Brute bulk of limb, or boundless savagery
Appal me from the quest.’
‘Nay, Prince,’ she cried,
‘God wot, I never look’d upon the face,
1300 Seeing he never rides abroad by day;
But watch’d him have I like a phantom pass
Chilling the night: nor have I heard the voice.
Always he made his mouthpiece of a page
Who came and went, and still reported him
1305 As closing in himself the strength often,
And when his anger tare him, massacring
Man, woman, lad and girl – yea, the soft babe!
Some hold that he hath swallow’d infant flesh,
Monster! O Prince, I went for Lancelot first,
1310 The quest is Lancelot’s: give him back the shield.’
Said Gareth laughing, ‘An he fight for this,
Belike he wins it as the better man:
Thus – and not else!’
But Lancelot on him urged
All the devisings of their chivalry
1315 When one might meet a mightier than himself;
How best to manage horse, lance, sword and shield,
And so fill up the gap where force might fail
With skill and fineness. Instant were his words.
Then Gareth, ‘Here be rules. I know but one –
1320 To dash against mine enemy and to win.
Yet have I watch’d thee victor in the joust,
And seen thy way.’ ’Heaven help thee,’ sigh’d Lynette.
Then for a space, and under cloud that grew
To thunder-gloom palling all stars, they rode
1325 In converse till she made her palfrey halt,
Lifted an arm, and softly whisper’d, ‘There.’
And all the three were silent seeing, pitch’d
Beside the Castle Perilous on flat field,
A huge pavilion like a mountain peak
1330 Sunder the glooming crimson on the marge,
Black, with black banner, and a long black horn
Beside it hanging; which Sir Gareth graspt,
And so, before the two could hinder him,
Sent all his heart and breath thro’ all the horn.
1335 Echo’d the walls; a light twinkled; anon
Came lights and lights, and once again he blew;
Whereon were hollow tramplings up and down
And muffled voices heard, and shadows past;
Till high above him, circled with her maids,
1340 The Lady Lyonors at a window stood,
Beautiful among lights, and waving to him
White hands, and courtesy; but when the Prince
Three times had blown – after long hush – at last –
The huge pavilion slowly yielded up,
1345 Thro’ those black foldings, that which housed therein.
High on a nightblack horse, in nightblack arms,
With white breast-bone, and barren ribs of Death,
And crown’d with fleshless laughter – some ten steps –
In the half-light – thro’ the dim dawn – advanced
1350 The monster, and then paused, and spake no word.
But Gareth spake and all indignantly,
‘Fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength often,
Canst thou not trust the limbs thy God hath given,
But must, to make the terror of thee more,
1355 Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries
Of that which Life hath done with, and the clod,
Less dull than thou, will hide with mantling flowers
As if for pity?’ But he spake no word;
Which set the horror higher: a maiden swoon’d;
1360 The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands and wept,
As doom’d to be the bride of Night and Death;
Sir Gareth’s head prickled beneath his helm;
And ev’n Sir Lancelot thro’ his warm blood felt
Ice strike, and all that mark’d him were aghast.
1365 At once Sir Lancelot’s charger fiercely neigh’d,
And Death’s dark war-horse bounded forward with him.
Then those that did not blink the terror, saw
That Death was cast to ground, and slowly rose.
But with one stroke Sir Gareth split the skull.
1370 Half fell to right and half to left and lay.
Then with a stronger buffet he clove the helm
As throughly as the skull; and out from this
Issued the bright face of a blooming boy
Fresh as a flower new-born, and crying, ‘Knight,
1375 Slay me not: my three brethren bad me do it,
To make a horror all about the house,
And stay the world from Lady Lyonors.
They never dream’d the passes would be past.’
Answer’d Sir Gareth graciously to one
1380 Not many a moon his younger, ‘My fair child,
What madness made thee challenge the chief knight
Of Arthur’s hall?’‘Fair Sir, they bad me do it.
They hate the King, and Lancelot, the King’s friend,
They hoped to slay him somewhere on the stream,
1385 They never dream’d the passes could be past.’
Then sprang the happier day from underground;
And Lady Lyonors and her house, with dance
And revel and song, made merry over Death,
As being after all their foolish fears
1390 And horrors only proven a blooming boy.
So large mirth lived and Gareth won the quest.
And he that told the tale in older times
Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors,
But he, that told it later, says Lynette.
