Idylls of the King and a New Selection of Poems

by Alfred Tennyson

  And the King:

  “But wherefore would ye men should wonder at

  you?

  Nay, rather for the sake of me, their King,

  And the deed’s sake my knighthood do the deed,

  Than to be noised of.”

  Merrily Gareth ask’d:

  “Have I not earn’d my cake in baking of it?

  Let be my name until I make my name!

  My deeds will speak; it is but for a day.”

  So with a kindly hand on Gareth’s arm

  Smiled the great King, and half-unwillingly

  Loving his lusty youthhood yielded to him.

  Then, after summoning Lancelot privily:

  “I have given him the first quest; he is not proven.

  Look therefore, when he calls for this in hall,

  Thou get to horse and follow him far away.

  Cover the lions on thy shield, and see,

  Far as thou mayest, he be nor ta’en nor slain.”

  Then that same day there past into the hall

  A damsel of high lineage, and a brow

  May-blossom, and a cheek of apple-blossom,

  Hawk-eyes; and lightly was her slender nose

  Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower.

  She into hall past with her page and cried:

  “O King, for thou hast driven the foe without,

  See to the foe within! bridge, ford, beset

  By bandits, every one that owns a tower

  The lord for half a league. Why sit ye there?

  Rest would I not, Sir King, an I were king,

  Till even the lonest hold were all as free

  From cursed bloodshed as thine altar-cloth

  From that best blood it is a sin to spill.”

  “Comfort thyself,” said Arthur, “I nor mine

  Rest; so my knighthood keep the vows they swore,

  The wastest moorland of our realm shall be

  Safe, damsel, as the centre of this hall.

  What is thy name? thy need?”

  “My name?” she said—

  “Lynette, my name; noble; my need, a knight

  To combat for my sister, Lyonors,

  A lady of high lineage, of great lands,

  And comely, yea, and comelier than myself.

  She lives in Castle Perilous. A river

  Runs in three loops about her living-place;

  And o’er it are three passings, and three knights

  Defend the passings, brethren, and a fourth,

  And of that four the mightiest, holds her stay’d

  In her own castle, and so besieges her

  To break her will, and make her wed with him;

  And but delays his purport till thou send

  To do the battle with him thy chief man

  Sir Lancelot, whom he trusts to overthrow,

  Then wed, with glory; but she will not wed

  Save whom she loveth, or a holy life.

  Now therefore have I come for Lancelot.”

  Then Arthur mindful of Sir Gareth ask’d:

  “Damsel, ye know this Order lives to crush

  All wrongers of the realm. But say, these four,

  Who be they? What the fashion of the men?”

  “They be of foolish fashion, O Sir King,

  The fashion of that old knight-errantry

  Who ride abroad, and do but what they will;

  Courteous or bestial from the moment, such

  As have nor law nor king; and three of these

  Proud in their fantasy call themselves the Day,

  Morning-Star, and Noon-Sun, and Evening-Star,

  Being strong fools; and never a whit more wise

  The fourth, who alway rideth arm’d in black,

  A huge man-beast of boundless savagery.

  He names himself the Night and oftener Death;

  And wears a helmet mounted with a skull,

  And bears a skeleton figured on his arms,

  To show that who may slay or scape the three,

  Slain by himself, shall enter endless night.

  And all these four be fools, but mighty men,

  And therefore am I come for Lancelot.”

  Hereat Sir Gareth call’d from where he rose,

  A head with kindling eyes above the throng,

  “A boon, Sir King—this quest!” then—for he mark’d

  Kay near him groaning like a wounded bull—

  “Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen-knave am I,

  And mighty thro’ thy meats and drinks am I,

  And I can topple over a hundred such.

  Thy promise, King,” and Arthur glancing at him,

  Brought down a momentary brow. “Rough, sudden,

  And pardonable, worthy to be knight—

  Go therefore,” and all hearers were amazed.

  But on the damsel’s forehead shame, pride, wrath

  Slew the may-white. She lifted either arm,

  “Fie on thee, King! I ask’d for thy chief knight,

  And thou hast given me but a kitchen-knave.”

  Then ere a man in hall could stay her, turn’d,

  Fled down the lane of access to the King,

  Took horse, descended the slope street, and past

  The weird white gate, and paused without, beside

  The field of tourney, murmuring “kitchen-knave!”

  Now two great entries open’d from the hall,

  At one end one that gave upon a range

  Of level pavement where the King would pace

  At sunrise, gazing over plain and wood;

  And down from this a lordly stairway sloped

  Till lost in blowing trees and tops of towers;

  And out by this main doorway past the King.

