Works of Edwin Arlington Robinson

by Edwin Arlington Robinson

  Until he met the lady Vivian.

  I tell you that, for the world knows all that;

  Also it knows he told the King one day

  That he was to be buried, and alive,

  In Brittany; and that the King should see 145

  The face of him no more. Then Merlin sailed

  Away to Vivian in Broceliande,

  Where now she crowns him and herself with flowers

  And feeds him fruits and wines and many foods

  Of many savors, and sweet ortolans. 150

  Wise books of every lore of every land

  Are there to fill his days, if he require them,

  And there are players of all instruments —

  Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols; and she sings

  To Merlin, till he trembles in her arms 155

  And there forgets that any town alive

  Had ever such a name as Camelot.

  So Vivian holds him with her love, they say,

  And he, who has no age, has not grown old.

  I swear to nothing, but that’s what they say. 160

  That’s being buried in Broceliande

  For too much wisdom and clairvoyancy.

  But you and all who live, Gawaine, have heard

  This tale, or many like it, more than once;

  And you must know that Love, when Love invites 165

  Philosophy to play, plays high and wins,

  Or low and loses. And you say to me,

  ‘If Merlin would have peace, let Merlin stay

  Away from Brittany.’ Gawaine, you are young,

  And Merlin’s in his grave.” 170

  “Merlin said once

  That I was young, and it’s a joy for me

  That I am here to listen while you say it.

  Young or not young, if that be burial,

  May I be buried long before I die. 175

  I might be worse than young; I might be old.” —

  Dagonet answered, and without a smile:

  “Somehow I fancy Merlin saying that;

  A fancy — a mere fancy.” Then he smiled:

  “And such a doom as his may be for you, 180

  Gawaine, should your untiring divination

  Delve in the veiled eternal mysteries

  Too far to be a pleasure for the Lord.

  And when you stake your wisdom for a woman,

  Compute the woman to be worth a grave, 185

  As Merlin did, and say no more about it.

  But Vivian, she played high. Oh, very high!

  Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols, — and her love.

  Gawaine, farewell.”

  “Farewell, Sir Dagonet, 190

  And may the devil take you presently.”

  He followed with a vexed and envious eye,

  And with an arid laugh, Sir Dagonet’s

  Departure, till his gaunt obscurity

  Was cloaked and lost amid the glimmering trees. 195

  “Poor fool!” he murmured. “Or am I the fool?

  With all my fast ascendency in arms,

  That ominous clown is nearer to the King

  Than I am — yet; and God knows what he knows,

  And what his wits infer from what he sees 200

  And feels and hears. I wonder what he knows

  Of Lancelot, or what I might know now,

  Could I have sunk myself to sound a fool

  To springe a friend.… No, I like not this day.

  There’s a cloud coming over Camelot 205

  Larger than any that is in the sky, —

  Or Merlin would be still in Brittany,

  With Vivian and the viols. It’s all too strange.”

  And later, when descending to the city,

  Through unavailing casements he could hear 210

  The roaring of a mighty voice within,

  Confirming fervidly his own conviction:

  “It’s all too strange, and half the world’s half crazy!” —

  He scowled: “Well, I agree with Lamorak.”

  He frowned, and passed: “And I like not this day.” 215

  Merlin II

  SIR LAMORAK, the man of oak and iron,

  Had with him now, as a care-laden guest,

  Sir Bedivere, a man whom Arthur loved

  As he had loved no man save Lancelot.

  Like one whose late-flown shaft of argument 220

  Had glanced and fallen afield innocuously,

  He turned upon his host a sudden eye

  That met from Lamorak’s an even shaft

  Of native and unused authority;

  And each man held the other till at length 225

  Each turned away, shutting his heavy jaws

  Again together, prisoning thus two tongues

  That might forget and might not be forgiven.

  Then Bedivere, to find a plain way out,

  Said, “Lamorak, let us drink to some one here, 230

  And end this dryness. Who shall it be — the King,

  The Queen, or Lancelot?”— “Merlin,” Lamorak growled;

  And then there were more wrinkles round his eyes

  Than Bedivere had said were possible.

  “There’s no refusal in me now for that,” 235

  The guest replied; “so, ‘Merlin’ let it be.

  We’ve not yet seen him, but if he be here,

  And even if he should not be here, say ‘Merlin.’”

  They drank to the unseen from two new tankards,

  And fell straightway to sighing for the past, 240

  And what was yet before them. Silence laid

  A cogent finger on the lips of each

  Impatient veteran, whose hard hands lay clenched

  And restless on his midriff, until words

  Were stronger than strong Lamorak: 245

  “Bedivere,”

  Began the solid host, “you may as well

  Say now as at another time hereafter

  That all your certainties have bruises on ‘em,

  And all your pestilent asseverations 250

  Will never make a man a salamander —

  Who’s born, as we are told, so fire won’t bite him, —

  Or a slippery queen a nun who counts and burns

  Herself to nothing with her beads and candles.

