Idylls of the King Part 13

To me this narrow grizzled fork of thine Is cleaner-fashioned--Well, I loved thee first, That warps the wit.'

Loud laughed the graceless Mark, But Vivien, into Camelot stealing, lodged Low in the city, and on a festal day When Guinevere was crossing the great hall Cast herself down, knelt to the Queen, and wailed.

'Why kneel ye there? What evil hath ye wrought?

Rise!' and the damsel bidden rise arose And stood with folded hands and downward eyes Of glancing corner, and all meekly said, 'None wrought, but suffered much, an orphan maid!

My father died in battle for thy King, My mother on his corpse--in open field, The sad sea-sounding wastes of Lyonnesse-- Poor wretch--no friend!--and now by Mark the King For that small charm of feature mine, pursued-- If any such be mine--I fly to thee.

Save, save me thou--Woman of women--thine The wreath of beauty, thine the crown of power, Be thine the balm of pity, O Heaven's own white Earth-angel, stainless bride of stainless King-- Help, for he follows! take me to thyself!

O yield me shelter for mine innocency Among thy maidens!

Here her slow sweet eyes Fear-tremulous, but humbly hopeful, rose Fixt on her hearer's, while the Queen who stood All glittering like May sunshine on May leaves In green and gold, and plumed with green replied, 'Peace, child! of overpraise and overblame We choose the last. Our n.o.ble Arthur, him Ye scarce can overpraise, will hear and know.

Nay--we believe all evil of thy Mark-- Well, we shall test thee farther; but this hour We ride a-hawking with Sir Lancelot.

He hath given us a fair falcon which he trained; We go to prove it. Bide ye here the while.'

She past; and Vivien murmured after 'Go!

I bide the while.' Then through the portal-arch Peering askance, and muttering broken-wise, As one that labours with an evil dream, Beheld the Queen and Lancelot get to horse.

'Is that the Lancelot? goodly--ay, but gaunt: Courteous--amends for gauntness--takes her hand-- That glance of theirs, but for the street, had been A clinging kiss--how hand lingers in hand!

Let go at last!--they ride away--to hawk For waterfowl. Royaller game is mine.

For such a supersensual sensual bond As that gray cricket chirpt of at our hearth-- Touch flax with flame--a glance will serve--the liars!

Ah little rat that borest in the d.y.k.e Thy hole by night to let the boundless deep Down upon far-off cities while they dance-- Or dream--of thee they dreamed not--nor of me These--ay, but each of either: ride, and dream The mortal dream that never yet was mine-- Ride, ride and dream until ye wake--to me!

Then, narrow court and lubber King, farewell!

For Lancelot will be gracious to the rat, And our wise Queen, if knowing that I know, Will hate, loathe, fear--but honour me the more.'

Yet while they rode together down the plain, Their talk was all of training, terms of art, Diet and seeling, jesses, leash and lure.

'She is too n.o.ble' he said 'to check at pies, Nor will she rake: there is no baseness in her.'

Here when the Queen demanded as by chance 'Know ye the stranger woman?' 'Let her be,'

Said Lancelot and unhooded casting off The goodly falcon free; she towered; her bells, Tone under tone, shrilled; and they lifted up Their eager faces, wondering at the strength, Boldness and royal knighthood of the bird Who pounced her quarry and slew it. Many a time As once--of old--among the flowers--they rode.

But Vivien half-forgotten of the Queen Among her damsels broidering sat, heard, watched And whispered: through the peaceful court she crept And whispered: then as Arthur in the highest Leavened the world, so Vivien in the lowest, Arriving at a time of golden rest, And sowing one ill hint from ear to ear, While all the heathen lay at Arthur's feet, And no quest came, but all was joust and play, Leavened his hall. They heard and let her be.

Thereafter as an enemy that has left Death in the living waters, and withdrawn, The wily Vivien stole from Arthur's court.

She hated all the knights, and heard in thought Their lavish comment when her name was named.

For once, when Arthur walking all alone, Vext at a rumour issued from herself Of some corruption crept among his knights, Had met her, Vivien, being greeted fair, Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy mood With reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken voice, And fluttered adoration, and at last With dark sweet hints of some who prized him more Than who should prize him most; at which the King Had gazed upon her blankly and gone by: But one had watched, and had not held his peace: It made the laughter of an afternoon That Vivien should attempt the blameless King.

And after that, she set herself to gain Him, the most famous man of all those times, Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts, Had built the King his havens, ships, and halls, Was also Bard, and knew the starry heavens; The people called him Wizard; whom at first She played about with slight and sprightly talk, And vivid smiles, and faintly-venomed points Of slander, glancing here and grazing there; And yielding to his kindlier moods, the Seer Would watch her at her petulance, and play, Even when they seemed unloveable, and laugh As those that watch a kitten; thus he grew Tolerant of what he half disdained, and she, Perceiving that she was but half disdained, Began to break her sports with graver fits, Turn red or pale, would often when they met Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him With such a fixt devotion, that the old man, Though doubtful, felt the flattery, and at times Would flatter his own wish in age for love, And half believe her true: for thus at times He wavered; but that other clung to him, Fixt in her will, and so the seasons went.