The Marriage of Geraint
The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur’s court,
A tributary prince of Devon, one
Of that great Order of the Table Round,
Had married Enid, Yniol’s only child,
5 And loved her, as he loved the light of Heaven.
And as the light of Heaven varies, now
At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night
With moon and trembling stars, so loved Geraint
To make her beauty vary day by day,
10 In crimsons and in purples and in gems.
And Enid, but to please her husband’s eye,
Who first had found and loved her in a state
Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him
In some fresh splendour; and the Queen herself,
15 Grateful to Prince Geraint for service done,
Loved her, and often with her own white hands
Array’d and deck’d her, as the loveliest,
Next after her own self, in all the court.
And Enid loved the Queen, and with true heart
20 Adored her, as the stateliest and the best
And loveliest of all women upon earth.
And seeing them so tender and so close,
Long in their common love rejoiced Geraint.
But when a rumour rose about the Queen,
25 Touching her guilty love for Lancelot,
Tho’ yet there lived no proof, nor yet was heard
The world’s loud whisper breaking into storm,
Not less Geraint believed it; and there fell
A horror on him, lest his gentle wife,
30 Thro’ that great tenderness for Guinevere,
Had suffer’d, or should suffer any taint
In nature: wherefore going to the King,
He made this pretext, that his princedom lay
Close on the borders of a territory,
35 Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff knights,
Assassins, and all flyers from the hand
Of Justice, and whatever loathes a law:
And therefore, till the King himself should please
To cleanse this common sewer of all
his realm,
40 He craved a fair permission to depart,
And there defend his marches; and the King
Mused for a little on his plea, but, last,
Allowing it, the Prince and Enid rode,
And fifty knights rode with them, to the shores
45 Of Severn, and they past to their own land;
Where, thinking, that if ever yet was wife
True to her lord, mine shall be so to me,
He compass’d her with sweet observances
And worship, never leaving her, and grew
50 Forgetful of his promise to the King,
Forgetful of the falcon and the hunt,
Forgetful of the tilt and tournament,
Forgetful of his glory and his name,
Forgetful of his princedom and its cares.
55 And this forgetfulness was hateful to her.
And by and by the people, when they met
In twos and threes, or fuller companies,
Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him
As of a prince whose manhood was all gone,
60 And molten down in mere uxoriousness.
And this she gather’d from the people’s eyes:
This too the women who attired her head,
To please her, dwelling on his boundless love,
Told Enid, and they sadden’d her the more:
65 And day by day she thought to tell Geraint,
But could not out of bashful delicacy;
While he that watch’d her sadden, was the more
Suspicious that her nature had a taint.
At last, it chanced that on a summer morn
70 (They sleeping each by either) the new sun
Beat thro’ the blindless casement of the room,
And heated the strong warrior in his dreams;
Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside,
And bared, the knotted column of his throat,
75 The massive square of his heroic breast,
And arms on which the standing muscle sloped,
As slopes a wild brook o’er a little stone,
Running too vehemently to break upon it.
And Enid woke and sat beside the couch,
80 Admiring him, and thought within Herself,
Was ever man so grandly made as he?
Then, like a shadow, past the people’s talk
And accusation of uxoriousness
Across her mind, and bowing over him,
85 Low to her own heart piteously she said:
‘O noble breast and all-puissant arms,
Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men
Reproach you, saying all your force is gone?
I am the cause, because I dare not speak
90 And tell him what I think and what they say.
And yet I hate that he should linger here;
I cannot love my lord and not his name.
Far liefer had I gird his harness on him,
And ride with him to battle and stand by,
95 And watch his mightful hand striking great blows
At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world.
Far better were I laid in the dark earth,
Not hearing any more his noble voice,
Not to be folded more in these dear arms,
100 And darken’d from the high light in his eyes,
Than that my lord thro’ me should suffer shame.
Am I so bold, and could I so stand by,
And see my dear lord wounded in the strife,
Or maybe pierced to death before mine eyes,
105 And yet not dare to tell him what I think,
And how men slur him, saying all his force
Is melted into mere effeminacy?
O me, I fear that I am no true wife.’
Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke,
110 And the strong passion in her made her weep
True tears upon his broad and naked breast,
And these awoke him, and by great mischance
He heard but fragments of her later words,
And that she fear’d she was not a true wife.
115 And then he thought, ‘In spite of all my care,
For all my pains, poor man, for all my pains,
She is not faithful to me, and I see her
Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur’s hall.’
