Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  Muttered in scorn of Gareth whom he used

  To harry and hustle.

  ‘Bound upon a quest

  With horse and arms — the King hath past his time —

  My scullion knave! Thralls to your work again,

  For an your fire be low ye kindle mine!

  Will there be dawn in West and eve in East?

  Begone! — my knave! — belike and like enow

  Some old head-blow not heeded in his youth

  So shook his wits they wander in his prime —

  Crazed! How the villain lifted up his voice,

  Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen-knave.

  Tut: he was tame and meek enow with me,

  Till peacocked up with Lancelot’s noticing.

  Well — I will after my loud knave, and learn

  Whether he know me for his master yet.

  Out of the smoke he came, and so my lance

  Hold, by God’s grace, he shall into the mire —

  Thence, if the King awaken from his craze,

  Into the smoke again.’

  But Lancelot said,

  ‘Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against the King,

  For that did never he whereon ye rail,

  But ever meekly served the King in thee?

  Abide: take counsel; for this lad is great

  And lusty, and knowing both of lance and sword.’

  ‘Tut, tell not me,’ said Kay, ‘ye are overfine

  To mar stout knaves with foolish courtesies:’

  Then mounted, on through silent faces rode

  Down the slope city, and out beyond the gate.

  But by the field of tourney lingering yet

  Muttered the damsel, ‘Wherefore did the King

  Scorn me? for, were Sir Lancelot lackt, at least

  He might have yielded to me one of those

  Who tilt for lady’s love and glory here,

  Rather than — O sweet heaven! O fie upon him —

  His kitchen-knave.’

  To whom Sir Gareth drew

  (And there were none but few goodlier than he)

  Shining in arms, ‘Damsel, the quest is mine.

  Lead, and I follow.’ She thereat, as one

  That smells a foul-fleshed agaric in the holt,

  And deems it carrion of some woodland thing,

  Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender nose

  With petulant thumb and finger, shrilling, ‘Hence!

  Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen-grease.

  And look who comes behind,’ for there was Kay.

  ‘Knowest thou not me? thy master? I am Kay.

  We lack thee by the hearth.’

  And Gareth to him,

  ‘Master no more! too well I know thee, ay —

  The most ungentle knight in Arthur’s hall.’

  ‘Have at thee then,’ said Kay: they shocked, and Kay

  Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried again,

  ‘Lead, and I follow,’ and fast away she fled.

  But after sod and shingle ceased to fly

  Behind her, and the heart of her good horse

  Was nigh to burst with violence of the beat,

  Perforce she stayed, and overtaken spoke.

  ‘What doest thou, scullion, in my fellowship?

  Deem’st thou that I accept thee aught the more

  Or love thee better, that by some device

  Full cowardly, or by mere unhappiness,

  Thou hast overthrown and slain thy master — thou! —

  Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon! — to me

  Thou smellest all of kitchen as before.’

  ‘Damsel,’ Sir Gareth answered gently, ‘say

  Whate’er ye will, but whatsoe’er ye say,

  I leave not till I finish this fair quest,

  Or die therefore.’

  ‘Ay, wilt thou finish it?

  Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he talks!

  The listening rogue hath caught the manner of it.

  But, knave, anon thou shalt be met with, knave,

  And then by such a one that thou for all

  The kitchen brewis that was ever supt

  Shalt not once dare to look him in the face.’

  ‘I shall assay,’ said Gareth with a smile

  That maddened her, and away she flashed again

  Down the long avenues of a boundless wood,

  And Gareth following was again beknaved.

  ‘Sir Kitchen-knave, I have missed the only way

  Where Arthur’s men are set along the wood;

  The wood is nigh as full of thieves as leaves:

  If both be slain, I am rid of thee; but yet,

  Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit of thine?

  Fight, an thou canst: I have missed the only way.’

  So till the dusk that followed evensong

  Rode on the two, reviler and reviled;

  Then after one long slope was mounted, saw,

  Bowl-shaped, through tops of many thousand pines

  A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink

  To westward — in the deeps whereof a mere,

  Round as the red eye of an Eagle-owl,

  Under the half-dead sunset glared; and shouts

  Ascended, and there brake a servingman

  Flying from out of the black wood, and crying,

  ‘They have bound my lord to cast him in the mere.’

  Then Gareth, ‘Bound am I to right the wronged,

  But straitlier bound am I to bide with thee.’

  And when the damsel spake contemptuously,

  ‘Lead, and I follow,’ Gareth cried again,

  ‘Follow, I lead!’ so down among the pines

  He plunged; and there, blackshadowed nigh the mere,

  And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and reed,

  Saw six tall men haling a seventh along,

  A stone about his neck to drown him in it.

  Three with good blows he quieted, but three

  Fled through the pines; and Gareth loosed the stone

  From off his neck, then in the mere beside

  Tumbled it; oilily bubbled up the mere.

  Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on free feet

  Set him, a stalwart Baron, Arthur’s friend.

