Gawayne and the Green Knight: A Fairy Tale

CANTO IV O Muse!—But no: heaven knows I need a muse; But which of all the nine, pray, should I choose? Thalia, Clio, and Melpomene, I love them all, but none, alas, loves me; For if you want a muse to take your part You must be solely hers with all your heart; And I have mingled since my earliest youth My smiles and tears, my fictions and my truth; Nay, in this very tale, scarce yet half done, I've courted all the nine, and so won none! Not for me, therefore, the Parnassian lyre, Or winged war-horse shod with heavenly fire; Harsh numbers flow from throats whose thirst has been A whole life long unslaked of Hippocrene; But I will e'en go on as best I can And let the story end as it began,— A plain, straightforward man's unvarnished word, Part sad, part sweet,—and part of it absurd. A year passed by, as years are wont to do, Winter and spring, summer and autumn too, Till mid-December's flaw-blown flakes of snow Warned Gawayne that the time was come to go To the Green Chapel by the Murmuring Mere, And take again the blow he gave last year. In the great court his charger stamped the ground, While knights and weeping ladies thronged around To arm him (as the custom was of yore) And bid him sad farewell for evermore. One face alone in all that bustling throng Our hero's eyes sought eagerly, and long Sought vainly; for the lady Elfinhart, Debating with herself, stood yet apart; But as Sir Gawayne gathered up his reins And bade the draw-bridge warden loose the chains, Suddenly Elfinhart stood by his side, Her fair face flushed with love, and joy, and pride. She plucked a sprig of holly from her gown And looked up, questioning; and he leaned down, And so she placed it in his helm. No word Might Gawayne's lips then utter, but he heard The voice that was his music, and could feel The touch of gentle fingers through the steel. "Wear this, Sir Gawayne, for a loyal friend Whose hopes and prayers go with you to the end." And, staying not for answer, she withdrew, And in the throng was lost to Gawayne's view. He roused himself, and waving high his hand, Struck spur, and so rode off toward Fairyland. Long time he traveled by an unknown way, Unhoused at night, companionless by day. The cold sleet stung him through his shirt of mail, But, underneath, his stout heart would not fail, But beat full measure through the fiercest storm, And kept his head clear and his brave soul warm. No need to tell the perils that he passed; He conquered all, and came unscathed at last To where a high-embattled castle stood Deep in the heart of a dense willow-wood. And Gawayne called aloud, and to the gate A smiling porter came, who opened straight, And bade him enter in and take his rest; And Gawayne entered, and the people pressed About him with fair speeches; and he laid His armor off, and gave it them, and prayed That they would take his message to their lord,— prayer for friendly shelter, bed and board. He told them whence he was, his birth and name; And the bold baron of the castle came, A mighty man, huge-limbed, with flashing eyes, And welcomed him with old-time courtesies; For manners, in those days, were held of worth, And gentle breeding went with gentle birth. He heartily was glad his guest had come, And made Sir Gawayne feel himself at home; And as they walked in, side by side, each knew The other for an honest man and true. That night our hero and the baron ate A sumptuous dinner in the hall of state, And all the household, ranged along the board, Made good cheer with Sir Gawayne and their lord, And passed the brimming bowl right merrily With friendly banter and quick repartee. And Gawayne asked if they had chanced to hear Of a Green Chapel by a Murmuring Mere, And straightway all grew grave. Within his breast Sir Gawayne felt a tremor of unrest, But told his story with a gay outside, And asked for some good man to be his guide To find his foe. "I promise him," said he, "No golden guerdon;—his reward shall be The consciousness that unto him 't was given To show a parting soul the way to heaven!" Up jumped his host. "My friend, I like your attitude, And know no surer way to win heaven's gratitude Than sending thither just such men as you; I'll be your guide. But since you are not due At the Green Chapel till three nights from now, And since the way is short, I'll tell you how The interim may be disposed of best:— In short, let me propose a merry jest!" At this Sir Gawayne gave a sudden start, For some old memory seemed to clutch his heart, And in the baron's eyes he seemed to see A twinkling gleam of green benignity Not wholly strange; but like a flash 't was gone. Gawayne sank back, and his good host went on: "Two days you sojourn here, and while I take My daily hunting in the wood, you make My house and castle yours; and then, each night, We'll meet together here at candle-light, And all my winnings in the wood, and all That comes to you at home, whate'er befall, We'll give each other in exchange; in fine, My fortune shall be yours, and yours be mine." To Gawayne this seemed generous indeed. And with most cordial laughter he agreed. They clasped hands o'er the bargain with good zest, And then all said good-night, and went to rest. Next morning Gawayne was awakened early From a deep slumber by the hurly-burly Of footman, horseman, seneschal, and groom, Bustling beneath the windows of his room. He rose and looked out, just in time to see The baron and a goodly company Of huntsmen, armed with cross-bow, axe, and spear, Ride through the castle gate and disappear. And then, while Gawayne dressed, there came a knock Upon his chamber door. He threw the lock, And a boy page brought robes of ermine fur And Tarsic silk,—black, white, and lavender,— For his array, and with them a kind message, Which the good knight received with no ill presage: "Will brave Sir Gawayne spare an idle hour For quiet converse in my lady's bower?" The boy led on, and Gawayne followed him Through crooked corridors and archways dim, Along low galleries echoing from afar, And down a winding stair; then "Here we are!" The page cried cheerily, and paused before The massive carvings of an antique door. This he swung open; and the knight passed through Into a garden, fresh with summer dew! A lady's bower in Fairyland! What pen Could make that strange enchantment live again? Not he who drew Acrasia's Bower of Bliss And Phædria's happy isle could picture this. That sweet-souled Puritan discerned too well The serpent's coil behind the witch's spell; And he who saw—when the dark veil was torn— The rose of Paradise without the thorn, (Sublimest prophet, whose immortal verse Lent mightier thunders to the primal curse), Even he too sternly, in the soul's defense, Repressed the still importunate cries of sense. Bid me not, therefore, task my feebler pen With dreams beyond the limits of their ken; The phantom conjurings of the magic hour That Gawayne passed in that enchanted bower Must be from mortal eyes forever hid. But yet some part of what he felt and did These lines must needs disclose. As he stood there, Breathing soft odors from the mellow air, All hopes, all aims of noble knighthood seemed Like the dim yesterdays of one who dreamed, In starless caves of memory sunken deep, And, like lost music, folded in strange sleep. "How long, O mortal man, wilt thou give heed To the world's phantom voices? The hours speed, And fame and fortune yield to moth and rust, And good and evil crumble into dust. Even now the sands are running in the glass; Set not your heart upon vain things that pass; Ambitions, honors, toils, are but the snare Where lurks for aye the blind old world's despair. Nay, quiet the bootless striving in your breast And let your tired heart here at last find rest. In vain have joy, love, beauty, struck deep root In your heart's heart, unless you pluck the fruit; Then put away the cheating soul's pretense, Heap high the press, fill full the cup of sense; Shatter the idols of blind yesterday, And let love, joy, and beauty reign alway!" Such thoughts as these, confused and unexpressed, Flooded the silence in Sir Gawayne's breast. Meanwhile a brasier filled the scented air With wreaths of magic mist, and he was ware That the mist drew together like a shroud; And then the veil was rent, and in the cloud Stood one who seemed, in features, form, and dress, The perfect image of all loveliness. The wonders of that vision none could tell Save one whose heart had felt the mystic spell. Once and once only, in the golden days When youth made melody for love's sweet lays, In two dark eyes (yet oh, how bright, how bright!) I saw the wakening rapture of love's light, And, in the hush of that still dawning, heard From two sweet trembling lips love's whispered word. The twilight deepens when the sun has set; In memory golden glories linger yet; But these avail not. Though my soul lay bare, With all those memories sanctuaried there, That spell was human. But the unseen power That wove the witchery of this fairy bower, In Gawayne's heart such subtle magic wrought That past and future were well-nigh forgot, And all that earth holds else, or heaven above, Seemed naught worth keeping, save this dream of love. And now, as the strange cloud of incense broke, The vision, if it were a vision, spoke,— If it were speech that filled the quivering air With low harmonious music. Let none dare In the rude jargons of this world to fashion That sweet, wild anthem of unearthly passion. Could I from the broad-billowing ocean borrow Of Tristan's love and of Isolde's sorrow, The flood of those world-darkening surges, wrought With thoughts that lie beyond the reach of thought, Might bring me succor where weak words must fail. But Gawayne saw and heard, and passion-pale Shrank back, and made a darkness of his face; (As though the unplumbed deeps of starless space Could quench those lustrous eyes, or close his ears To the eternal music of love's spheres!) But the voice changed, and Gawayne, listening there, Heard now a heart's low cry of wild despair. He turned again, and lo! the vision knelt And drew a jeweled poniard from her belt, To arm herself against her own dear life; But as she bared her white breast to the knife He started quickly forward, and