Idylls of the King Part 24

The snowdrop only, flowering through the year, Would make the world as blank as Winter-tide.

Come--let us gladden their sad eyes, our Queen's And Lancelot's, at this night's solemnity With all the kindlier colours of the field.'

So dame and damsel glittered at the feast Variously gay: for he that tells the tale Likened them, saying, as when an hour of cold Falls on the mountain in midsummer snows, And all the purple slopes of mountain flowers Pa.s.s under white, till the warm hour returns With veer of wind, and all are flowers again; So dame and damsel cast the simple white, And glowing in all colours, the live gra.s.s, Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, glanced About the revels, and with mirth so loud Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the Queen, And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts, Brake up their sports, then slowly to her bower Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord.

And little Dagonet on the morrow morn, High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide, Danced like a withered leaf before the hall.

Then Tristram saying, 'Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?'

Wheeled round on either heel, Dagonet replied, 'Belike for lack of wiser company; Or being fool, and seeing too much wit Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip To know myself the wisest knight of all.'

'Ay, fool,' said Tristram, 'but 'tis eating dry To dance without a catch, a roundelay To dance to.' Then he tw.a.n.gled on his harp, And while he tw.a.n.gled little Dagonet stood Quiet as any water-sodden log Stayed in the wandering warble of a brook; But when the tw.a.n.gling ended, skipt again; And being asked, 'Why skipt ye not, Sir Fool?'

Made answer, 'I had liefer twenty years Skip to the broken music of my brains Than any broken music thou canst make.'

Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come, 'Good now, what music have I broken, fool?'

And little Dagonet, skipping, 'Arthur, the King's; For when thou playest that air with Queen Isolt, Thou makest broken music with thy bride, Her daintier namesake down in Brittany-- And so thou breakest Arthur's music too.'

'Save for that broken music in thy brains, Sir Fool,' said Tristram, 'I would break thy head.

Fool, I came too late, the heathen wars were o'er, The life had flown, we sware but by the sh.e.l.l-- I am but a fool to reason with a fool-- Come, thou art crabbed and sour: but lean me down, Sir Dagonet, one of thy long a.s.ses' ears, And harken if my music be not true.

'"Free love--free field--we love but while we may: The woods are hushed, their music is no more: The leaf is dead, the yearning past away: New leaf, new life--the days of frost are o'er: New life, new love, to suit the newer day: New loves are sweet as those that went before: Free love--free field--we love but while we may."

'Ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune, Not stood stockstill. I made it in the woods, And heard it ring as true as tested gold.'

But Dagonet with one foot poised in his hand, 'Friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday Made to run wine?--but this had run itself All out like a long life to a sour end-- And them that round it sat with golden cups To hand the wine to whosoever came-- The twelve small damosels white as Innocence, In honour of poor Innocence the babe, Who left the gems which Innocence the Queen Lent to the King, and Innocence the King Gave for a prize--and one of those white slips Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one, "Drink, drink, Sir Fool," and thereupon I drank, Spat--pish--the cup was gold, the draught was mud.'

And Tristram, 'Was it muddier than thy gibes?

Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee?-- Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool-- "Fear G.o.d: honour the King--his one true knight-- Sole follower of the vows"--for here be they Who knew thee swine enow before I came, s.m.u.ttier than blasted grain: but when the King Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up It frighted all free fool from out thy heart; Which left thee less than fool, and less than swine, A naked aught--yet swine I hold thee still, For I have flung thee pearls and find thee swine.'

And little Dagonet mincing with his feet, 'Knight, an ye fling those rubies round my neck In lieu of hers, I'll hold thou hast some touch Of music, since I care not for thy pearls.

Swine? I have wallowed, I have washed--the world Is flesh and shadow--I have had my day.

The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind Hath fouled me--an I wallowed, then I washed-- I have had my day and my philosophies-- And thank the Lord I am King Arthur's fool.

Swine, say ye? swine, goats, a.s.ses, rams and geese Trooped round a Paynim harper once, who thrummed On such a wire as musically as thou Some such fine song--but never a king's fool.'

And Tristram, 'Then were swine, goats, a.s.ses, geese The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard Had such a mastery of his mystery That he could harp his wife up out of h.e.l.l.'

Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot, 'And whither harp'st thou thine? down! and thyself Down! and two more: a helpful harper thou, That harpest downward! Dost thou know the star We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven?'

And Tristram, 'Ay, Sir Fool, for when our King Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights, Glorying in each new glory, set his name High on all hills, and in the signs of heaven.'

