Idylls of the King
Page 12
By that day’s grief and travel, evermore
Seem’d catching at a rootless thorn, and then
Went slipping down horrible precipices,
380 And strongly striking out her limbs awoke;
Then thought she heard the wild Earl at the door,
With all his rout of random followers,
Sound on a dreadful trumpet, summoning her;
Which was the red cock shouting to the light,
385 As the gray dawn stole o’er the dewy world,
And glimmer’d on his armour in the room.
And once again she rose to look at it,
But touch’d it unawares: jangling, the casque
Fell, and he started up and stared at her.
390 Then breaking his command of silence given,
She told him all that Earl Limours had said,
Except the passage that he loved her not;
Nor left untold the craft herself had used;
But ended with apology so sweet,
395 Low-spoken, and of so few words, and seem’d
So justified by that necessity,
That tho’ he thought ‘was it for him she wept
In Devon?’ he but gave a wrathful groan,
Saying, ‘Your sweet faces make good fellows fools
400 And traitors. Call the host and bid him bring
Charger and palfrey.’ So she glided out
Among the heavy breathings of the house,
And like a household Spirit at the walls
Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and return’d:
405 Then tending her rough lord, tho’ all unask’d,
In silence, did him service as a squire;
Till issuing arm’d he found the host and cried,
‘Thy reckoning, friend?’ and ere he learnt it, ‘Take
Five horses and their armours;’ and the host
410 Suddenly honest, answer’d in amaze,
‘My lord, I scarce have spent the worth of one!’
‘Ye will be all the wealthier,’ said the Prince,
And then to Enid, ‘Forward! and to-day
I charge you, Enid, more especially,
415 What thing soever ye may hear, or see,
Or fancy (tho’ I count it of small use
To charge you) that ye speak not but obey.’
And Enid answer’d, ‘Yea, my lord, I know
Your wish, and would obey; but riding first,
420 I hear the violent threats you do not hear,
I see the danger which you cannot see:
Then not to give you warning, that seems hard;
Almost beyond me: yet I would obey.’
‘Yea so,’ said he, ‘do it: be not too wise;
425 Seeing that ye are wedded to a man,
Not all mismated with a yawning clown,
But one with arms to guard his head and yours,
With eyes to find you out however far,
And ears to hear you even in his dreams.’
430 With that he turn’d and look’d as keenly at her
As careful robins eye the delver’s toil;
And that within her, which a wanton fool,
Or hasty judger would have call’d her guilt,
Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall.
435 And Geraint look’d and was not satisfied.
Then forward by a way which, beaten broad,
Led from the territory of false Limours
To the waste earldom of another earl,
Doorm, whom his shaking vassals call’d the Bull,
440 Went Enid with her sullen follower on.
Once she look’d back, and when she saw him ride
More near by many a rood than yestermorn,
It wellnigh made her cheerful; till Geraint
Waving an angry hand as who should say
445 ‘Ye watch me,’ sadden ’d all her heart again.
But while the sun yet beat a dewy blade,
The sound of many a heavily-galloping hoof
Smote on her ear, and turning round she saw
Dust, and the points of lances bicker in it.
450 Then not to disobey her lord’s behest,
And yet to give him warning, for he rode
As if he heard not, moving back she held
Her finger up, and pointed to the dust.
At which the warrior in his obstinacy,
455 Because she kept the letter of his word,
Was in a manner pleased, and turning, stood.
And in the moment after, wild Limours,
Borne on a black horse, like a thunder-cloud
Whose skirts are loosen’d by the breaking storm,
460 Half ridden off with by the thing he rode,
And all in passion uttering a dry shriek,
Dash’d on Geraint, who closed with him, and bore
Down by the length of lance and arm beyond
The crupper, and so left him stunn’d or dead,
465 And overthrew the next that follow’d him,
And blindly rush’d on all the rout behind.
But at the flash and motion of the man
They vanish’d panic-stricken, like a shoal
Of darting fish, that on a summer morn
470 Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot
Come slipping o’er their shadows on the sand,
But if a man who stands upon the brink
But lift a shining hand against the sun,
There is not left the twinkle of a fin
475 Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower;
So, scared but at the motion of the man,
Fled all the boon companions of the Earl,
And left him lying in the public way;
So vanish friendships only made in wine.
480 Then like a stormy sunlight smiled Geraint,
Who saw the chargers of the two that fell
Start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly,
Mixt with the flyers. ‘Horse and man,’ he said,
‘All of one mind and all right-honest friends!
485 Not a hoof left: and I methinks till now
Was honest – paid with horses and with arms;
I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg:
And so what say ye, shall we strip him there
Your lover? has your palfrey heart enough
490 To bear his armour? shall we fast, or dine?
No? – then do thou, being right honest, pray
That we may meet the horsemen of Earl Doorm,
I too would still be honest.’ Thus he said:
And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins,
495 And answering not one word, she led the way.
But as a man to whom a dreadful loss
Falls in a far land and he knows it not,
But coming back he learns it, and the loss
So pains him that he sickens nigh to death;
500 So fared it with Geraint, who being prick’d
In combat with the follower of Limours,
Bled underneath his armour secretly,
And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife
What ail’d him, hardly knowing it himself,
505 Till his eye darken’d and his helmet wagg’d;
And at a sudden swerving of the road,
Tho’ happily down on a bank of grass,
The Prince, without a word, from his horse fell.
And Enid heard the clashing of his fall,
510 Suddenly came, and at his side all pale
Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his arms,
Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye
Moisten, till she had lighted on his wound,
And tearing off her veil of faded silk
515 Had bared her forehead to the blistering sun,
And swathed the hurt that drain’d her dear lord’s life.
Then after all was done that hand could do,
She rested, and her desolation came<
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Upon her, and she wept beside the way.
520 And many past, but none regarded her,
For in that realm of lawless turbulence,
A woman weeping for her murder’d mate
Was cared as much for as a summer shower:
One took him for a victim of Earl Doorm,
525 Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on him:
Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms,
Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl;
Half whistling and half singing a coarse song,
He drove the dust against her veilless eyes:
530 Another, flying from the wrath of Doorm
Before an ever-fancied arrow, made
The long way smoke beneath him in his fear;
At which her palfrey whinnying lifted heel,
And scour’d into the coppices and was lost,
535 While the great charger stood, grieved like a man.
But at the point of noon the huge Earl Doorm,
Broad-faced with under-fringe of russet beard,
Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey,
Came riding with a hundred lances up;
540 But ere he came, like one that hails a ship,
Cried out with a big voice, ‘What, is he dead?’
‘No, no, not dead!’ she answer’d in all haste.
‘Would some of your kind people take him up,
And bear him hence out of this cruel sun?
545 Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not dead.’
Then said Earl Doorm: ‘Well, if he be not dead,
Why wail ye for him thus? ye seem a child.
And be he dead, I count you for a fool;
Your wailing will not quicken him: dead or not,
550 Ye mar a comely face with idiot tears.
Yet, since the face is comely – some of you,
Here, take him up, and bear him to our hall:
An if he live, we will have him of our band;
And if he die, why earth has earth enough
555 To hide him. See ye take the charger too,
A noble one.’
He spake, and past away,
But left two brawny spearmen, who advanced,
Each growling like a dog, when his good bone
Seems to be pluck’d at by the village boys
560 Who love to vex him eating, and he fears
To lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it,
Gnawing and growling: so the ruffians growl’d,
Fearing to lose, and all for a dead man,
Their chance of booty from the morning’s raid,
565 Yet raised and laid him on a litter-bier,
Such as they brought upon their forays out
For those that might be wounded; laid him on it
All in the hollow of his shield, and took
And bore him to the naked hall of Doorm,
570 (His gentle charger following him unled)
And cast him and the bier in which he lay
Down on an oaken settle in the hall,
And then departed, hot in haste to join
Their luckier mates, but growling as before,
575 And cursing their lost time, and the dead man,
And their own Earl, and their own souls, and her.
They might as well have blest her: she was deaf
To blessing or to cursing save from one.
So for long hours sat Enid by her lord,
580 There in the naked hall, propping his head,
And chafing his pale hands, and calling to him.
Till at the last he waken’d from his swoon,
And found his own dear bride propping his head,
And chafing his faint hands, and calling to him;
585 And felt the warm tears falling on his face;
And said to his own heart, ‘She weeps for me:’
And yet lay still, and feign’d himself as dead,
That he might prove her to the uttermost,
And say to his own heart, ‘She weeps for me.’
590 But in the falling afternoon return’d
The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the hall.
His lusty spearmen follow’d him with noise:
Each hurling down a heap of things that rang
Against the pavement, cast his lance aside,
595 And doffd his helm: and then there flutter’d in,
Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated eyes,
A tribe of women, dress’d in many hues,
And mingled with the spearmen: and Earl Doorm
Struck with a knife’s haft hard against the board,
600 And call’d for flesh and wine to feed his spears.
And men brought in whole hogs and quarter beeves,
And all the hall was dim with steam of flesh:
And none spake word, but all sat down at once,
And ate with tumult in the naked hall,
605 Feeding like horses when you hear them feed;
Till Enid shrank far back into herself,
To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe.
But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would,
He roll‘d his eyes about the hall, and found
610 A damsel drooping in a corner of it.
Then he remember’d her, and how she wept;
And out of her there came a power upon him;
And rising on the sudden he said, ‘Eat!
I never yet beheld a thing so pale.
615 God’s curse, it makes me mad to see you weep.
Eat! Look yourself. Good luck had your good man,
For were I dead who is it would weep for me?
Sweet lady, never since I first drew breath
Have I beheld a lily like yourself.
620 And so there lived some colour in your cheek,
There is not one among my gentlewomen
Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove.
But listen to me, and by me be ruled,
And I will do the thing I have not done,
625 For ye shall share my earldom with me, girl,
And we will live like two birds in one nest,
And I will fetch you forage from all fields,
For I compel all creatures to my will.’
He spoke: the brawny spearman let his cheek
630 Bulge with the unswallow’d piece, and turning stared;
While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawn
Down, as the worm draws in the wither’d leaf
And makes it earth, hiss’d each at other’s ear
What shall not be recorded – women they,
635 Women, or what had been those gracious things,
But now desired the humbling of their best,
Yea, would have help’d him to it: and all at once
They hated her, who took no thought of them,
But answer’d in low voice, her meek head yet
640 Drooping, ‘I pray you of your courtesy,
He being as he is, to let me be.’
She spake so low he hardly heard her speak,
But like a mighty patron, satisfied
With what himself had done so graciously,
645 Assumed that she had thank’d him, adding, ‘Yea,
Eat and be glad, for I account you mine.’
She answer’d meekly, ‘How should I be glad
Henceforth in all the world at anything,
Until my lord arise and look upon me?’
650 Here the huge Earl cried out upon her talk,
As all but empty heart and weariness
And sickly nothing; suddenly seized on her,
And bare her by main violence to the board,
And thrust the dish before her, crying, ‘Eat.’
655 ‘No, no,’ said Enid, vext, ‘I will not eat
Till yonder man upon the bier arise,
And eat with me.’ ‘Drink, then,’ he answer’d. ‘Here!’
(And fill’d a horn with wine
and held it to her,)
‘Lo! I, myself, when flush’d with fight, or hot,
660 God’s curse, with anger – often I myself,
Before I well have drunken, scarce can eat:
Drink therefore and the wine will change your will.’
‘Not so,’ she cried, ‘by Heaven, I will not drink
Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it,
665 And drink with me; and if he rise no more,
I will not look at wine until I die.’
At this he turn’d all red and paced his hall,
Now gnaw’d his under, now his upper lip,
And coming up close to her, said at last:
670 ‘Girl, for I see ye scorn my courtesies,
Take warning: yonder man is surely dead;
And I compel all creatures to my will.
Not eat nor drink? And wherefore wail for one,
Who put your beauty to this flout and scorn
675 By dressing it in rags? Amazed am I,
Beholding how ye butt against my wish,
That I forbear you thus: cross me no more.
At least put off to please me this poor gown,
This silken rag, this beggar-woman’s weed:
680 I love that beauty should go beautifully:
For see ye not my gentlewomen here,
How gay, how suited to the house of one
Who loves that beauty should go beautifully?
Rise therefore; robe yourself in this: obey.’
685 He spoke, and one among his gentlewomen
Display’d a splendid silk of foreign loom,
Where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue
Play’d into green, and thicker down the front
With jewels than the sward with drops of dew,
690 When all night long a cloud clings to the hill,
And with the dawn ascending lets the day
Strike where it clung: so thickly shone the gems.
But Enid answer’d, harder to be moved
Than hardest tyrants in their day of power,
695 With life-long injuries burning unavenged,
And now their hour has come; and Enid said:
‘In this poor gown my dear lord found me first,
And loved me serving in my father’s hall:
In this poor gown I rode with him to court,
700 And there the Queen array’d me like the sun:
In this poor gown he bad me clothe myself,
When now we rode upon this fatal quest
Of honour, where no honour can be gain’d:
And this poor gown I will not cast aside
705 Until himself arise a living man,
And bid me cast it. I have griefs enough:
Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be: