Works of Edwin Arlington Robinson

by Edwin Arlington Robinson

  His elder, but with no large eagerness:

  “So it has come, Gawaine; and we are here. 730

  I find when I see backward something farther,

  By grace of time, than you are given to see —

  Though you, past any doubt, see much that I

  See not — I find that what the colder speech

  Of reason most repeated says to us 735

  Of what is in a way to come to us

  Is like enough to come. And we are here.

  Before the unseeing sun is here to mock us,

  Or the King here to prove us, we are here.

  We are the two, it seems, that are to make 740

  Of words and of our presences a veil

  Between him and the sight of what he does.

  Little have I to say that I may tell him:

  For what I know is what the city knows,

  Not what it says, — for it says everything. 745

  The city says the first of all who met

  The sword of Lancelot was Colgrevance,

  Who fell dead while he wept — a brave machine,

  Cranked only for the rudiments of war.

  But some of us are born to serve and shift, 750

  And that’s not well. The city says, also,

  That you and Lancelot were in the garden,

  Before the sun went down.”

  “Yes,” Gawaine groaned;

  “Yes, we were there together in the garden, 755

  Before the sun went down; and I conceive

  A place among the possibilities

  For me with other causes unforeseen

  Of what may shake down soon to grief and ashes

  This kingdom and this empire. Bedivere, 760

  Could I have given a decent seriousness

  To Lancelot while he said things to me

  That pulled his heart half out of him by the roots,

  And left him, I see now, half sick with pity

  For my poor uselessness to serve a need 765

  That I had never known, we might be now

  Asleep and easy in our beds at home,

  And we might hear no murmurs after sunrise

  Of what we are to hear. A few right words

  Of mine, if said well, might have been enough. 770

  That shall I never know. I shall know only

  That it was I who laughed at Lancelot

  When he said what lay heaviest on his heart.

  By now he might be far away from here,

  And farther from the world. But the Queen came; 775

  The Queen came, and I left them there together;

  And I laughed as I left them. After dark

  I met with Modred and said what I could,

  When I had heard him, to discourage him.

  His mother was my mother. I told Bors, 780

  And he told Lancelot; though as for that,

  My story would have been the same as his,

  And would have had the same acknowledgement:

  “Thanks, but no matter’ — or to that effect.

  The Queen, of course, had fished him for his word, 785

  And had it on the hook when she went home;

  And after that, an army of red devils

  Could not have held the man away from her.

  And I’m to live as long as I’m to wonder

  What might have been, had I not been — myself. 790

  I heard him, and I laughed. Then the Queen came.”

  “Recriminations are not remedies,

  Gawaine; and though you cast them at yourself,

  And hurt yourself, you cannot end or swerve

  The flowing of these minutes that leave hours 795

  Behind us, as we leave our faded selves

  And yesterdays. The surest-visioned of us

  Are creatures of our dreams and inferences,

  And though it look to us a few go far

  For seeing far, the fewest and the farthest 800

  Of all we know go not beyond themselves.

  No, Gawaine, you are not the cause of this;

  And I have many doubts if all you said,

  Or in your lightness may have left unsaid,

  Would have unarmed the Queen. The Queen was there.” — 805

  Gawaine looked up, and then looked down again:

  “Good God, if I had only said — said something!”

  “Say nothing now, Gawaine.” Bedivere sighed,

  And shook his head: “Morning is not in the west.

  The sun is rising and the King is coming; 810

  Now you may hear him in the corridor,

  Like a sick landlord shuffling to the light

  For one last look-out on his mortgaged hills.

  But hills and valleys are not what he sees;

  He sees with us the fire — the sign — the law. 815

  The King that is the father of the law

  Is weaker than his child, except he slay it.

  Not long ago, Gawaine, I had a dream

  Of a sword over kings, and of a world

  Without them.”— “Dreams, dreams.”— “Hush, Gawaine.” 820

  King Arthur

  Came slowly on till in the darkened entrance

  He stared and shivered like a sleep-walker,

  Brought suddenly awake where a cliff’s edge

  Is all he sees between another step 825

  And his annihilation. Bedivere rose,

  And Gawaine rose; and with instinctive arms

  They partly guided, partly carried him,

  To the King’s chair.

  “I thank you, gentlemen, 830

  Though I am not so shaken, I dare say,

  As you would have me. This is not the hour

  When kings who do not sleep are at their best;

  And had I slept this night that now is over,

  No man should ever call me King again.” 835

  He pulled his heavy robe around him closer,

  And laid upon his forehead a cold hand

  That came down warm and wet. “You, Bedivere,

  And you, Gawaine, are shaken with events

  Incredible yesterday, — but kings are men. 840

  Take off their crowns and tear away their colors

  And let them see with my eyes what I see —

  Yes, they are men, indeed! If there’s a slave

  In Britain with a reptile at his heart

  Like mine that with his claws of ice and fire 845

  Tears out of me the fevered roots of mercy,

  Find him, and I will make a king of him!

  And then, so that his happiness may swell

  Tenfold, I’ll sift the beauty of all courts

  And capitals, to fetch the fairest woman 850

  That evil has in hiding; after that,

  That he may know the sovran one man living

  To be his friend, I’ll prune all chivalry

  To one sure knight. In this wise our new king

  Will have his queen to love, as I had mine, — 855

  His friend that he may trust, as I had mine, —

  And he will be as gay, if all goes well,

  As I have been: as fortunate in his love,

  And in his friend as fortunate — as I am!

  And what am I?… And what are you — you two! 860

  If you are men, why don’t you say I’m dreaming?

  I know men when I see them, I know daylight;

  And I see now the gray shine of our dreams.

  I tell you I’m asleep and in my bed!…

  But no — no… I remember. You are men. 865

  You are no dreams — but God, God, if you were!

  If I were strong enough to make you vanish

  And have you back again with yesterday —

  Before I lent myself to that false hunting,

  Which yet may stalk the hours of many more 870

  Than Lancelot’s unhappy twelve who died, —

  With a misguided Colgre
vance to lead them,

  And Agravaine to follow and fall next, —

  Then should I know at last that I was King,

  And I should then be King. But kings are men, 875

  And I have gleaned enough these two years gone

  To know that queens are women. Merlin told me:

  “The love that never was.’ Two years ago

  He told me that: ‘The love that never was!’

  I saw — but I saw nothing. Like the bird 880

  That hides his head, I made myself see nothing.

  But yesterday I saw — and I saw fire.

  I think I saw it first in Modred’s eyes;

  Yet he said only truth — and fire is right.

  It is — it must be fire. The law says fire. 885

  And I, the King who made the law, say fire!

  What have I done — what folly have I said,

  Since I came here, of dreaming? Dreaming? Ha!

  I wonder if the Queen and Lancelot

  Are dreaming!… Lancelot! Have they found him yet? 890

  He slashed a way into the outer night —

  Somewhere with Bors. We’ll have him here anon,

  And we shall feed him also to the fire.

  There are too many faggots lying cold

  That might as well be cleansing, for our good, 895

  A few deferred infections of our state

  That honor should no longer look upon.

  Thank heaven, I man my drifting wits again!

  Gawaine, your brothers, Gareth and Gaheris,

  Are by our royal order there to see 900

  And to report. They went unwillingly,

  For they are new to law and young to justice;

  But what they are to see will harden them

  With wholesome admiration of a realm

  Where treason’s end is ashes. Ashes. Ashes! 905

  Now this is better. I am King again.

  Forget, I pray, my drowsy temporizing,

  For I was not then properly awake….

  What? Hark! Whose crass insanity is that!

  If I be King, go find the fellow and hang him 910

  Who beats into the morning on that bell

  Before there is a morning! This is dawn!

  What! Bedivere? Gawaine? You shake your heads?

  I tell you this is dawn!… What have I done?

  What have I said so lately that I flinch 915

  To think on! What have I sent those boys to see?

  I’ll put clouts on my eyes, and I’ll not see it!

  Her face, and hands, and little small white feet,

  And all her shining hair and her warm body —

  No — for the love of God, no! — it’s alive! 920

  She’s all alive, and they are burning her —

  The Queen — the love — the love that never was!

  Gawaine! Bedivere! Gawaine! — Where is Gawaine!

  Is he there in the shadow? Is he dead?

  Are we all dead? Are we in hell? — Gawaine!… 925

  I cannot see her now in the smoke. Her eyes

  Are what I see — and her white body is burning!

  She never did enough to make me see her

  Like that — to make her look at me like that!

  There’s not room in the world for so much evil 930

  As I see clamoring in her poor white face

  For pity. Pity her, God! God!… Lancelot!”

  Lancelot V

  GAWAINE, his body trembling and his heart

  Pounding as if he were a boy in battle,

  Sat crouched as far away from everything 935

  As walls would give him distance. Bedivere

  Stood like a man of stone with folded arms,

  And wept in stony silence. The King moved

  His pallid lips and uttered fitfully

  Low fragments of a prayer that was half sad, 940

  Half savage, and was ended in a crash

  Of distant sound that anguish lifted near

  To those who heard it. Gawaine sprang again

  To the same casement where the towers and roofs

  Had glimmered faintly a long hour ago, 945

  But saw no terrors yet — though now he heard

  A fiercer discord than allegiance rings

  To rouse a mourning city: blows, groans, cries,

  Loud iron struck on iron, horses trampling,

  Death-yells and imprecations, and at last 950

  A moaning silence. Then a murmuring

  Of eager fearfulness, which had a note

  Of exultation and astonishment,

  Came nearer, till a tumult of hard feet

  Filled the long corridor where late the King 955

  Had made a softer progress.