  There’s nature, and what’s in us, to be sifted 255

  Before we know ourselves, or any man

  Or woman that God suffers to be born.

  That’s how I speak; and while you strain your mazard,

  Like Father Jove, big with a new Minerva,

  We’ll say, to pass the time, that I speak well. 260

  God’s fish! The King had eyes; and Lancelot

  Won’t ride home to his mother, for she’s dead.

  The story is that Merlin warned the King

  Of what’s come now to pass; and I believe it

  And Arthur, he being Arthur and a king, 265

  Has made a more pernicious mess than one,

  We’re told, for being so great and amorous:

  It’s that unwholesome and inclement cub

  Young Modred I’d see first in hell before

  I’d hang too high the Queen or Lancelot; 270

  The King, if one may say it, set the pace,

  And we’ve two strapping bastards here to prove it.

  Young Borre, he’s well enough; but as for Modred,

  I squirm as often as I look at him.

  And there again did Merlin warn the King, 275

  The story goes abroad; and I believe it.”

  Sir Bedivere, as one who caught no more

  Than what he would of Lamorak’s outpouring,

  Inclined his grizzled head and closed his eyes

  Before he sighed and rubbed his beard and spoke: 280

  “For all I know to make it otherwise,

  The Queen may be a nun some day or other;

  I’d pray to God for such a thing to be,

  If prayer for tha
t were not a mockery.

  We’re late now for much praying, Lamorak, 285

  When you and I can feel upon our faces

  A wind that has been blowing over ruins

  That we had said were castles and high towers —

  Till Merlin, or the spirit of him, came

  As the dead come in dreams. I saw the King 290

  This morning, and I saw his face. Therefore,

  I tell you, if a state shall have a king,

  The king must have the state, and be the state;

  Or then shall we have neither king nor state,

  But bones and ashes, and high towers all fallen: 295

  And we shall have, where late there was a kingdom,

  A dusty wreck of what was once a glory —

  A wilderness whereon to crouch and mourn

  And moralize, or else to build once more

  For something better or for something worse. 300

  Therefore again, I say that Lancelot

  Has wrought a potent wrong upon the King,

  And all who serve and recognize the King,

  And all who follow him and all who love him.

  Whatever the stormy faults he may have had, 305

  To look on him today is to forget them;

  And if it be too late for sorrow now

  To save him — for it was a broken man

  I saw this morning, and a broken king —

  The God who sets a day for desolation 310

  Will not forsake him in Avilion,

  Or whatsoever shadowy land there be

  Where peace awaits him on its healing shores.”

  Sir Lamorak, shifting in his oaken chair,

  Growled like a dog and shook himself like one: 315

  “For the stone-chested, helmet-cracking knight

  That you are known to be from Lyonnesse

  To northward, Bedivere, you fol-de-rol

  When days are rancid, and you fiddle-faddle

  More like a woman than a man with hands 320

  Fit for the smiting of a crazy giant

  With armor an inch thick, as we all know

  You are, when you’re not sermonizing at us.

  As for the King, I say the King, no doubt,

  Is angry, sorry, and all sorts of things, 325

  For Lancelot, and for his easy Queen,

  Whom he took knowing she’d thrown sparks already

  On that same piece of tinder, Lancelot,

  Who fetched her with him from Leodogran

  Because the King — God save poor human reason! — 330

  Would prove to Merlin, who knew everything

  Worth knowing in those days, that he was wrong.

  I’ll drink now and be quiet, — but, by God,

  I’ll have to tell you, Brother Bedivere,

  Once more, to make you listen properly, 335

  That crowns and orders, and high palaces,

  And all the manifold ingredients

  Of this good solid kingdom, where we sit

  And spit now at each other with our eyes,

  Will not go rolling down to hell just yet 340

  Because a pretty woman is a fool.

  And here’s Kay coming with his fiddle face

  As long now as two fiddles. Sit ye down,

  Sir Man, and tell us everything you know

  Of Merlin — or his ghost without a beard. 345

  What mostly is it?”

  Sir Kay, the seneschal,

  Sat wearily while he gazed upon the two:

  “To you it mostly is, if I err not,

  That what you hear of Merlin’s coming back 350

  Is nothing more or less than heavy truth.

  But ask me nothing of the Queen, I say,

  For I know nothing. All I know of her

  Is what her eyes have told the silences

  That now attend her; and that her estate 355

  Is one for less complacent execration

  Than quips and innuendoes of the city

  Would augur for her sin — if there be sin —

  Or for her name — if now she have a name.

  And where, I say, is this to lead the King, 360

  And after him, the kingdom and ourselves?

  Here be we, three men of a certain strength

  And some confessed intelligence, who know

  That Merlin has come out of Brittany —

  Out of his grave, as he would say it for us — 365

  Because the King has now a desperation

  More strong upon him than a woman’s net

  Was over Merlin — for now Merlin’s here,

  And two of us who knew him know how well

  His wisdom, if he have it any longer, 370

  Will by this hour have sounded and appraised

  The grief and wrath and anguish of the King,

  Requiring mercy and inspiring fear

  Lest he forego the vigil now most urgent,

  And leave unwatched a cranny where some worm 375

  Or serpent may come in to speculate.”

  “I know your worm, and his worm’s name is Modred —

  Albeit the streets are not yet saying so,”

  Said Lamorak, as he lowered his wrath and laughed

  A sort of poisonous apology 380

  To Kay: “And in the meantime, I’ll be gyved!

  Here’s Bedivere a-wailing for the King,

  And you, Kay, with a moist eye for the Queen.

  I think I’ll blow a horn for Lancelot;

  For by my soul a man’s in sorry case 385

  When Guineveres are out with eyes to scorch him:

  I’m not so ancient or so frozen certain

  That I’d ride horses down to skeletons

  If she were after me. Has Merlin seen him —

  This Lancelot, this Queen-fed friend of ours?” 390

  Kay answered sighing, with a lonely scowl:

  “The picture that I conjure leaves him out;

  The King and Merlin are this hour together,

  And I can say no more; for I know nothing.

  But how the King persuaded or beguiled 395

  The stricken wizard from across the water

  Outriddles my poor wits. It’s all too strange.”

  “It’s all too strange, and half the world’s half crazy!”

  Roared Lamorak, forgetting once again

  The devastating carriage of his voice. 400

  “Is the King sick?” he said, more quietly;

  “Is he to let one damned scratch be enough

  To paralyze the force that heretofore

  Would operate a way through hell and iron,

  And iron already slimy with his blood? 405

  Is the King blind — with Modred watching him?

  Does he forget the crown for Lancelot?

  Does he forget that every woman mewing

  Shall some day be a handful of small ashes?”

  “You speak as one for whom the god of Love 410

  Has yet a mighty trap in preparation.

  We know you, Lamorak,” said Bedivere:

  “We know you for a short man, Lamorak, —

  In deeds, if not in inches or in words;

  But there are fens and heights and distances 415

  That your capricious ranging has not yet

  Essayed in this weird region of man’s love.

  Forgive me, Lamorak, but your words are words.

  Your deeds are what they are; and ages hence

  Will men remember your illustriousness, 420

  If there be gratitude in history.

  For me, I see the shadow of the end,

  Wherein to serve King Arthur to the end,

  And, if God have it so, to see the Grail

  Before I die.” 425

  But Lamorak shook his head:

  “See what you will, or what you may. For me,

  I see no other than a stinking mess —

  With Modred stirring it, and Agravaine
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  Spattering Camelot with as much of it 430

  As he can throw. The Devil got somehow

  Into God’s workshop once upon a time,

  And out of the red clay that he found there

  He made a shape like Modred, and another

  As like as eyes are to this Agravaine. 435

  ‘I never made ‘em,’ said the good Lord God,

  ‘But let ’em go, and see what comes of ‘em.’

  And that’s what we’re to do. As for the Grail,

  I’ve never worried it, and so the Grail

  Has never worried me.” 440

  Kay sighed. “I see

  With Bedivere the coming of the end,”

  He murmured; “for the King I saw today

  Was not, nor shall he ever be again,

  The King we knew. I say the King is dead; 445

  The man is living, but the King is dead.

  The wheel is broken.”

  “Faugh!” said Lamorak;

  “There are no dead kings yet in Camelot;

  But there is Modred who is hatching ruin, — 450

  And when it hatches I may not be here.

  There’s Gawaine too, and he does not forget

  My father, who killed his. King Arthur’s house

  Has more divisions in it than I like

  In houses; and if Modred’s aim be good 455

  For backs like mine, I’m not long for the scene.”

  Merlin III

  KING ARTHUR, as he paced a lonely floor

  That rolled a muffled echo, as he fancied,

  All through the palace and out through the world,

  Might now have wondered hard, could he have heard 460

  Sir Lamorak’s apathetic disregard

  Of what Fate’s knocking made so manifest

  And ominous to others near the King —

  If any, indeed, were near him at this hour

  Save Merlin, once the wisest of all men, 465

  And weary Dagonet, whom he had made

  A knight for love of him and his abused

  Integrity. He might have wondered hard

  And wondered much; and after wondering,

  He might have summoned, with as little heart 470

  As he had now for crowns, the fond, lost Merlin,

  Whose Nemesis had made of him a slave,

  A man of dalliance, and a sybarite.

  “Men change in Brittany, Merlin,” said the King;

  And even his grief had strife to freeze again 475

  A dreary smile for the transmuted seer

  Now robed in heavy wealth of purple silk,

  With frogs and foreign tassels. On his face,