Sat by the walls, and no one open’d to him.
And this persistence turn’d her scorn to wrath.
Then, calling her three knights, she charged them,
“Out!
And drive him from the walls.” And out they came,
But Pelleas overthrew them as they dash’d
Against him one by one; and these return’d,
But still he kept his watch beneath the wall.
Thereon her wrath became a hate; and once,
A week beyond, while walking on the walls
With her three knights, she pointed downward, “Look,
He haunts me—I cannot breathe—besieges me!
Down! strike him! put my hate into your strokes,
And drive him from my walls.” And down they
went,
And Pelleas overthrew them one by one;
And from the tower above him cried Ettarre,
“Bind him, and bring him in.”
He heard her voice;
Then let the strong hand, which had overthrown
Her minion-knights, by those he overthrew
Be bounden straight, and so they brought him in.
Then when he came before Ettarre, the sight
Of her rich beauty made him at one glance
More bondsman in his heart than in his bonds.
Yet with good cheer he spake: “Behold me, lady,
A prisoner, and the vassal of thy will;
And if thou keep me in thy donjon here,
Content am I so that I see thy face
But once a day; for I have sworn my vows,
And thou hast given thy promise, and I know
That all these pains are trials of my faith,
And that thyself, when thou hast seen me strain’d
And sifted to the utmost, wilt at length
Yield me thy love and know me for thy knight.”
Then she began to rail so bitterly,
With all her damsels, he was stricken mute,
But, when she mock’d his vows and the great King,
Lighted on words: “For pity of thine own self,
Peace, lady, peace; is he not thine and mine?”
“Thou fool,” she said, “I never heard his voice
But long’d to break away. Unbind him now,
And thrust him out of doors; for save he be
Fool to the midmost marrow of his bones,
He will return no more.” And those, her three,
Laugh’d, and unbound, and thrust him from the
gate.
And after this, a week beyond, again
She call’d them, saying: “There he watches yet,
There like a dog before his master’s door!
Kick’d, he returns; do ye not hate him, ye?
Ye know yourselves; how can ye bide at peace,
Affronted with his fulsome innocence?
Are ye but creatures of the board and bed,
No men to strike? Fall on him all at once,
And if ye slay him I reck not; if ye fail,
Give ye the slave mine order to be bound,
Bind him as heretofore, and bring him in.
It may be ye shall slay him in his bonds.”
She spake, and at her will they couch’d their
spears,
Three against one; and Gawain passing by,
Bound upon solitary adventure, saw
Low down beneath the shadow of those towers
A villainy, three to one; and thro’ his heart
The fire of honor and all noble deeds
Flash’d, and he call’d, “I strike upon thy side—
The caitiffs!” “Nay,” said Pelleas, “but forbear;
He needs no aid who doth his lady’s will.”
So Gawain, looking at the villainy done,
Forbore, but in his heat and eagerness
Trembled and quiver’d, as the dog, withheld
A moment from the vermin that he sees
Before him, shivers ere he springs and kills.
And Pelleas overthrew them, one to three;
And they rose up, and bound, and brought him in.
Then first her anger, leaving Pelleas, burn’d
Full on her knights in many an evil name
Of craven, weakling, and thrice-beaten hound:
“Yet, take him, ye that scarce are fit to touch,
Far less to bind, your victor, and thrust him out,
And let who will release him from his bonds.
And if he comes again”—there she brake short;
And Pelleas answer’d: “Lady, for indeed
I loved you and I deem’d you beautiful,
I cannot brook to see your beauty marr’d
Thro’ evil spite; and ye love me not,
I cannot bear to dream you so forsworn:
I had liefer ye were worthy of my love
Than to be loved again of you—farewell.
And tho’ ye kill my hope, not yet my love,
Vex not yourself; ye will not see me more.”
While thus he spake, she gazed upon the man
Of princely bearing, tho’ in bonds, and thought:
“Why have I push’d him from me? this man loves,
If love there be; yet him I loved not. Why?
I deem’d him fool? yea, so? or that in him
A something—was it nobler than myself?—
Seem’d my reproach? He is not of my kind.
He could not love me, did he know me well.
Nay, let him go—and quickly.” And her knights
Laugh’d not, but thrust him bounden out of door.
Forth sprang Gawain, and loosed him from his
bonds,
And flung them o’er the walls; and afterward,
Shaking his hands, as from a lazar’s rag,
“Faith of my body,” he said, “and art thou not—
Yea thou art he, whom late our Arthur made
Knight of his table; yea, and he that won
The circlet? wherefore hast thou so defamed
Thy brotherhood in me and all the rest
As let these caitiffs on thee work their will?”