Then fell on Merlin a great melancholy; He walked with dreams and darkness, and he found A doom that ever poised itself to fall, An ever-moaning battle in the mist, World-war of dying flesh against the life, Death in all life and lying in all love, The meanest having power upon the highest, And the high purpose broken by the worm.

So leaving Arthur's court he gained the beach; There found a little boat, and stept into it; And Vivien followed, but he marked her not.

She took the helm and he the sail; the boat Drave with a sudden wind across the deeps, And touching Breton sands, they disembarked.

And then she followed Merlin all the way, Even to the wild woods of Broceliande.

For Merlin once had told her of a charm, The which if any wrought on anyone With woven paces and with waving arms, The man so wrought on ever seemed to lie Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower, From which was no escape for evermore; And none could find that man for evermore, Nor could he see but him who wrought the charm Coming and going, and he lay as dead And lost to life and use and name and fame.

And Vivien ever sought to work the charm Upon the great Enchanter of the Time, As fancying that her glory would be great According to his greatness whom she quenched.

There lay she all her length and kissed his feet, As if in deepest reverence and in love.

A twist of gold was round her hair; a robe Of samite without price, that more exprest Than hid her, clung about her lissome limbs, In colour like the satin-shining palm On sallows in the windy gleams of March: And while she kissed them, crying, 'Trample me, Dear feet, that I have followed through the world, And I will pay you worship; tread me down And I will kiss you for it;' he was mute: So dark a forethought rolled about his brain, As on a dull day in an Ocean cave The blind wave feeling round his long sea-hall In silence: wherefore, when she lifted up A face of sad appeal, and spake and said, 'O Merlin, do ye love me?' and again, 'O Merlin, do ye love me?' and once more, 'Great Master, do ye love me?' he was mute.

And lissome Vivien, holding by his heel, Writhed toward him, slided up his knee and sat, Behind his ankle twined her hollow feet Together, curved an arm about his neck, Clung like a snake; and letting her left hand Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a leaf, Made with her right a comb of pearl to part The lists of such a board as youth gone out Had left in ashes: then he spoke and said, Not looking at her, 'Who are wise in love Love most, say least,' and Vivien answered quick, 'I saw the little elf-G.o.d eyeless once In Arthur's arras hall at Camelot: But neither eyes nor tongue--O stupid child!

Yet you are wise who say it; let me think Silence is wisdom: I am silent then, And ask no kiss;' then adding all at once, 'And lo, I clothe myself with wisdom,' drew The vast and s.h.a.ggy mantle of his beard Across her neck and bosom to her knee, And called herself a gilded summer fly Caught in a great old tyrant spider's web, Who meant to eat her up in that wild wood Without one word. So Vivien called herself, But rather seemed a lovely baleful star Veiled in gray vapour; till he sadly smiled: 'To what request for what strange boon,' he said, 'Are these your pretty tricks and fooleries, O Vivien, the preamble? yet my thanks, For these have broken up my melancholy.'

And Vivien answered smiling saucily, 'What, O my Master, have ye found your voice?

I bid the stranger welcome. Thanks at last!

But yesterday you never opened lip, Except indeed to drink: no cup had we: In mine own lady palms I culled the spring That gathered trickling dropwise from the cleft, And made a pretty cup of both my hands And offered you it kneeling: then you drank And knew no more, nor gave me one poor word; O no more thanks than might a goat have given With no more sign of reverence than a beard.

And when we halted at that other well, And I was faint to swooning, and you lay Foot-gilt with all the blossom-dust of those Deep meadows we had traversed, did you know That Vivien bathed your feet before her own?

And yet no thanks: and all through this wild wood And all this morning when I fondled you: Boon, ay, there was a boon, one not so strange-- How had I wronged you? surely ye are wise, But such a silence is more wise than kind.'

And Merlin locked his hand in hers and said: 'O did ye never lie upon the sh.o.r.e, And watch the curled white of the coming wave Gla.s.sed in the slippery sand before it breaks?

Even such a wave, but not so pleasurable, Dark in the gla.s.s of some presageful mood, Had I for three days seen, ready to fall.

And then I rose and fled from Arthur's court To break the mood. You followed me unasked; And when I looked, and saw you following me still, My mind involved yourself the nearest thing In that mind-mist: for shall I tell you truth?

You seemed that wave about to break upon me And sweep me from my hold upon the world, My use and name and fame. Your pardon, child.

Your pretty sports have brightened all again.

And ask your boon, for boon I owe you thrice, Once for wrong done you by confusion, next For thanks it seems till now neglected, last For these your dainty gambols: wherefore ask; And take this boon so strange and not so strange.'

And Vivien answered smiling mournfully: 'O not so strange as my long asking it, Not yet so strange as you yourself are strange, Nor half so strange as that dark mood of yours.

I ever feared ye were not wholly mine; And see, yourself have owned ye did me wrong.

The people call you prophet: let it be: But not of those that can expound themselves.

Take Vivien for expounder; she will call That three-days-long presageful gloom of yours No presage, but the same mistrustful mood That makes you seem less n.o.ble than yourself, Whenever I have asked this very boon, Now asked again: for see you not, dear love, That such a mood as that, which lately gloomed Your fancy when ye saw me following you, Must make me fear still more you are not mine, Must make me yearn still more to prove you mine, And make me wish still more to learn this charm Of woven paces and of waving hands, As proof of trust. O Merlin, teach it me.

The charm so taught will charm us both to rest.

For, grant me some slight power upon your fate, I, feeling that you felt me worthy trust, Should rest and let you rest, knowing you mine.

And therefore be as great as ye are named, Not m.u.f.fled round with selfish reticence.

How hard you look and how denyingly!

O, if you think this wickedness in me, That I should prove it on you unawares, That makes me pa.s.sing wrathful; then our bond Had best be loosed for ever: but think or not, By Heaven that hears I tell you the clean truth, As clean as blood of babes, as white as milk: O Merlin, may this earth, if ever I, If these unwitty wandering wits of mine, Even in the jumbled rubbish of a dream, Have tript on such conjectural treachery-- May this hard earth cleave to the Nadir h.e.l.l Down, down, and close again, and nip me flat, If I be such a traitress. Yield my boon, Till which I scarce can yield you all I am; And grant my re-reiterated wish, The great proof of your love: because I think, However wise, ye hardly know me yet.'

And Merlin loosed his hand from hers and said, 'I never was less wise, however wise, Too curious Vivien, though you talk of trust, Than when I told you first of such a charm.

Yea, if ye talk of trust I tell you this, Too much I trusted when I told you that, And stirred this vice in you which ruined man Through woman the first hour; for howsoe'er In children a great curiousness be well, Who have to learn themselves and all the world, In you, that are no child, for still I find Your face is practised when I spell the lines, I call it,--well, I will not call it vice: But since you name yourself the summer fly, I well could wish a cobweb for the gnat, That settles, beaten back, and beaten back Settles, till one could yield for weariness: But since I will not yield to give you power Upon my life and use and name and fame, Why will ye never ask some other boon?

Yea, by G.o.d's rood, I trusted you too much.'

And Vivien, like the tenderest-hearted maid That ever bided tryst at village stile, Made answer, either eyelid wet with tears: 'Nay, Master, be not wrathful with your maid; Caress her: let her feel herself forgiven Who feels no heart to ask another boon.

I think ye hardly know the tender rhyme Of "trust me not at all or all in all."

I heard the great Sir Lancelot sing it once, And it shall answer for me. Listen to it.

"In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours, Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers: Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.

"It is the little rift within the lute, That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

"The little rift within the lover's lute Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit, That rotting inward slowly moulders all.

"It is not worth the keeping: let it go: But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no.

And trust me not at all or all in all."

O Master, do ye love my tender rhyme?'

And Merlin looked and half believed her true, So tender was her voice, so fair her face, So sweetly gleamed her eyes behind her tears Like sunlight on the plain behind a shower: And yet he answered half indignantly:

'Far other was the song that once I heard By this huge oak, sung nearly where we sit: For here we met, some ten or twelve of us, To chase a creature that was current then In these wild woods, the hart with golden horns.

It was the time when first the question rose About the founding of a Table Round, That was to be, for love of G.o.d and men And n.o.ble deeds, the flower of all the world.

And each incited each to n.o.ble deeds.

And while we waited, one, the youngest of us, We could not keep him silent, out he flashed, And into such a song, such fire for fame, Such trumpet-glowings in it, coming down To such a stern and iron-clashing close, That when he stopt we longed to hurl together, And should have done it; but the beauteous beast Scared by the noise upstarted at our feet, And like a silver shadow slipt away Through the dim land; and all day long we rode Through the dim land against a rushing wind, That glorious roundel echoing in our ears, And chased the flashes of his golden horns Till they vanished by the fairy well That laughs at iron--as our warriors did-- Where children cast their pins and nails, and cry, "Laugh, little well!" but touch it with a sword, It buzzes fiercely round the point; and there We lost him: such a n.o.ble song was that.

But, Vivien, when you sang me that sweet rhyme, I felt as though you knew this cursed charm, Were proving it on me, and that I lay And felt them slowly ebbing, name and fame.'