  But one was counter to the hearth, and rose

  High that the highest-crested helm could ride

  Therethro’ nor graze; and by this entry fled

  The damsel in her wrath, and on to this

  Sir Gareth strode, and saw without the door

  King Arthur’s gift, the worth of half a town,

  A war-horse of the best, and near it stood

  The two that out of north had followed him.

  This bare a maiden shield, a casque; that held

  The horse, the spear; whereat Sir Gareth loosed

  A cloak that dropt from collar-bone to heel,

  A cloth of roughest web, and cast it down,

  And from it, like a fuel-smother’d fire

  That lookt half-dead, brake bright, and flash’d as

  those

  Dull-coated things, that making slide apart

  Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath there burns

  A jewell’d harness, ere they pass and fly.

  So Gareth ere he parted flash’d in arms.

  Then as he donn’d the helm, and took the shield

  And mounted horse and graspt a spear, of grain

  Storm-strengthen’d on a windy site, and tipt

  With trenchant steel, around him slowly prest

  The people, while from out of kitchen came

  The thralls in throng, and seeing who had work’d

  Lustier than any, and whom they could but love,

  Mounted in arms, threw up their caps and cried,

  “God bless the King, and all his fellowship!”

  And on thro’ lanes of shouting Gareth rode

  Down the slope street, and past without the gate.

  So Gareth past with joy; but as the cur

  Pluckt from the cur he fights with, ere his cause

  Be cool’d by fighting, follows, being

  His owner, but remembers all, and growls

  Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the door

  Mutter’d in scorn of Gareth whom he used

  To harry and hustle.

  “Bound upon a quest

  With horse and arms—the King hath past his time—

  My scullion knave! Thralls, to your work again,

 
For an your fire be low ye kindle mine!

  Will there be dawn in West and eve in East?

  Begone!—my knave!—belike and like enow

  Some old head-blow not heeded in his youth

  So shook his wits they wander in his prime—

  Crazed! How the villain lifted up his voice,

  Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen-knave!

  Tut, he was tame and meek enow with me,

  Till peacock’d up with Lancelot’s noticing.

  Well—I will after my loud knave, and learn

  Whether he know me for his master yet.

  Out of the smoke he came, and so my lance

  Hold, by God’s grace, he shall into the mire—

  Thence, if the King awaken from his craze,

  Into the smoke again.”

  But Lancelot said:

  “Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against the King,

  For that did never he whereon ye rail,

  But ever meekly served the King in thee?

  Abide; take counsel, for this lad is great

  And lusty, and knowing both of lance and sword.”

  “Tut, tell not me,” said Kay, “ye are overfine

  To mar stout knaves with foolish courtesies;”

  Then mounted, on thro’ silent faces rode

  Down the slope city, and out beyond the gate.

  But by the field of tourney lingering yet

  Mutter’d the damsel: “Wherefore did the King

  Scorn me? for, were Sir Lancelot lackt, at least

  He might have yielded to me one of those

  Who tilt for lady’s love and glory here,

  Rather than—O sweet heaven! O, fie upon him!—

  His kitchen-knave.”

  To whom Sir Gareth drew—

  And there were none but few goodlier than he—

  Shining in arms, “Damsel, the quest is mine.

  Lead, and I follow.” She thereat, as one

  That smells a foul-flesh’d agaric in the holt,

  And deems it carrion of some woodland thing,

  Or shrew or weasel, nipt her slender nose

  With petulant thumb and finger, shrilling, “Hence!

  Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen-grease.

  And look who come behind;” for there was Kay.

  “Knowest thou not me? thy master? I am Kay.

  We lack thee by the hearth.”

  And Gareth to him,

  “Master no more! too well I know thee, ay—

  The most ungentle knight in Arthur’s hall.”

  “Have at thee then,” said Kay; they shock’d, and

  Kay

  Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried again,

  “Lead, and I follow,” and fast away she fled.

  But after sod and shingle ceased to fly

  Behind her, and the heart of her good horse

  Was nigh to burst with violence of the beat,

  Perforce she stay’d; and overtaken spoke:

  “What doest thou, scullion, in my fellowship?

  Deem’st thou that I accept thee aught the more

  Or love thee better, that by some device

  Full cowardly, or by mere unhappiness,

  Thou hast overthrown and slain thy master—thou!—

  Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon!—to me

  Thou smellest all of kitchen as before.”

  “Damsel,” Sir Gareth answer’d gently, “say

  Whate’er ye will, but whatsoe’er ye say,

  I leave not till I finish this fair quest,

  Or die therefore.”

  “Ay, wilt thou finish it?

  Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he talks!

  The listening rogue hath caught the manner of it.

  But, knave, anon thou shalt be met with, knave,

  And then by such a one that thou for all

  The kitchen brewis that was ever supt

  Shalt not once dare to look him in the face.”

