Gawayne and the Green Knight Part 3

Gawayne sank back, and his good host went on: "Two days you sojourn here, and while I take My daily hunting in the wood, you make My house and castle yours; and then, each night, We'll meet together here at candle-light, And all my winnings in the wood, and all That comes to you at home, whate'er befall, We'll give each other in exchange; in fine, My fortune shall be yours, and yours be mine."

To Gawayne this seemed generous indeed.

And with most cordial laughter he agreed.

They clasped hands o'er the bargain with good zest, And then all said good-night, and went to rest.

Next morning Gawayne was awakened early From a deep slumber by the hurly-burly Of footman, horseman, seneschal, and groom, Bustling beneath the windows of his room.

He rose and looked out, just in time to see The baron and a goodly company Of huntsmen, armed with cross-bow, axe, and spear, Ride through the castle gate and disappear.

And then, while Gawayne dressed, there came a knock Upon his chamber door. He threw the lock, And a boy page brought robes of ermine fur And Tarsic silk,--black, white, and lavender,-- For his array, and with them a kind message, Which the good knight received with no ill presage: "Will brave Sir Gawayne spare an idle hour For quiet converse in my lady's bower?"

The boy led on, and Gawayne followed him Through crooked corridors and archways dim, Along low galleries echoing from afar, And down a winding stair; then "Here we are!"

The page cried cheerily, and paused before The ma.s.sive carvings of an antique door.

This he swung open; and the knight pa.s.sed through Into a garden, fresh with summer dew!

A lady's bower in Fairyland! What pen Could make that strange enchantment live again?

Not he who drew Acrasia's Bower of Bliss And Phaedria's happy isle could picture this.

That sweet-souled Puritan discerned too well The serpent's coil behind the witch's spell; And he who saw--when the dark veil was torn-- The rose of Paradise without the thorn, (Sublimest prophet, whose immortal verse Lent mightier thunders to the primal curse), Even he too sternly, in the soul's defense, Repressed the still importunate cries of sense.

Bid me not, therefore, task my feebler pen With dreams beyond the limits of their ken; The phantom conjurings of the magic hour That Gawayne pa.s.sed in that enchanted bower Must be from mortal eyes forever hid.

But yet some part of what he felt and did These lines must needs disclose. As he stood there, Breathing soft odors from the mellow air, All hopes, all aims of n.o.ble knighthood seemed Like the dim yesterdays of one who dreamed, In starless caves of memory sunken deep, And, like lost music, folded in strange sleep.

"How long, O mortal man, wilt thou give heed To the world's phantom voices? The hours speed, And fame and fortune yield to moth and rust, And good and evil crumble into dust.

Even now the sands are running in the gla.s.s; Set not your heart upon vain things that pa.s.s; Ambitions, honors, toils, are but the snare Where lurks for aye the blind old world's despair.

Nay, quiet the bootless striving in your breast And let your tired heart here at last find rest.

In vain have joy, love, beauty, struck deep root In your heart's heart, unless you pluck the fruit; Then put away the cheating soul's pretense, Heap high the press, fill full the cup of sense; Shatter the idols of blind yesterday, And let love, joy, and beauty reign alway!"

Such thoughts as these, confused and unexpressed, Flooded the silence in Sir Gawayne's breast.

Meanwhile a brasier filled the scented air With wreaths of magic mist, and he was ware That the mist drew together like a shroud; And then the veil was rent, and in the cloud Stood one who seemed, in features, form, and dress, The perfect image of all loveliness.

The wonders of that vision none could tell Save one whose heart had felt the mystic spell.

Once and once only, in the golden days When youth made melody for love's sweet lays, In two dark eyes (yet oh, how bright, how bright!) I saw the wakening rapture of love's light, And, in the hush of that still dawning, heard From two sweet trembling lips love's whispered word.

The twilight deepens when the sun has set; In memory golden glories linger yet; But these avail not. Though my soul lay bare, With all those memories sanctuaried there, That spell was human. But the unseen power That wove the witchery of this fairy bower, In Gawayne's heart such subtle magic wrought That past and future were well-nigh forgot, And all that earth holds else, or heaven above, Seemed naught worth keeping, save this dream of love.

And now, as the strange cloud of incense broke, The vision, if it were a vision, spoke,-- If it were speech that filled the quivering air With low harmonious music. Let none dare In the rude jargons of this world to fashion That sweet, wild anthem of unearthly pa.s.sion.