And Pelleas answer’d: “O, their wills are hers
For whom I won the circlet; and mine, hers,
Thus to be bounden, so to see her face,
Marr’d tho’ it be with spite and mockery now,
Other than when I found her in the woods.
And tho’ she hath me bounden but in spite,
And all to flout me, when they bring me in,
Let me be bounden, I shall see her face;
Else must I die thro’ mine unhappiness.”
And Gawain answer’d kindly tho’ in scorn:
“Why, let my lady bind me if she will,
And let my lady beat me if she will;
But an she send her delegate to thrall
These fighting hands of mine—Christ kill me then
But I will slice him handless by the wrist,
And let my lady sear the stump for him,
Howl as he may! But hold me for your friend.
Come, ye know nothing; here I pledge my troth,
Yea, by the honor of the Table Round
I will be leal to thee and work thy work,
And tame thy jailing princess to thine hand.
Lend me thine horse and arms, and I will say
That I have slain thee. She will let me in
To hear the manner of thy fight and fall;
Then, when I come within her counsels, then
From prime to vespers will I chant thy praise
As prowest knight and truest lover, more
Than any have sung thee living, till she long
To have thee back in lusty life again,
Not to be bound, save by white bonds and warm,
Dearer than freedom. Wherefore now thy horse
And armor; let me go; be comforted.
Give me three
days to melt her fancy, and hope
The third night hence will bring thee news of gold.”
Then Pelleas lent his horse and all his arms,
Saving the goodly sword, his prize, and took
Gawain’s and said, “Betray me not but help—
Art thou not he whom men call light-of-love?”
“Ay,” said Gawain, “for women be so light;”
Then bounded forward to the castle walls,
And raised a bugle hanging from his neck,
And winded it, and that so musically
That all the old echoes hidden in the wall
Rang out like hollow woods at hunting-tide.
Up ran a score of damsels to the tower;
“Avaunt,” they cried, “our lady loves thee not!”
But Gawain lifting up his visor said:
“Gawain am I, Gawain of Arthur’s court,
And I have slain this Pelleas whom ye hate.
Behold his horse and armor. Open gates,
And I will make you merry.”
And down they ran,
Her damsels, crying to their lady, “Lo!
Pelleas is dead—he told us—he that hath
His horse and armor; will ye let him in?
He slew him! Gawain, Gawain of the court,
Sir Gawain—there he waits below the wall,
Blowing his bugle as who should say him nay.”
And so, leave given, straight on thro’ open door
Rode Gawain, whom she greeted courteously.
“Dead, is it so?” she ask’d. “Ay, ay,” said he,
“And oft in dying cried upon your name.”
“Pity on him,” she answer’d, “a good knight,
But never let me bide one hour at peace.”
“Ay,” thought Gawain, “and you be fair enow;
But I to your dead man have given my troth,
That whom ye loathe, him will I make you love.”
So those three days, aimless about the land,
Lost in doubt, Pelleas wandering
Waited, until the third night brought a moon
With promise of large light on woods and ways.
Hot was the night and silent; but a sound
Of Gawain ever coming, and this lay—
Which Pelleas had heard sung before the Queen,
And seen her sadden listening—vext his heart,
And marr’d his rest—“A worm within the rose.”
“A rose, but one, none other rose had I,
A rose, one rose, and this was wondrous fair,
One rose, a rose that gladden’d earth and sky,
One rose, my rose, that sweeten’d all mine air—
I cared not for the thorns; the thorns were there.
“One rose, a rose to gather by and by,
One rose, a rose, to gather and to wear,
No rose but one—what other rose had I?
One rose, my rose; a rose that will not die,—
He dies who loves it,—if the worm be there.”
This tender rhyme, and evermore the doubt,
“Why lingers Gawain with his golden news?”
So shook him that he could not rest, but rode
Ere midnight to her walls, and bound his horse
Hard by the gates. Wide open were the gates,
And no watch kept; and in thro’ these he past,
And heard but his own steps, and his own heart
Beating, for nothing moved but his own self
And his own shadow. Then he crost the court,
And spied not any light in hall or bower,
But saw the postern portal also wide
Yawning; and up a slope of garden, all
Of roses white and red, and brambles mixt
And overgrowing them, went on, and found,
Here too, all hush’d below the mellow moon,
Save that one rivulet from a tiny cave
Came lightening downward, and so spilt itself
Among the roses and was lost again.