he grasped The hand that held the hilt; and then she clasped Her soft arms round his neck, and as their lips Met in the shadowing fold of love's eclipse, All earth, all heaven, all knightly hopes of grace, Died in the darkness of one blind embrace. Died? Nay; for Gawayne, ere the moment passed, Broke from the arms that strove to bind him fast, And turned away once more; and, as he pressed A trembling hand against his throbbing breast, His aimless fingers touched a treasured part Of the green holly-branch of Elfinhart, Laid in his breast when he put off his arms. What perils now are left in fairy charms? For poets fable when they call love blind; Love's habitation is the purer mind, Whence with his keen eyes he may penetrate All mists and fogs that baser spells create. Love? What is love? Not the wild feverish thrill, When heart to heart the thronging pulses fill, And lips that close in parching kisses find No speech but those;—the best remains behind. The tranquil spirit—the divine assurance That this life's seemings have a high endurance— Thoughts that allay this restless striving, calm The passionate heart, and fill old wounds with balm;— These are the choirs invisible that move In white processionals up the aisles of love. Such love was Gawayne's,—love that sanctifies The heart's most secret altar; and his eyes Their old true rhythm. And so the strife was o'er, And all the perilous wiles of magic art Were foiled by Gawayne—and by Elfinhart. But time flies, and 't were tedious to delay My song for all the trials of that day. Light summer breezes, skurrying o'er the deep, Ripple and foam and flash,—then sink to sleep; But underneath, serene and changing never, The mighty heart of ocean beats forever, And his deep streams renew from pole to pole The living world's indomitable soul. Enough, then, of the spells that vexed the brain Of Gawayne; love and knighthood made all vain. And in the afternoon, when Gawayne learned That his good host, the baron, had returned, He met him in the hall at candle-light, According to his promise of last night. And then the baron motioned to a page, And straightway six tall men, of lusty age And mighty sinews, entered the great door, Bearing the carcass of a huge wild boar, In all its uncouth ugliness complete, And dropped it quivering at our hero's feet. "What do you say to that, Sir Gawayne?" cried The baron, swelling with true sportsman's pride "But come: your promise, now, of yester-eve; 'T is blesseder to give than to receive! Though I'll be sworn you'll find it hard to pay Full value for the winnings of this day." "Not so," said Gawayne; "you will rest my debtor; Your gift is good, but mine will be far better." And then he strode with solemn steps along The echoing hall, and through the listening throng, And with the words, "My noble lord, take this!" He gave the baron a resounding kiss. The baron jumped up in ecstatic glee. "Now by my great-great-grandsire's beard," quoth he, "Better than all dead boars in Christendom Is one sweet loving kiss!—Whence did it come?" "Nay, there," Sir Gawayne said, "you step beyond The terms we stipulated in our bond. Take you my kiss in peace, as I your boar; Be glad; give thanks;—and seek to know no more." Loud laughter made the baron's eyes grow bright And glitter with green sparkles of delight; And then he chuckled: "Sir, I'm proud of you; I drink your best of health; I think you'll do! " And now the board was laid and dressed, and all Sat down to dinner at the baron's call; And Gawayne looked along the room askance, Seeking the lady; and he caught one glance Of laughing eyes—then looked away in haste, But turned again, and wondered why his taste Had erred so strangely, for the lady seemed Not fairer now than others. Had he dreamed? He rubbed his eyes and pondered,—though in sooth Without one glimmering presage of the truth,— Till all passed lightly from his puzzled mind, Leaving contentment and good cheer behind. So all the company feasted well, and sped The flying hours, till it was time for bed. One whole day longer must our hero rest Within doors, to fulfill the merry jest. So when, next morning, Gawayne once more heard The hunt's-up in the court, he never stirred, But let the merry horsemen ride away While he slept soundly well into the day. Later he rose, and strolled from room to room, Through vaulted twilights of ancestral gloom, Until, descending a long stair, he found The dim-lit castle crypt, deep under ground, Where sculptured effigies forever kept Their long last marble silence as they slept, And iron sentinels, on bended knees, Held eyeless vigil in old panoplies. Sir Gawayne, wandering on in aimless mood, Pondered the tomb-stone legends, quaint and rude, Wherein the pensive dreamer might divine A tragic history in every line; For so does fate, with bitterest irony, Epitomize fame's immortality, Perpetuating for all after days Mute lamentations and unnoted praise. And Gawayne, reading here and there the story Of fame obscure and unremembered glory, Found on a tablet these words: "Where he lies, The gray wave breaks and the wild sea-mew flies: If any be that loved him, seek not here, But in the lone hills by the Murmuring Mere." A nameless cenotaph!