Could I from the broad-billowing ocean borrow Of Tristan's love and of Isolde's sorrow, The flood of those world-darkening surges, wrought With thoughts that lie beyond the reach of thought, Might bring me succor where weak words must fail.

But Gawayne saw and heard, and pa.s.sion-pale Shrank back, and made a darkness of his face; (As though the unplumbed deeps of starless s.p.a.ce Could quench those l.u.s.trous eyes, or close his ears To the eternal music of love's spheres!) But the voice changed, and Gawayne, listening there, Heard now a heart's low cry of wild despair.

He turned again, and lo! the vision knelt And drew a jeweled poniard from her belt, To arm herself against her own dear life; But as she bared her white breast to the knife He started quickly forward, and he grasped The hand that held the hilt; and then she clasped Her soft arms round his neck, and as their lips Met in the shadowing fold of love's eclipse, All earth, all heaven, all knightly hopes of grace, Died in the darkness of one blind embrace.

Died? Nay; for Gawayne, ere the moment pa.s.sed, Broke from the arms that strove to bind him fast, And turned away once more; and, as he pressed A trembling hand against his throbbing breast, His aimless fingers touched a treasured part Of the green holly-branch of Elfinhart, Laid in his breast when he put off his arms.

What perils now are left in fairy charms?

For poets fable when they call love blind; Love's habitation is the purer mind, Whence with his keen eyes he may penetrate All mists and fogs that baser spells create.

Love? What is love? Not the wild feverish thrill, When heart to heart the thronging pulses fill, And lips that close in parching kisses find No speech but those;--the best remains behind.

The tranquil spirit--the divine a.s.surance That this life's seemings have a high endurance-- Thoughts that allay this restless striving, calm The pa.s.sionate heart, and fill old wounds with balm;-- These are the choirs invisible that move In white processionals up the aisles of love.

Such love was Gawayne's,--love that sanctifies The heart's most secret altar; and his eyes Were opened, and his pulses beat once more Their old true rhythm. And so the strife was o'er, And all the perilous wiles of magic art Were foiled by Gawayne--and by Elfinhart.

But time flies, and 't were tedious to delay My song for all the trials of that day.

Light summer breezes, skurrying o'er the deep, Ripple and foam and flash,--then sink to sleep; But underneath, serene and changing never, The mighty heart of ocean beats forever, And his deep streams renew from pole to pole The living world's indomitable soul.

Enough, then, of the spells that vexed the brain Of Gawayne; love and knighthood made all vain.

And in the afternoon, when Gawayne learned That his good host, the baron, had returned, He met him in the hall at candle-light, According to his promise of last night.

And then the baron motioned to a page, And straightway six tall men, of l.u.s.ty age And mighty sinews, entered the great door, Bearing the carca.s.s of a huge wild boar, In all its uncouth ugliness complete, And dropped it quivering at our hero's feet.

"What do you say to that, Sir Gawayne?" cried The baron, swelling with true sportsman's pride "But come: your promise, now, of yester-eve; 'T is blesseder to give than to receive!

Though I'll be sworn you'll find it hard to pay Full value for the winnings of this day."

"Not so," said Gawayne; "you will rest my debtor; Your gift is good, but mine will be far better."

And then he strode with solemn steps along The echoing hall, and through the listening throng, And with the words, "My n.o.ble lord, take this!"

He gave the baron a resounding kiss.

The baron jumped up in ecstatic glee.

"Now by my great-great-grandsire's beard," quoth he, "Better than all dead boars in Christendom Is one sweet loving kiss!--Whence did it come?"

"Nay, there," Sir Gawayne said, "you step beyond The terms we stipulated in our bond.

Take you my kiss in peace, as I your boar; Be glad; give thanks;--and seek to know no more."

Loud laughter made the baron's eyes grow bright And glitter with green sparkles of delight; And then he chuckled: "Sir, I'm proud of you; I drink your best of health; _I think you'll do!_"

And now the board was laid and dressed, and all Sat down to dinner at the baron's call; And Gawayne looked along the room askance, Seeking the lady; and he caught one glance Of laughing eyes--then looked away in haste, But turned again, and wondered why his taste Had erred so strangely, for the lady seemed Not fairer now than others. Had he dreamed?