Then was he ware of three pavilions rear’d
Above the bushes, gilden-peakt. In one,
Red after revel, droned her lurdane knights
Slumbering, and their three squires across their feet;
In one, their malice on the placid lip
Frozen by sweet sleep, four of her damsels lay;
And in the third, the circlet of the jousts
Bound on her brow, were Gawain and Ettarre.
Back, as a hand that pushes thro’ the leaf
To find a nest and feels a snake, he drew;
Back, as a coward slinks from what he fears
To cope with, or a traitor proven, or hound
Beaten, did Pelleas in an utter shame
Creep with his shadow thro’ the court again,
Fingering at his sword-handle until he stood
There on the castle-bridge once more, and thought,
“I will go back, and slay them where they lie.”
And so went back, and seeing them yet in sleep
Said, “Ye, that so dishallow the holy sleep,
Your sleep is death,” and drew the sword and
thought,
“What! slay a sleeping knight? the King hath bound
And sworn me to this brotherhood;” again,
“Alas that ever a knight should be so false!”
Then turn’d, and so return’d, and groaning laid
The naked sword athwart their naked throats,
There left it, and them sleeping; and she lay,
The circlet of the tourney round her brows,
And the sword of the tourney across her throat.
And forth he past, and mounting on his horse Stared at her towers that, larger than themselves In their own darkness, throng’d into the moon: Then crush’d the saddle with his thighs, and clench’d His hands, and madden’d with himself and moan’d:
“Would they have risen against me in their blood
At the last day? I might have answer’d them
Even before high God. O towers so strong,
Huge, solid, would that even while I gaze
The crack of earthquake shivering to your base
Split you, and hell burst up your harlot roofs
Bellowing, and charr’d you thro’ and thro’ within,
Black as the harlot’s heart—hollow as a skull!
Let the fierce east scream thro’ your eyelet-holes,
And whirl the dust of harlots round and round
In dung and nettles! hiss, snake—I saw him there—
Let the fox bark, let the wolf yell! Who yells
Here in the still sweet summer night but I—
I, the poor Pelleas whom she call’d her fool?
Fool, beast—he, she, or I? myself most fool;
Beast too, as lacking human wit—disgraced,
Dishonor’d all for trial of true love—
Love?—we be all alike; only the King
Hath made us fools and liars. O noble vows!
O great and sane and simple race of brutes
That own no lust because they have no law!
For why should I have loved her to my shame?
I loathe her, as I loved her to my shame.
I never loved her, I but lusted for her—
Away!”—
He dash’d the rowel into his horse,
And bounded forth and vanish’d thro’ the night.
Then she, that felt the cold touch on her throat,
Awaking knew the sword, and turn’d herself
To Gawain: “Liar, for thou hast not slain
This Pelleas! here he stood, and might have slain
Me and thyself.” And he that tells the tale
Says that her ever-veering fancy turn’d
To Pelleas, as the one true knight on earth
And only lover; and thro’ her love her life
Wasted and pined, desiring him in vain.
But he by
wild and way, for half the night,
And over hard and soft, striking the sod
From out the soft, the spark from off the hard,
Rode till the star above the wakening sun,
Beside that tower where Percivale was cowl’d,
Glanced from the rosy forehead of the dawn.
For so the words were flash’d into his heart
He knew not whence or wherefore: “O sweet star,
Pure on the virgin forehead of the dawn!”
And there he would have wept, but felt his eyes
Harder and drier than a fountain bed
In summer. Thither came the village girls
And linger’d talking, and they come no more
Till the sweet heavens have fill’d it from the heights
Again with living waters in the change
Of seasons. Hard his eyes, harder his heart
Seem’d; but so weary were his limbs that he,
Gasping, “Of Arthur’s hall am I, but here,
Here let me rest and die,” cast himself down,
And gulf’d his griefs in inmost sleep; so lay,
Till shaken by a dream, that Gawain fired
The hall of Merlin, and the morning star
Reel’d in the smoke, brake into flame, and fell.
He woke, and being ware of some one nigh, Sent hands upon him, as to tear him, crying, “False! and I held thee pure as Guinevere.”
But Percivale stood near him and replied,
“Am I but false as Guinevere is pure?
Or art thou mazed with dreams? or being one
Of our free-spoken Table hast not heard
That Lancelot”—there he check’d himself and paused.
Then fared it with Sir Pelleas as with one
Who gets a wound in battle, and the sword
That made it plunges thro’ the wound again,
And pricks it deeper; and he shrank and wail’d,
“Is the Queen false?” and Percivale was mute.
“Have any of our Round Table held their vows?”
Idylls of the King and a New Selection of Poems Page 27