  ‘Well that ye came, or else these caitiff rogues

  Had wreaked themselves on me; good cause is theirs

  To hate me, for my wont hath ever been

  To catch my thief, and then like vermin here

  Drown him, and with a stone about his neck;

  And under this wan water many of them

  Lie rotting, but at night let go the stone,

  And rise, and flickering in a grimly light

  Dance on the mere. Good now, ye have saved a life

  Worth somewhat as the cleanser of this wood.

  And fain would I reward thee worshipfully.

  What guerdon will ye?’

  Gareth sharply spake,

  ‘None! for the deed’s sake have I done the deed,

  In uttermost obedience to the King.

  But wilt thou yield this damsel harbourage?’

  Whereat the Baron saying, ‘I well believe

  You be of Arthur’s Table,’ a light laugh

  Broke from Lynette, ‘Ay, truly of a truth,

  And in a sort, being Arthur’s kitchen-knave! —

  But deem not I accept thee aught the more,

  Scullion, for running sharply with thy spit

  Down on a rout of craven foresters.

  A thresher with his flail had scattered them.

  Nay — for thou smellest of the kitchen still.

  But an this lord will yield us harbourage,

  Well.’

  So she spake. A league beyond the wood,

  All in a full-fair manor and a rich,

  His towers where that day a feast had been

  Held in high hall, and many a viand left,

  And many a costly cate, received the
three.

  And there they placed a peacock in his pride

  Before the damsel, and the Baron set

  Gareth beside her, but at once she rose.

  ‘Meseems, that here is much discourtesy,

  Setting this knave, Lord Baron, at my side.

  Hear me — this morn I stood in Arthur’s hall,

  And prayed the King would grant me Lancelot

  To fight the brotherhood of Day and Night —

  The last a monster unsubduable

  Of any save of him for whom I called —

  Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen-knave,

  “The quest is mine; thy kitchen-knave am I,

  And mighty through thy meats and drinks am I.”

  Then Arthur all at once gone mad replies,

  “Go therefore,” and so gives the quest to him —

  Him — here — a villain fitter to stick swine

  Than ride abroad redressing women’s wrong,

  Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman.’

  Then half-ashamed and part-amazed, the lord

  Now looked at one and now at other, left

  The damsel by the peacock in his pride,

  And, seating Gareth at another board,

  Sat down beside him, ate and then began.

  ‘Friend, whether thou be kitchen-knave, or not,

  Or whether it be the maiden’s fantasy,

  And whether she be mad, or else the King,

  Or both or neither, or thyself be mad,

  I ask not: but thou strikest a strong stroke,

  For strong thou art and goodly therewithal,

  And saver of my life; and therefore now,

  For here be mighty men to joust with, weigh

  Whether thou wilt not with thy damsel back

  To crave again Sir Lancelot of the King.

  Thy pardon; I but speak for thine avail,

  The saver of my life.’

  And Gareth said,

  ‘Full pardon, but I follow up the quest,

  Despite of Day and Night and Death and Hell.’

  So when, next morn, the lord whose life he saved

  Had, some brief space, conveyed them on their way

  And left them with God-speed, Sir Gareth spake,

  ‘Lead, and I follow.’ Haughtily she replied.

  ‘I fly no more: I allow thee for an hour.

  Lion and stout have isled together, knave,

  In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, methinks

  Some ruth is mine for thee. Back wilt thou, fool?

  For hard by here is one will overthrow

  And slay thee: then will I to court again,

  And shame the King for only yielding me

  My champion from the ashes of his hearth.’

  To whom Sir Gareth answered courteously,

  ‘Say thou thy say, and I will do my deed.

  Allow me for mine hour, and thou wilt find

  My fortunes all as fair as hers who lay

  Among the ashes and wedded the King’s son.’

  Then to the shore of one of those long loops

  Wherethrough the serpent river coiled, they came.

  Rough-thicketed were the banks and steep; the stream

  Full, narrow; this a bridge of single arc

  Took at a leap; and on the further side

  Arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold

  In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily in hue,

  Save that the dome was purple, and above,

  Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering.

  And therebefore the lawless warrior paced

  Unarmed, and calling, ‘Damsel, is this he,

  The champion thou hast brought from Arthur’s hall?

  For whom we let thee pass.’ ‘Nay, nay,’ she said,

  ‘Sir Morning-Star. The King in utter scorn

  Of thee and thy much folly hath sent thee here

  His kitchen-knave: and look thou to thyself:

  See that he fall not on thee suddenly,

  And slay thee unarmed: he is not knight but knave.’

  Then at his call, ‘O daughters of the Dawn,

  And servants of the Morning-Star, approach,

  Arm me,’ from out the silken curtain-folds

  Bare-footed and bare-headed three fair girls

  In gilt and rosy raiment came: their feet

  In dewy grasses glistened; and the hair

  All over glanced with dewdrop or with gem

  Like sparkles in the stone Avanturine.

  These armed him in blue arms, and gave a shield

  Blue also, and thereon the morning star.

  And Gareth silent gazed upon the knight,

  Who stood a moment, ere his horse was brought,

  Glorying; and in the stream beneath him, shone

  Immingled with Heaven’s azure waveringly,

  The gay pavilion and the naked feet,

  His arms, the rosy raiment, and the star.