He rubbed his eyes and pondered,--though in sooth Without one glimmering presage of the truth,-- Till all pa.s.sed lightly from his puzzled mind, Leaving contentment and good cheer behind.

So all the company feasted well, and sped The flying hours, till it was time for bed.

One whole day longer must our hero rest Within doors, to fulfill the merry jest.

So when, next morning, Gawayne once more heard The hunt's-up in the court, he never stirred, But let the merry hors.e.m.e.n ride away While he slept soundly well into the day.

Later he rose, and strolled from room to room, Through vaulted twilights of ancestral gloom, Until, descending a long stair, he found The dim-lit castle crypt, deep under ground, Where sculptured effigies forever kept Their long last marble silence as they slept, And iron sentinels, on bended knees, Held eyeless vigil in old panoplies.

Sir Gawayne, wandering on in aimless mood, Pondered the tomb-stone legends, quaint and rude, Wherein the pensive dreamer might divine A tragic history in every line; For so does fate, with bitterest irony, Epitomize fame's immortality, Perpetuating for all after days Mute lamentations and unnoted praise.

And Gawayne, reading here and there the story Of fame obscure and unremembered glory, Found on a tablet these words: "Where he lies, The gray wave breaks and the wild sea-mew flies: If any be that loved him, seek not here, But in the lone hills by the Murmuring Mere."

A nameless cenotaph!--perhaps of one Like Gawayne's self deluded and undone By the green stranger; and the legend brought A tide of pa.s.sion flooding Gawayne's thought; A flood-tide, not of fear,--for Gawayne's breast Shrank never at the perilous behest Of n.o.ble knighthood,--but the love of life, Compa.s.sion, and soul-sickness of the strife.

"If any be that loved him!" Oh, to die Far from green-swarded Camelot, and lie Among these bleak and barren hills alone, His end unwept for and his grave unknown,-- Never again to see the glad sunrise That brightened all his world in those dear eyes!

Half suffocating in the charneled air Of that low vault, he staggered up the stair, Out of the dim-lit halls of silent death Into the living light, and drew quick breath Where, through a cas.e.m.e.nt-arch of ivied stone, Bright from the clear blue sky the warm sun shone.

The whole of life's glad rapture thrilled his heart; Till a quick step behind him made him start, And there, deep-veiled, in m.u.f.fling cloak and hood, Once more the lady of the castle stood.

Low-voiced she spoke, as if with studied care Weighing the syllables of her parting prayer.

"Sir Gawayne--nay, I pray you, turn not yet, But hear me;--though my heart may not forget That once, for one sweet moment, you were kind, I come not to recall that to your mind;-- Between us two be love's words aye unspoken!

Yet ere you go, I pray you, leave some token That in the long, long years may comfort me For the dear face I nevermore shall see."

"Nay, lady," said the knight, "I have no gifts To give you. Errant knighthood ever drifts From sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, by wandering breezes blown, With naught save its good name to call its own.

In friendship, then, I pray you keep for me My name untarnished in your memory."

"Ah, sir," she said, "my memory bears that name Burnt in with characters of living flame.

But though you give me naught, I pray you take This girdle from me;--wear it for my sake; Nay, but refuse me not; you little know Its magic power. I had it long ago From Fairyland; and its encircling charm Keeps scathless him who wears it from all harm; No evil thing can touch him. Gird it on, If but to ease my heart when you are gone."

She held a plain green girdle in her hand, In outward seeming just a narrow band Of silk, with silver clasps; but in those days The strangest things were wrought in simplest ways, As Gawayne knew full well; and he could see That all the lady said was verity.

He took the girdle, held it, fingered it, Then clasped it round his waist to try the fit, Irresolutely dallying with temptation, Till conscience grew too weak for inclination; For at the last he threw one wandering glance Out at the cas.e.m.e.nt, and the merry dance Of sparkling sunbeams on the fields of snow Wrought havoc in his wavering heart; and so, Repeating to himself one word: "Life, life!"

He took the token from the baron's wife.

That evening, when the baron and our knight Met to exchange their gifts at candle-light, The baron, looking graver than before, Said: "Sir, my luck has left me; not a boar Did we get wind of, all this blessed day.

I come with empty hands, only to pray Your pardon. What good fortune do _you_ bring?"

And Gawayne answered firmly: "Not a thing!"

CANTO IV

CONCLUSION