Then tho’ he loved and reverenced her too much
120 To dream she could be guilty of foul act,
Right thro’ his manful breast darted the pang
That makes a man, in the sweet face of her
Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable.
At this he hurl’d his huge limbs out of bed,
125 And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried,
‘My charger and her palfrey;’ then to her,
‘I will ride forth into the wilderness;
For tho’ it seems my spurs are yet to win,
I have not fall’n so low as some would wish.
130 And thou, put on thy worst and meanest dress
And ride with me.’ And Enid ask’d, amazed,
‘If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault.’
But he, ‘I charge thee, ask not, but obey.’
Then she bethought her of a faded silk,
135 A faded mantle and a faded veil,
And moving toward a cedarn cabinet,
Wherein she kept them folded reverently
With sprigs of summer laid between the folds,
She took them, and array’d herself therein,
140 Remembering when first he came on her
Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it,
And all her foolish fears about the dress,
And all his journey to her, as himself
Had told her, and their coming to the court.
145 For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before
Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk.
There on a day, he sitting high in hall,
Before him came a forester of Dean,
Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart
150 Taller than all his fellows, milky-white,
First seen that day: these things he told the King.
Then the good King gave order to let blow
His horns for hunting on the morrow morn.
And when the Queen petition’d for his leave
155 To see the hunt, allow’d it easily.
So with the morning all the court were gone.
But Guinevere lay late into the morn,
Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming of her love
For Lancelot, and forgetful of the hunt;
160 But rose at last, a single maiden with her,
Took horse, and forded Usk, and gain’d the wood;
There, on a little knoll beside it, stay’d
Waiting to hear the hounds; but heard instead
A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince Geraint,
165 Late also, wearing neither hunting-dress
Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand,
Came quickly flashing thro’ the shallow ford
Behind them, and so gallop’d up the knoll.
A purple scarf, at either end whereof
170 There swung an apple of the purest gold,
Sway’d round about him, as he gallop’d up
To join them, glancing like a dragon-fly
In summer suit and silks of holiday.
Low bow’d the tributary Prince, and she,
175 Sweetly and statelily, and with all grace
Of womanhood and queenhood, answer’d him:
‘Late, late, Sir Prince,’ she said, ‘Later than we!
‘Yea, noble Queen,’ he answer’d, ‘and so late
That I but come like you to see the hunt,
180 Not join it.’ ‘Therefore wait with me,’ she said;
‘For on this little knoll, if anywhere,
There is good chance that we shall hear the hounds:
> Here often they break covert at our feet.’
And while they listen’d for the distant hunt,
185 And chiefly for the baying of Cavall,
King Arthur’s hound of deepest mouth, there rode
Full slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf;
Whereof the dwarf lagg’d latest, and the knight
Had vizor up, and show’d a youthful face,
190 Imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments.
And Guinevere, not mindful of his face
In the King’s hall, desired his name, and sent
Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf;
Who being vicious, old and irritable,
195 And doubling all his master’s vice of pride,
Made answer sharply that she should not know.
‘Then will I ask it of himself,’ she said.
‘Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not,’ cried the dwarf;
‘Thou art not worthy ev’n to speak of him;’
200 And when she put her horse toward the knight,
Struck at her with his whip, and she return’d
Indignant to the Queen; whereat Geraint
Exclaiming, ‘Surely I will learn the name,’
Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask’d it of him,
205 Who answer’d as before; and when the Prince
Had put his horse in motion toward the knight,
Struck at him with his whip, and cut his cheek.
The Prince’s blood spirted upon the scarf,
Dyeing it; and his quick, instinctive hand
210 Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him:
But he, from his exceeding manfulness
And pure nobility of temperament,
Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrain’d
From ev’n a word, and so returning said:
215 ‘I will avenge this insult, noble Queen,
Done in your maiden’s person to yourself:
And I will track this vermin to their earths:
For tho’ I ride unarm’d, I do not doubt
To find, at some place I shall come at, arms
220 On loan, or else for pledge; and, being found,
Then will I fight him, and will break his pride,
And on the third day will again be here,
So that I be not fall’n in fight. Farewell.’
‘Farewell, fair Prince,’ answer’d the stately Queen.
225 ‘Be prosperous in this journey, as in all;
And may you light on all things that you love,
And live to wed with her whom first you love:
But ere you wed with any, bring your bride,
And I, were she the daughter of a king,
230 Yea, tho’ she were a beggar from the hedge,
Will clothe her for her bridals like the sun.’
Idylls of the King Page 8