When I was kitchen-knave among the rest
985 Fierce was the hearth, and one of my co-mates
Own’d 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,
990 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,
995 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 touch’d the second river-loop,
1000 Huge on a huge red horse, and all in mail
Burnish’d 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, flash’d the fierce shield,
1005 All sun; and Gareth’s eyes had flying blots
Before them when he turn’d from watching him.
He from beyond the roaring shallow roar’d,
‘What doest thou, brother, in my marches here?’
And she athwart the shallow shrill’d again,
1010 ‘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,
Push’d horse across the foamings of the ford,
1015 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,
1020 The hoof of his horse slipt in the stream, the stream
Descended, and the Sun was wash’d away.
Then Gareth laid his lance athwart the ford;
So drew him home; but he that fought no more,
As being all bone-batter’d on the rock,
1025 Yielded; and Gareth sent him to the King.
‘Myself when I return will plead for thee.’
‘Lead, and I follow.’ Quietly she led.
‘Hath not the good wind, damsel, changed again?’
‘Nay, not a point: nor art thou victor here.
1030 There lies a ridge of slate across the ford;
His horse thereon stumbled – ay, for I saw it.
‘”O Sun” (not this strong fool whom thou, Sir Knave,
Hast overthrown thro’ mere unhappiness),
“O Sun, that wakenest all to bliss or pain,
O moon, that layest all to sleep again,
1035 Shine sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me.”
‘What knowest thou of lovesong or of love?
Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly born,
Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, perchance, –
1040 ‘ “O dewy flowers that open to the sun,
O dewy flowers that close when day is done,
Blow sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me.”
‘What knowest thou of flowers, except, belike,
To garnish meats with? hath not our good King
1045 Who lent me thee, the flower of kitchendom,
A foolish love for flowers? what stick ye round
The pasty? wherewithal deck the boar’s head?
Flowers? nay, the boar hath rosemaries and bay.
‘“O birds, that warble to the morning sky,
1050 O birds that warble as the day goes by,
Sing sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me.”
‘What knowest thou of birds, lark, mavis, merle,
Linnet? what dream ye when they utter forth
May-music growing with the growing light,
1055 Their sweet sun-worship? these be for the snare
(So runs thy fancy) these be for the spit,
Larding and basting. See thou have not now
Larded thy last, except thou turn and fly.
There stands the third fool of their allegory.’
1060 For there beyond a bridge of treble bow,
All in a rose-red from the west, and all
Naked it seem’d, and glowing in the broad
Deep-dimpled current underneath, the knight,
That named himself the Star of Evening, stood.
1065 And Gareth, ‘Wherefore waits the madman there
Naked in open dayshine?’ ‘Nay,’ she cried,
‘Not naked, only wrapt in harden’d skins
That fit him like his own; and so ye cleave
His armour of Thim, these will turn the blade.’
1070 Then the third brother shouted o’er the bridge,
‘O brother-star, why shine ye here so low?
Thy ward is higher up: but have ye slain
The damsel’s champion?’ and the damsel cried,
‘No star of thine, but shot from Arthur’s heaven
1075 With all disaster unto thine and thee!
For both thy younger brethren have gone down
Before this youth; and so wilt thou, Sir Star;
Art thou not old?’
‘Old, damsel, old and hard,
Old, with the might and breath of twenty boys.’
1080 Said Gareth, ‘Old, and over-bold in brag!
But that same strength which threw the Morning Star
Can throw the Evening.’
Then that other blew
A hard and deadly note upon the horn.
‘Approach and arm me!’ With slow steps from out
1085 An old storm-beaten, russet, many-stain’d
Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel came,
And arm’d him in old arms, and brought a helm
With but a drying evergreen for crest,
And gave a shield whereon the Star of Even
1090 Half-tarnish’d and half-bright, his emblem, shone.
But when it glitter’d o’er the saddle-bow,
They madly hurl’d together on the bridge;
And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, drew,
There met him drawn, and overthrew him again,
1095 But up like fire he started: and as oft
As Gareth brought him grovelling on his knees,
So many a time he vaulted up again;
Till Gareth panted hard, and his great heart,
Foredooming all his trouble was in vain,
1100 Labour’d within him, for he seem’d as one
That all in later, sadder age begins
To war against ill uses of a life,
But these from all his life arise, and cry,
‘Thou hast made us lords, and canst not put us down!’
1105 He half despairs; so Gareth seem’d to strike
Vainly, the damsel clamouring all the while,
‘Well done, knave-knight, well stricken, O good
knight-knave —
O knave, as noble as any of all the knights –
Shame me not, shame me not. I have prophesied –
Strike, thou art worthy of the Table Round –
His arms are old, he trusts the harden’d skin –
Strike – strike – the wind will never change again.’
And Gareth hearing ever stronglier smote,
And hew’d great pieces of his armour off him,
1115 But lash’d in vain against the harden’d skin,
And could not wholly bring him under, more
Than loud Southwesterns, rolling ridge on ridge,
The buoy tha
t rides at sea, and dips and springs
For ever; till at length Sir Gareth’s brand
1120 Clash’d his, and brake it utterly to the hilt.
‘I have thee now;’ but forth that other sprang,
And, all unknightlike, writhed his wiry arms
Around him, till he felt, despite his mail,
Strangled, but straining ev’n his uttermost
1125 Cast, and so hurl’d him headlong o’er the bridge
Down to the river, sink or swim; and cried,
‘Lead, and I follow.’
But the damsel said,
‘I lead no longer; ride thou at my side;
Thou art the kingliest of all kitchen-knaves.
1130 ‘ ”O trefoil, sparkling on the rainy plain,
O rainbow with three colours after rain,
Shine sweetly: thrice my love hath smiled on me.”
‘Sir, – and, good faith, I fain had added – Knight,
But that I heard thee call thyself a knave, –
1135 Shamed am I that I so rebuked, reviled,
Missaid thee; noble I am; and thought the King
Scorn’d me and mine; and now thy pardon, friend,
For thou hast ever answer’d courteously,
And wholly bold thou art, and meek withal
1140 As any of Arthur’s best, but, being knave,
Hast mazed my wit: I marvel what thou art.’
‘Damsel,’ he said, ‘you be not all to blame,
Saving that you mistrusted our good King
Would handle scorn, or yield you, asking, one
1145 Not fit to cope your quest. You said your say;
Mine answer was my deed. Good sooth! I hold
He scarce is knight, yea but half-man, nor meet
To fight for gentle damsel, he, who lets
His heart be stirr’d with any foolish heat
1150 At any gentle damsel’s waywardness.
Shamed? care not! thy foul sayings fought for me:
And seeing now thy words are fair, methinks
There rides no knight, not Lancelot, his great self,
Hath force to quell me.’
Nigh upon that hour
1155 When the lone hern forgets his melancholy,
Lets down his other leg, and stretching, dreams
Of goodly supper in the distant pool,
Then turn’d the noble damsel smiling at him,
And told him of a cavern hard at hand,
1160 Where bread and baken meats and good red wine
Of Southland, which the Lady Lyonors
Had sent her coming champion, waited him.
Anon they past a narrow comb wherein
Were slabs of rock with figures, knights on horse
1165 Sculptured, and deckt in slowly-waning hues.
‘Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once was here,
Whose holy hand hath fashion’d on the rock
The war of Time against the soul of man.
And yon four fools have suck’d their allegory
1170 From these damp walls, and taken but the form.
Know ye not these?’ and Gareth lookt and read –
In letters like to those the vexillary
Hath left crag-carven o’er the streaming Gelt –
‘PHOSPHORUS,’ then ‘MERIDIES’ – ‘HESPERUS’ –
1175 ‘Nox’ – ‘MORS,’ beneath five figures, armed men,
Slab after slab, their faces forward all,
And running down the Soul, a Shape that fled
With broken wings, torn raiment and loose hair,
For help and shelter to the hermit’s cave.
1180 ‘Follow the faces, and we find it. Look,
Who comes behind?’
For one – delay’d at first
Thro’ helping back the dislocated Kay
To Camelot, then by what thereafter chanced,
The damsel’s headlong error thro’ the wood –
1185 Sir Lancelot, having swum the river-loops –
His blue shield-lions cover’d – softly drew
Behind the twain, and when he saw the star
Gleam, on Sir Gareth’s turning to him, cried,
‘Stay, felon knight, I avenge me for my friend.’
1190 And Gareth crying prick’d against the cry;
But when they closed – in a moment – at one touch
Of that skill’d spear, the wonder of the world –
Went sliding down so easily, and fell,
That when he found the grass within his hands
1195 He laugh’d; the laughter jarr’d upon Lynette:
Harshly she ask’d him, ‘Shamed and overthrown,
And tumbled back into the kitchen-knave,
Why laugh ye? that ye blew your boast in vain?’