And Dagonet answered, 'Ay, and when the land Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set yourself To babble about him, all to show your wit-- And whether he were King by courtesy, Or King by right--and so went harping down The black king's highway, got so far, and grew So witty that ye played at ducks and drakes With Arthur's vows on the great lake of fire.

Tuwhoo! do ye see it? do ye see the star?'

'Nay, fool,' said Tristram, 'not in open day.'

And Dagonet, 'Nay, nor will: I see it and hear.

It makes a silent music up in heaven, And I, and Arthur and the angels hear, And then we skip.' 'Lo, fool,' he said, 'ye talk Fool's treason: is the King thy brother fool?'

Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrilled, 'Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools!

Conceits himself as G.o.d that he can make Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk From burning spurge, honey from hornet-combs, And men from beasts--Long live the king of fools!'

And down the city Dagonet danced away; But through the slowly-mellowing avenues And solitary pa.s.ses of the wood Rode Tristram toward Lyonnesse and the west.

Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt With ruby-circled neck, but evermore Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye For all that walked, or crept, or perched, or flew.

Anon the face, as, when a gust hath blown, Unruffling waters re-collect the shape Of one that in them sees himself, returned; But at the slot or fewmets of a deer, Or even a fallen feather, vanished again.

So on for all that day from lawn to lawn Through many a league-long bower he rode. At length A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs Furze-crammed, and bracken-rooft, the which himself Built for a summer day with Queen Isolt Against a shower, dark in the golden grove Appearing, sent his fancy back to where She lived a moon in that low lodge with him: Till Mark her lord had past, the Cornish King, With six or seven, when Tristram was away, And s.n.a.t.c.hed her thence; yet dreading worse than shame Her warrior Tristram, spake not any word, But bode his hour, devising wretchedness.

And now that desert lodge to Tristram lookt So sweet, that halting, in he past, and sank Down on a drift of foliage random-blown; But could not rest for musing how to smoothe And sleek his marriage over to the Queen.

Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all The tonguesters of the court she had not heard.

But then what folly had sent him overseas After she left him lonely here? a name?

Was it the name of one in Brittany, Isolt, the daughter of the King? 'Isolt Of the white hands' they called her: the sweet name Allured him first, and then the maid herself, Who served him well with those white hands of hers, And loved him well, until himself had thought He loved her also, wedded easily, But left her all as easily, and returned.

The black-blue Irish hair and Irish eyes Had drawn him home--what marvel? then he laid His brows upon the drifted leaf and dreamed.

He seemed to pace the strand of Brittany Between Isolt of Britain and his bride, And showed them both the ruby-chain, and both Began to struggle for it, till his Queen Graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red.

Then cried the Breton, 'Look, her hand is red!

These be no rubies, this is frozen blood, And melts within her hand--her hand is hot With ill desires, but this I gave thee, look, Is all as cool and white as any flower.'

Followed a rush of eagle's wings, and then A whimpering of the spirit of the child, Because the twain had spoiled her carcanet.

He dreamed; but Arthur with a hundred spears Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed, And many a glancing plash and sallowy isle, The wide-winged sunset of the misty marsh Glared on a huge machicolated tower That stood with open doors, whereout was rolled A roar of riot, as from men secure Amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease Among their harlot-brides, an evil song.

'Lo there,' said one of Arthur's youth, for there, High on a grim dead tree before the tower, A goodly brother of the Table Round Swung by the neck: and on the boughs a shield Showing a shower of blood in a field noir, And therebeside a horn, inflamed the knights At that dishonour done the gilded spur, Till each would clash the shield, and blow the horn.

But Arthur waved them back. Alone he rode.

Then at the dry harsh roar of the great horn, That sent the face of all the marsh aloft An ever upward-rushing storm and cloud Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight heard, and all, Even to tipmost lance and topmost helm, In blood-red armour sallying, howled to the King,

'The teeth of h.e.l.l flay bare and gnash thee flat!-- Lo! art thou not that eunuch-hearted King Who fain had clipt free manhood from the world-- The woman-worshipper? Yea, G.o.d's curse, and I!

Slain was the brother of my paramour By a knight of thine, and I that heard her whine And snivel, being eunuch-hearted too, Sware by the scorpion-worm that twists in h.e.l.l, And stings itself to everlasting death, To hang whatever knight of thine I fought And tumbled. Art thou King? --Look to thy life!'

He ended: Arthur knew the voice; the face Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the name Went wandering somewhere darkling in his mind.

And Arthur deigned not use of word or sword, But let the drunkard, as he stretched from horse To strike him, overbalancing his bulk, Down from the causeway heavily to the swamp Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching wave, Heard in dead night along that table-sh.o.r.e, Drops flat, and after the great waters break Whitening for half a league, and thin themselves, Far over sands marbled with moon and cloud, From less and less to nothing; thus he fell Head-heavy; then the knights, who watched him, roared And shouted and leapt down upon the fallen; There trampled out his face from being known, And sank his head in mire, and slimed themselves: Nor heard the King for their own cries, but sprang Through open doors, and swording right and left Men, women, on their sodden faces, hurled The tables over and the wines, and slew Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells, And all the pavement streamed with ma.s.sacre: Then, echoing yell with yell, they fired the tower, Which half that autumn night, like the live North, Red-pulsing up through Alioth and Alcor, Made all above it, and a hundred meres About it, as the water Moab saw Came round by the East, and out beyond them flushed The long low dune, and lazy-plunging sea.

So all the ways were safe from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, But in the heart of Arthur pain was lord.

Then, out of Tristram waking, the red dream Fled with a shout, and that low lodge returned, Mid-forest, and the wind among the boughs.

He whistled his good warhorse left to graze Among the forest greens, vaulted upon him, And rode beneath an ever-showering leaf, Till one lone woman, weeping near a cross, Stayed him. 'Why weep ye?' 'Lord,' she said, 'my man Hath left me or is dead;' whereon he thought-- 'What, if she hate me now? I would not this.

What, if she love me still? I would not that.

I know not what I would'--but said to her, 'Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate return, He find thy favour changed and love thee not'-- Then pressing day by day through Lyonnesse Last in a roky hollow, belling, heard The hounds of Mark, and felt the goodly hounds Yelp at his heart, but turning, past and gained Tintagil, half in sea, and high on land, A crown of towers.

Down in a cas.e.m.e.nt sat, A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the Queen.

And when she heard the feet of Tristram grind The spiring stone that scaled about her tower, Flushed, started, met him at the doors, and there Belted his body with her white embrace, Crying aloud, 'Not Mark--not Mark, my soul!

The footstep fluttered me at first: not he: Catlike through his own castle steals my Mark, But warrior-wise thou stridest through his halls Who hates thee, as I him--even to the death.

My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark Quicken within me, and knew that thou wert nigh.'

To whom Sir Tristram smiling, 'I am here.

Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine.'

And drawing somewhat backward she replied, 'Can he be wronged who is not even his own, But save for dread of thee had beaten me, Scratched, bitten, blinded, marred me somehow--Mark?

What rights are his that dare not strike for them?

Not lift a hand--not, though he found me thus!

But harken! have ye met him? hence he went Today for three days' hunting--as he said-- And so returns belike within an hour.

Mark's way, my soul!--but eat not thou with Mark, Because he hates thee even more than fears; Nor drink: and when thou pa.s.sest any wood Close vizor, lest an arrow from the bush Should leave me all alone with Mark and h.e.l.l.

My G.o.d, the measure of my hate for Mark Is as the measure of my love for thee.'

So, plucked one way by hate and one by love, Drained of her force, again she sat, and spake To Tristram, as he knelt before her, saying, 'O hunter, and O blower of the horn, Harper, and thou hast been a rover too, For, ere I mated with my shambling king, Ye twain had fallen out about the bride Of one--his name is out of me--the prize, If prize she were--(what marvel--she could see)-- Thine, friend; and ever since my craven seeks To wreck thee villainously: but, O Sir Knight, What dame or damsel have ye kneeled to last?'

And Tristram, 'Last to my Queen Paramount, Here now to my Queen Paramount of love And loveliness--ay, lovelier than when first Her light feet fell on our rough Lyonnesse, Sailing from Ireland.'

Softly laughed Isolt; 'Flatter me not, for hath not our great Queen My dole of beauty trebled?' and he said, 'Her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine, And thine is more to me--soft, gracious, kind-- Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips Most gracious; but she, haughty, even to him, Lancelot; for I have seen him wan enow To make one doubt if ever the great Queen Have yielded him her love.'

To whom Isolt, 'Ah then, false hunter and false harper, thou Who brakest through the scruple of my bond, Calling me thy white hind, and saying to me That Guinevere had sinned against the highest, And I--misyoked with such a want of man-- That I could hardly sin against the lowest.'