  “Well then, Lucan,”

  The King said, urging an indignity

  To qualify suspense: “For what arrears

  Of grace are we in debt for this attention? 960

  Why all this early stirring of our sentries,

  And their somewhat unseasoned innovation,

  To bring you at this unappointed hour?

  Are we at war with someone or another,

  Without our sanction or intelligence? 965

  Are Lucius and the Romans here to greet us,

  Or was it Lucius we saw dead?”

  Sir Lucan

  Bowed humbly in amazed acknowledgment

  Of his intrusion, meanwhile having scanned 970

  What three grief-harrowed faces were revealing:

  “Praise God, sir, there are tears in the King’s eyes,

  And in his friends’. Having regarded them,

  And having ventured an abrupt appraisal

  Of what I translate….” 975

  “Lucan,” the King said,

  “No matter what procedure or persuasion

  Gave you an entrance — tell us what it is

  That you have come to tell us, and no more.

  There was a most uncivil sound abroad 980

  Before you came. Who riots in the city?”

  “Sir, will your patience with a element ear,

  Attend the confirmation of events,

  I will, with all available precision,

  Say what this morning has inaugurated. 985

  No preface or prolonged exordium

  Need aggravate the narrative, I venture.

  The man of God, requiring of the Queen

  A last assoiling prayer for her salvation,

  Heard what none else did hear save God the Father. 990

  Then a great hush descended on a scene

  Where stronger men than I fell on their knees,

  And wet with tears their mail of shining iron

  That soon was to be cleft unconscionably

  Beneath a blast of anguish as intense 995

  And fabulous in ardor and effect

  As Jove’s is in his lightning. To be short,

  They led the Queen — and she went bravely to it,

  Or so she was configured in the picture —

  A brief way more; and we who did see that, 1000

  Believed we saw the last of all her sharing

  In this conglomerate and perplexed existence.

  But no — and here the prodigy comes in —

  The penal flame had hardly bit the faggot,

  When, like an onslaught out of Erebus, 1005

  There came a crash of horses, and a flash

  Of axes, and a hewing down of heroes,

  Not like to any in its harsh, profound,

  Unholy, and uneven execution.

  I felt the breath of one horse on my neck, 1010

  And of a sword that all but left a chasm

  Where still, praise be to God, I have intact

  A face, if not a fair one. I achieved

  My flight, I trust, with honorable zeal,

  Not having arms, or mail, or preservation 1015

  In any phase of necessary iron.

  I found a refuge
; and there saw the Queen,

  All white, and in a swound of woe uplifted

  By Lionel, while a dozen fought about him,

  And Lancelot, who seized her while he struck, 1020

  And with his insane army galloped away,

  Before the living, whom he left amazed,

  Were sure they were alive among the dead.

  Not even in the legendary mist

  Of wars that none today may verify, 1025

  Did ever men annihilate their kind

  With a more vicious inhumanity,

  Or a more skilful frenzy. Lancelot

  And all his heated adjuncts are by now

  Too far, I fear, for such immediate 1030

  Reprisal as your majesty perchance…”

  “O’ God’s name, Lucan,” the King cried, “be still!”

  He gripped with either sodden hand an arm

  Of his unyielding chair, while his eyes blazed

  In anger, wonder, and fierce hesitation. 1035

  Then with a sigh that may have told unheard

  Of an unwilling gratitude, he gazed

  Upon his friends who gazed again at him;

  But neither King nor friend said anything

  Until the King turned once more to Sir Lucan: 1040

  “Be still, or publish with a shorter tongue

  The names of our companions who are dead.

  Well, were you there? Or did you run so fast

  That you were never there? You must have eyes,

  Or you could not have run to find us here.” 1045

  Then Lucan, with a melancholy glance

  At Gawaine, who stood glaring his impatience,

  Addressed again the King: “I will be short, sir;

  Too brief to measure with finality

  The scope of what I saw with indistinct 1050

  Amazement and incredulous concern.

  Sir Tor, Sir Griflet, and Sir Aglovale

  Are dead. Sir Gillimer, he is dead. Sir — Sir —

  But should a living error be detailed

  In my account, how should I meet your wrath 1055

  For such a false addition to your sorrow?”

  He turned again to Gawaine, who shook now

  As if the fear in him were more than fury. —

  The King, observing Gawaine, beat his foot

  In fearful hesitancy on the floor: 1060

  “No, Lucan; if so kind an error lives

  In your dead record, you need have no fear.

  My sorrow has already, in the weight

  Of this you tell, too gross a task for that.”

  “Then I must offer you cold naked words, 1065

  Without the covering warmth of even one

  Forlorn alternative,” said Lucan, slowly: