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