Idylls of the King, Alfred Lord Tennyson [the reading strategies book TXT] 📗

main doorway past the King.

But one was counter to the hearth, and rose

High that the highest-crested helm could ride

Therethrough 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 warhorse 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-smothered fire,

That lookt half-dead, brake bright, and flashed as those

Dull-coated things, that making slide apart

Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath there burns

A jewelled harness, ere they pass and fly.

So Gareth ere he parted flashed in arms.

Then as he donned the helm, and took the shield

And mounted horse and graspt a spear, of grain

Storm-strengthened 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 worked

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 through 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 cooled by fighting, follows, being named,

His owner, but remembers all, and growls

Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the door

Muttered 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 peacocked 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 through silent faces rode

Down the slope city, and out beyond the gate.

 

But by the field of tourney lingering yet

Muttered 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-fleshed 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 comes 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 shocked, 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 stayed, 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 answered 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 maddened her, and away she flashed again

Down the long avenues of a boundless wood,

And Gareth following was again beknaved.

 

‘Sir Kitchen-knave, I have missed 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 missed the only way.’

 

So till the dusk that followed evensong

Rode on the two, reviler and reviled;

Then after one long slope was mounted, saw,

Bowl-shaped, through 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 servingman

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 wronged,

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, blackshadowed 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 through 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 wreaked 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 harbourage?’

 

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 scattered them.

Nay—for thou smellest of the kitchen still.

But an this lord will yield us harbourage,

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,

Setting this knave, Lord Baron, at my side.

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

And prayed 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 called—

Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen-knave,

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

And mighty through 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 looked 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 goodly therewithal,

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, conveyed 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.

Lion and stout have isled together, knave,

In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, methinks

Some ruth is mine for thee. Back wilt thou, fool?

For hard by here is one will overthrow

And slay thee: then will I to court again,

And shame the King for only yielding me

My champion from the ashes of his hearth.’

 

To whom Sir Gareth answered courteously,

‘Say thou thy say, and I will do my deed.

Allow me for mine hour, and thou wilt find

My fortunes all as fair as hers who lay

Among the ashes and wedded the King’s son.’

 

Then to the shore of one of those long loops

Wherethrough the serpent river coiled, they came.

Rough-thicketed were the banks and steep; the stream

Full, narrow; this a bridge of single arc

Took at a leap; and on the further side

Arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold

In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily in hue,

Save that the dome was purple, and above,

Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering.

And therebefore the lawless warrior paced

Unarmed, and calling, ‘Damsel, is this he,

The champion thou hast brought from Arthur’s hall?

For whom we let thee pass.’ ‘Nay, nay,’ she said,

‘Sir Morning-Star. The King in utter scorn

Of thee and thy much folly hath sent thee here

His kitchen-knave: and look thou to thyself:

See that he fall not on thee suddenly,

And slay thee unarmed: he is not knight but knave.’

 

Then at his call, ‘O daughters of