  Then she that watched him, ‘Wherefore stare ye so?

  Thou shakest in thy fear: there yet is time:

  Flee down the valley before he get to horse.

  Who will cry shame? Thou art not knight but knave.’

  Said Gareth, ‘Damsel, whether knave or knight,

  Far liefer had I fight a score of times

  Than hear thee so missay me and revile.

  Fair words were best for him who fights for thee;

  But truly foul are better, for they send

  That strength of anger through mine arms, I know

  That I shall overthrow him.’

  And he that bore

  The star, when mounted, cried from o’er the bridge,

  ‘A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn of me!

  Such fight not I, but answer scorn with scorn.

  For this were shame to do him further wrong

  Than set him on his feet, and take his horse

  And arms, and so return him to the King.

  Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, knave.

  Avoid: for it beseemeth not a knave

  To ride with such a lady.’

  ‘Dog, thou liest.

  I spring from loftier lineage than thine own.’

  He spake; and all at fiery speed the two

  Shocked on the central bridge, and either spear

  Bent but not brake, and either knight at once,

  Hurled as a stone from out of a catapult

  Beyond his horse’s crupper and the bridge,

  Fell, as if dead; but quickly rose and drew,

  And Gareth lashed so fiercely with his brand

  He drave his enemy backward down the bridge,

  The damsel crying, ‘Well-stricken, kitchen-knave!’

  Till Gareth’s shield was cloven; but one stroke

  Laid him that clove it grovelling on the ground.

  Then cried the fallen, ‘Take not my life: I yield.’

  And Gareth, ‘So this damsel ask it of me

  Good — I accord it easily as a grace.’

  She reddening, ‘Insolent scullion: I of thee?

  I bound to thee for any favour asked!’

  ‘Then he shall die.’ And Gareth there unlaced

  His helmet as to slay him, but she shrieked,

  ‘Be not so hardy, scullion, as to slay

  One nobler than thyself.’ ‘Damsel, thy charge

  Is an abounding pleasure to me. Knight,

  Thy life is thine at her command. Arise

  And quickly pass to Arthur’s hall, and say

  His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. See thou crave

  His pardon for thy breaking of his laws.

  Myself, when I return, will plead for thee.

  Thy shield is mine — farewell; and, damsel, thou,

  Lead, and I follow.’

  And fast away she fled.

  Then when he came upon her, spake, ‘Methought,

  Knave, when I watched thee striking on the bridge

  The savour of thy kitchen ca
me upon me

  A little faintlier: but the wind hath changed:

  I scent it twenty-fold.’ And then she sang,

  ‘“O morning star” (not that tall felon there

  Whom thou by sorcery or unhappiness

  Or some device, hast foully overthrown),

  “O morning star that smilest in the blue,

  O star, my morning dream hath proven true,

  Smile sweetly, thou! my love hath smiled on me.”

  ‘But thou begone, take counsel, and away,

  For hard by here is one that guards a ford —

  The second brother in their fool’s parable —

  Will pay thee all thy wages, and to boot.

  Care not for shame: thou art not knight but knave.’

  To whom Sir Gareth answered, laughingly,

  ‘Parables? Hear a parable of the knave.

  When I was kitchen-knave among the rest

  Fierce was the hearth, and one of my co-mates

  Owned a rough dog, to whom he cast his coat,

  “Guard it,” and there was none to meddle with it.

  And such a coat art thou, and thee the King

  Gave me to guard, and such a dog am I,

  To worry, and not to flee — and — knight or knave —

  The knave that doth thee service as full knight

  Is all as good, meseems, as any knight

  Toward thy sister’s freeing.’

  ‘Ay, Sir Knave!

  Ay, knave, because thou strikest as a knight,

  Being but knave, I hate thee all the more.’

  ‘Fair damsel, you should worship me the more,

  That, being but knave, I throw thine enemies.’

  ‘Ay, ay,’ she said, ‘but thou shalt meet thy match.’

  So when they touched the second river-loop,

  Huge on a huge red horse, and all in mail

  Burnished to blinding, shone the Noonday Sun

  Beyond a raging shallow. As if the flower,

  That blows a globe of after arrowlets,

  Ten thousand-fold had grown, flashed the fierce shield,

  All sun; and Gareth’s eyes had flying blots

  Before them when he turned from watching him.

  He from beyond the roaring shallow roared,

  ‘What doest thou, brother, in my marches here?’

  And she athwart the shallow shrilled again,

  ‘Here is a kitchen-knave from Arthur’s hall

  Hath overthrown thy brother, and hath his arms.’

  ‘Ugh!’ cried the Sun, and vizoring up a red

  And cipher face of rounded foolishness,

  Pushed horse across the foamings of the ford,

  Whom Gareth met midstream: no room was there

  For lance or tourney-skill: four strokes they struck

  With sword, and these were mighty; the new knight

  Had fear he might be shamed; but as the Sun

  Heaved up a ponderous arm to strike the fifth,