  “I shall assay,” said Gareth with a smile

  That madden’d her, and away she flash’d again

  Down the long avenues of a boundless wood;

  And Gareth following was again beknaved:

  “Sir Kitchen-knave, I have miss’d the only way

  Where Arthur’s men are set along the wood;

  The wood is nigh as full of thieves as leaves.

  If both be slain, I am rid of thee; but yet,

  Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit of thine?

  Fight, an thou canst; I have miss’d the only way.”

  So till the dusk that follow’d even-song

  Rode on the two, reviler and reviled;

  Then after one long slope was mounted, saw,

  Bowl-shaped, thro’ tops of many thousand pines

  A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink

  To westward—in the deeps whereof a mere,

  Round as the red eye of an eagle-owl,

  Under the half-dead sunset glared; and shouts

  Ascended, and there brake a serving-man

  Flying from out of the black wood, and crying,

  “They have bound my lord to cast him in the mere.”

  Then Gareth, “Bound am I to right the wrong’d,

  But straitlier bound am I to bide with thee.”

  And when the damsel spake contemptuously,

  “Lead, and I follow,” Gareth cried again,

  “Follow, I lead!” so down among the pines

  He plunged; and there, black-shadow’d nigh the mere,

  And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and reed,

  Saw six tall men haling a seventh along,

  A stone about his neck to drown him in it.

  Three with good blows he quieted, but three

  Fled thro’ the pines; and Gareth loosed the stone

  From off his neck, then in the mere beside

  Tumbled it; oilily bubbled up the mere.

  Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on free feet

  Set him, a stalwart baron, Arthur’s friend.

  “Well that ye came, or else these caitiff rogues

  Had wreak’d themselves on me; good cause is theirs

  To hate me, for my wont hath ever been

  To catch my thief, and then like vermin here

  Drown him, and with a stone about his neck;

  And under this wan water many of them

  Lie rotting, but at night let go the stone,

  And rise, and flickering in a grimly light

  Dance on the mere. Good now, ye have saved a life

  Worth somewhat as the cleanser of this wood.

  And fain would I reward thee worshipfully.

  What guerdon will ye?”

  Gareth sharply spake:

  “None! for the deed’s sake have I done the deed,

  In uttermost obedience to the King.

  But wilt thou yield this damsel harborage?”

  Whereat the baron saying, “I well believe

  You be of Arthur’s Table,” a light laugh

  Broke from Lynette: “Ay, truly of a truth,

  And in a sort, being Arthur’s kitchen-knave!—

  But deem not I accept thee aught the more,

  Scullion, for running sharply with thy spit

  Down on a rout of craven foresters.

  A thresher with his flail had scatter’d them.

  Nay—for thou smellest of the kitchen still.

  But an this lord will yield us harborage,

  Well.”

  So she spake. A league beyond the wood,

  All in a full-fair manor and a rich,

  His towers, where that day a feast had been

  Held in high hall, and many a viand left,

  And many a costly cate, received the three.

  And there they placed a peacock in his pride

  Before the damsel, and the baron set

  Gareth beside her, but at once she rose.

  “Meseems, that here is much discourtesy,

  S
etting this knave, Lord Baron, at my side.

  Hear me—this morn I stood in Arthur’s hall,

  And pray’d the King would grant me Lancelot

  To fight the brotherhood of Day and Night—

  The last a monster unsubduable

  Of any save of him for whom I call’d—

  Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen-knave,

  ‘The quest is mine; thy kitchen-knave am I,

  And mighty thro’ thy meats and drinks am I.’

  Then Arthur all at once gone mad replies,

  ‘Go therefore,’ and so gives the quest to him—

  Him—here—a villain fitter to stick swine

  Than ride abroad redressing women’s wrong,

  Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman.”

  Then half-ashamed and part-amazed, the lord

  Now look’d at one and now at other, left

  The damsel by the peacock in his pride,

  And, seating Gareth at another board,

  Sat down beside him, ate and then began:

  “Friend, whether thou be kitchen-knave, or not,

  Or whether it be the maiden’s fantasy,

  And whether she be mad, or else the King,

  Or both or neither, or thyself be mad,

  I ask not; but thou strikest a strong stroke,

  For strong thou art and godly there-withal,

  And saver of my life; and therefore now,

  For here be mighty men to joust with, weigh

  Whether thou wilt not with thy damsel back

  To crave again Sir Lancelot of the King.

  Thy pardon; I but speak for thine avail,

  The saver of my life.”

  And Gareth said,

  “Full pardon, but I follow up the quest,

  Despite of Day and Night and Death and Hell.”

  So when, next morn, the lord whose life he saved Had, some brief space, convey’d them on their way And left them with God-speed, Sir Gareth spake, “Lead, and I follow.” Haughtily she replied:

  “I fly no more; I allow thee for an hour.