.

  Yet lo! my husband’s brother had my son

  Thrall’d in his castle, and hath starved him dead.

  And standeth seized of that inheritance

  Which thou that slewest the sire hast left the son.

  So, tho’ I scarce can ask it thee for hate,

  Grant me some knight to do the battle for me,

  Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for my son.”

  Then strode a good knight forward, crying to him, “A boon, Sir King! I am her kinsman, I. Give me to right her wrong, and slay the man.”

  Then came Sir Kay, the seneschal, and cried, “A boon, Sir King! even that thou grant her none, This railer, that hath mock’d thee in full hall—None; or the wholesome boon of gyve and gag.”

  But Arthur: “We sit King, to help the wrong’d

  Thro’ all our realm. The woman loves her lord.

  Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves and hates!

  The kings of old had doom’d thee to the flames;

  Aurelius Emrys would have scourged thee dead,

  And Uther slit thy tongue; but get thee hence—

  Lest that rough humor of the kings of old

  Return upon me! Thou that art her kin,

  Go likewise; lay him low and slay him not,

  But bring him here, that I may judge the right,

  According to the justice of the King.

  Then, be he guilty, by that deathless King

  Who lived and died for men, the man shall die.”

  Then came in hall the messenger of Mark,

  A name of evil savor in the land,

  The Cornish king. In ei
ther hand he bore

  What dazzled all, and shone far-off as shines

  A field of charlock in the sudden sun

  Between two showers, a cloth of palest gold,

  Which down he laid before the throne, and knelt,

  Delivering that his lord, the vassal king,

  Was even upon his way to Camelot;

  For having heard that Arthur of his grace

  Had made his goodly cousin Tristram knight,

  And, for himself was of the greater state,

  Being a king, he trusted his liege-lord

  Would yield him this large honor all the more;

  So pray’d him well to accept this cloth of gold,

  In token of true heart and fealty.

  Then Arthur cried to rend the cloth, to rend

  In pieces, and so cast it on the hearth.

  An oak-tree smoulder’d there. “The goodly knight!

  What! shall the shield of Mark stand among these?”

  For, midway down the side of that long hall,

  A stately pile,—whereof along the front,

  Some blazon’d, some but carven, and some blank,

  There ran a treble range of stony shields,—

  Rose, and high-arching overbrow’d the hearth.

  And under every shield a knight was named.

  For this was Arthur’s custom in his hall:

  When some good knight had done one noble deed,

  His arms were carven only; but if twain,

  His arms were blazon’d also; but if none,

  The shield was blank and bare, without a sign

  Saving the name beneath. And Gareth saw

  The shield of Gawain blazon’d rich and bright,

  And Modred’s blank as death; and Arthur cried

  To rend the cloth and cast it on the hearth.

  “More like are we to reave him of his crown

  Than make him knight because men call him king.

  The kings we found, ye know we stay’d their hands

  From war among themselves, but left them kings;

  Of whom were any bounteous, merciful,

  Truth-speaking, brave, good livers, them we enroll’d

  Among us, and they sit within our hall.

  But Mark hath tarnish’d the great name of king,

  As Mark would sully the low state of churl;

  And, seeing he hath sent us cloth of gold,

  Return, and meet, and hold him from our eyes,

  Lest we should lap him up in cloth of lead,

  Silenced for ever—craven—a man of plots,

  Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside ambushings—

  No fault of thine; let Kay the seneschal

  Look to thy wants, and send thee satisfied—

  Accursed, who strikes nor lets the hand be seen!”

  And many another suppliant crying came With noise of ravage wrought by beast and man, And evermore a knight would ride away.

  Last, Gareth leaning both hands heavily

  Down on the shoulders of the twain, his men,

  Approach’d between them toward the King, and

  ask’d,

  “A boon, Sir King,”—his voice was all ashamed,—

  “For see ye not how weak and hunger worn

  I seem—leaning on these? grant me to serve

  For meat and drink among thy kitchen-knaves

  A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek my name.

  Hereafter I will fight.”

  To him the King:

  “A goodly youth and worth a goodlier boon!

  But so thou wilt no goodlier, then must Kay,

  The master of the meats and drinks, be thine.”

  He rose and past; then Kay, a man of mien

  Wan-sallow as the plant that feels itself

  Root-bitten by white lichen:

  “Lo, ye now!

  This fellow hath broken from some abbey, where,

  God wot, he had not beef and brewis enow,

  However that might chance! but an he work,

  Like any pigeon will I cram his crop,

  And sleeker shall he shine than any hog.”

  Then Lancelot standing near: “Sir Seneschal,

  Sleuth-hound thou knowest, and gray, and all the

  hounds;

  A horse thou knowest, a man thou dost not know.

  Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair and fine,

  High nose, a nostril large and fine, and hands

  Large, fair, and fine!—Some young lad’s mystery—

  But, or from sheepcot or king’s hall, the boy

  Is noble-natured. Treat him with all grace,

  Lest he should come to shame thy judging of

  him.”

  Then Kay: “What murmurest thou of mystery?

  Think ye this fellow will poison the King’s dish?

  Nay, for he spake too fool-like—mystery!

  Tut, an the lad were noble, he had ask’d

  For horse and armor. Fair and fine, forsooth!

  Sir Fine-face, Sir Fair-hands? but see thou to it

  That thine own fineness, Lancelot, some fine day

  Undo thee not—and leave my man to me.”

  So Gareth all for glory underwent

  The sooty yoke of kitchen-vassalage,

  Ate with young lads his portion by the door,

  And couch’d at night with grimy kitchen-knaves.

  And Lancelot ever spake him pleasantly,

  But Kay the seneschal, who loved him not,

  Would hustle and harry him, and labor him

  Beyond his comrades of the hearth, and set

  To turn the broach, draw water, or hew wood,

  Or grosser tasks; and Gareth bow’d himself

  With all obedience to the King, and wrought

  All kind of service with a noble ease

  That graced the lowliest act in doing it.

  And when the thralls had talk among themselves,

  And one would praise the love that linkt the King

  And Lancelot—how the King had saved his life

  In battle twice, and Lancelot once the King’s—

  For Lancelot was first in the tournament,

  But Arthur mightiest on the battlefield—

  Gareth was glad. Or if some other told

  How once the wandering forester at dawn,

  Far over the blue tarns and hazy seas,

  On Caer-Eryri’s highest found the King,

  A naked babe, of whom the Prophet spake,

  “He passes to the Isle Avilion,

  He passes and is heal’d and cannot die”—

  Gareth was glad. But if their talk were foul,

  Then would he whistle rapid as any lark,

  Or carol some old roundelay, and so loud

  That first they mock’d, but, after, reverenced him.

  Or Gareth, telling some prodigious tale

  Of knights who sliced a red life-bubbling way

  Thro’ twenty folds of twisted dragon, held

  All in a gap-mouth’d circle his good mates

  Lying or sitting round him, idle hands,

  Charm’d; till Sir Kay, the seneschal, would come

  Blustering upon them, like a sudden wind

  Among dead leaves, and drive them all apart.

  Or when the thralls had sport among themselves,

  So there were any trial of mastery,

  He, by two yards in casting bar or stone,

  Was counted best; and if there chanced a joust,

  So that Sir Kay nodded him leave to go,

  Would hurry thither, and when he saw the knights

  Clash like the coming and retiring wave,

  And the spear spring, and good horse reel, the boy

  Was half beyond himself for ecstasy.

  So for a month he wrought among the thralls;

  But in the weeks that follow’d the good Queen,

  Repentant of the word she made him swear,

  And saddening in her childless castle
, sent,

  Between the in-crescent and de-crescent moon,

  Arms for her son, and loosed him from his vow.

  This, Gareth hearing from a squire of Lot

  With whom he used to play at tourney once,

  When both were children, and in lonely haunts

  Would scratch a ragged oval on the sand,

  And each at either dash from either end—

  Shame never made girl redder than Gareth joy.

  He laugh’d, he sprang. “Out of the smoke, at once

  I leap from Satan’s foot to Peter’s knee—

  These news be mine, none other’s—nay, the King’s—

  Descend into the city;” whereon he sought

  The King alone, and found, and told him all.

  “I have stagger’d thy strong Gawain in a tilt

  For pastime; yea, he said it; joust can I.

  Make me thy knight—in secret! let my name

  Be hidden, and give me the first quest, I spring

  Like flame from ashes.”

  Here the King’s calm eye

  Fell on, and check’d, and made him flush, and bow

  Lowly, to kiss his hand, who answer’d him:

  “Son, the good mother let me know thee here,

  And sent her wish that I would yield thee thine.

  Make thee my knight? my knights are sworn to vows

  Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness,

  And, loving, utter faithfulness in love,

  And uttermost obedience to the King.”

  Then Gareth, lightly springing from his knees:

  “My King, for hardihood I can promise thee.

  For uttermost obedience make demand

  Of whom ye gave me to, the seneschal,

  No mellow master of the meats and drinks!

  And as for love, God wot, I love not yet,

  But love I shall, God willing.”

  And the King:

  “Make thee my knight in secret? yea, but he,

  Our noblest brother, and our truest man,

  And one with me in all, he needs must know.”

  “Let Lancelot know, my King, let Lancelot know, Thy noblest and thy truest!”