‘Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the son
1200 Of old King Lot and good Queen Bellicent,
And victor of the bridges and the ford,
And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown by whom
I know not, all thro’ mere unhappiness –
Device and sorcery and unhappiness –
Out, sword; we are thrown!’ And Lancelot answer’d,
1205 ‘Prince,
O Gareth – thro’ the mere unhappiness
Of one who came to help thee, not to harm,
Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee whole,
As on the day when Arthur knighted him.’
1210 Then Gareth, ‘Thou – Lancelot! – thine the hand
That threw me? An some chance to mar the boast
Thy brethren of thee make – which could not chance –
Had sent thee down before a lesser spear,
Shamed had I been, and sad – O Lancelot – thou!’
1215 Whereat the maiden, petulant, ‘Lancelot,
Why came ye not, when call’d? and wherefore now
Come ye, not call’d? I gloried in my knave,
Who being still rebuked, would answer still
Courteous as any knight – but now, if knight,
1220 The marvel dies, and leaves me fool’d and trick’d,
And only wondering wherefore play’d upon:
And doubtful whether I and mine be scorn’d.
Where should be truth if not in Arthur’s hall,
In Arthur’s presence? Knight, knave, prince and fool,
I hate thee and for ever.’
1225 And Lancelot said,
‘Blessèd be thou, Sir Gareth! knight art thou
To the King’s best wish. O damsel, be you wise
To call him shamed, who is but overthrown?
Thrown have I been, nor once, but many a time.
1230 Victor from vanquish’d issues at the last,
And overthrower from being overthrown.
With sword we have not striven; and thy good horse
And thou are weary; yet not less I felt
Thy manhood thro’ that wearied lance of thine.
1235 Well hast thou done; for all the stream is freed,
And thou hast wreak’d his justice on his foes,
And when reviled, hast answer’d graciously,
And makest merry when overthrown. Prince, Knight,
Hail, Knight and Prince, and of our Table Round!’
1240 And then when turning to Lynette he told
The tale of Gareth, petulantly she said,
‘Ay well – ay well – for worse than being fool’d
Of others, is to fool one’s self. A cave,
Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats and drinks
1245 And forage for the horse, and flint for fire.
But all about it flies a honeysuckle.
Seek, till we find.’ And when they sought and found,
Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his life
Past into sleep; on whom the maiden gazed.
1250 ‘Sound sleep be thine! sound cause to sleep hast thou.
Wake lusty! Seem I not as tender to him
As any mother? Ay, but such a one
As all day long hath rated at her child,
And vext his day, but blesses him asleep –
1255 Good lord, how sweetly smells the honeysuckle
In the hush’d night, as if the world were one
Of utter peace, and love, and gentleness!
O Lancelot, Lancelot’ – and she clapt her hands –
‘Full merry am I to find my goodly knave
1260 Is knight and noble. See now, sworn have I,
Else yon black felon had not let me pass,
To bring thee back to do the battle with him.
Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee first;
Who doubts thee victor? so will my knight-knave
1265 Miss the full flower of this accomplishment.’
Said Lancelot, ‘Peradventure he, you name,
May know my shield. Let Gareth, an he will,
Change his for mine, and take my charger, fresh,
Not to be spurr’d, loving the battle as well
1270 As he that rides him.’ ‘Lancelot-like,’ she said,
‘Courteous in this, Lord Lancelot, as in all.’
And Gareth, wakening, fiercely clutch’d the shield;
‘Ramp ye lance-splintering lions, on whom all spears
Are rotten sticks! ye seem agape to roar!
1275 Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your lord! –
Care not, good beasts, so well I care for you.
O noble Lancelot, from my hold on these
Streams virtue – fire – thro’ one that will not shame
Even the shadow of Lancelot under shield.
Hence: let us go.’
1280 Silent the silent field
They traversed. Arthur’s harp tho’ summer-wan,
In counter motion to the clouds, allured
The glance of Gareth dreaming on his liege.
A star shot: ‘Lo,’ said Gareth, ‘the foe falls!’
1285 An owl whoopt: ‘Hark the victor pealing there!’
Suddenly she that rode upon his left
Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent him, crying,
‘Yield, yield him this again: ‘tis he must fight:
I curse the tongue that all thro’ yesterday
1290 Reviled thee, and hath wrought on Lancelot now
To lend thee horse and shield: wonders ye have done;
Miracles ye cannot: here is glory enow
In having flung the three: I see thee maim’d,
Mangled: I swear thou canst not fling the fourth.’
1295 ‘And wherefore, damsel? tell me all ye know.
You cannot scare me; nor rough face, or voice,
Idylls of the King Page 7