—perhaps of one Like Gawayne's self deluded and undone By the green stranger; and the legend brought A tide of passion flooding Gawayne's thought; A flood-tide, not of fear,—for Gawayne's breast Shrank never at the perilous behest Of noble knighthood,—but the love of life, Compassion, and soul-sickness of the strife. "If any be that loved him!" Oh, to die Far from green-swarded Camelot, and lie Among these bleak and barren hills alone, His end unwept for and his grave unknown,— Never again to see the glad sunrise That brightened all his world in those dear eyes! Half suffocating in the charneled air Of that low vault, he staggered up the stair, Out of the dim-lit halls of silent death Into the living light, and drew quick breath Where, through a casement-arch of ivied stone, Bright from the clear blue sky the warm sun shone. The whole of life's glad rapture thrilled his heart; Till a quick step behind him made him start, And there, deep-veiled, in muffling cloak and hood, Once more the lady of the castle stood. Low-voiced she spoke, as if with studied care Weighing the syllables of her parting prayer. "Sir Gawayne—nay, I pray you, turn not yet, But hear me;—though my heart may not forget That once, for one sweet moment, you were kind, I come not to recall that to your mind;— Between us two be love's words aye unspoken! Yet ere you go, I pray you, leave some token That in the long, long years may comfort me For the dear face I nevermore shall see." "Nay, lady," said the knight, "I have no gifts To give you. Errant knighthood ever drifts From shore to shore, by wandering breezes blown, With naught save its good name to call its own. In friendship, then, I pray you keep for me My name untarnished in your memory." "Ah, sir," she said, "my memory bears that name Burnt in with characters of living flame. But though you give me naught, I pray you take This girdle from me;—wear it for my sake; Nay, but refuse me not; you little know Its magic power. I had it long ago From Fairyland; and its encircling charm Keeps scathless him who wears it from all harm; No evil thing can touch him. Gird it on, If but to ease my heart when you are gone." She held a plain green girdle in her hand, In outward seeming just a narrow band Of silk, with silver clasps; but in those days The strangest things were wrought in simplest ways, As Gawayne knew full well; and he could see That all the lady said was verity. He took the girdle, held it, fingered it, Then clasped it round his waist to try the fit, Irresolutely dallying with temptation, Till conscience grew too weak for inclination; For at the last he threw one wandering glance Out at the casement, and the merry dance Of sparkling sunbeams on the fields of snow Wrought havoc in his wavering heart; and so, Repeating to himself one word: "Life, life!" He took the token from the baron's wife. That evening, when the baron and our knight Met to exchange their gifts at candle-light, The baron, looking graver than before, Said: "Sir, my luck has left me; not a boar Did we get wind of, all this blessed day. I come with empty hands, only to pray Your pardon. What good fortune do you bring?" And Gawayne answered firmly: "Not a thing!" CANTO IV CONCLUSION By noon the next day, Gawayne and his host Rode side by side along the perilous coast Of the gray Mere, from whose unquiet sleep Reverberating murmurs of the deep Startled the still December's listening air. The baron, shuddering, pointed seaward. "There," He said, "year in, year out, these voices haunt That fearful water; heaven knows what they want! Men tell me—and I have no doubt it's true— They are knights-errant whom the Green Knight slew! Woe unto him, the over-bold, who dares Adventure near that uncouth monster's snares!" Quoth Gawayne: "How have you escaped the net?" The baron answered: "I? We never met! When I'm about, he seems to shun the place, And where he is, I never show my face; But if we did meet, 't would be safe to say Not more than one of us would get away!" And then the baron told tales by the score About the Green Knight's quenchless thirst for gore, And kept repeating that no magic charm Was proof against the prowess of his arm; At his first blow each vain defense must fall, For he was arch-magician over all. And as from tale to tale the baron ran, Sir Gawayne, had he been another man, Would certainly have felt his heart's blood curdle, Despite his secret wearing of the girdle; But when the baron finally suggested Abandoning the venture, and protested That the whole monstrous business was absurd, Sir Gawayne simply said: "I gave my word." And when the baron saw he would not bend, He seemed to lose all patience. "Well, my friend, I'll go no further with you. On your head Shall be your own mad blood when you are dead. Yonder your two roads fork; pause there, I pray, And ponder well before you choose your way. One takes the hills, one winds along the wave; To Camelot this,—the other to your grave! Choose the high road, Sir Gawayne; shun the danger! Say you were misdirected by a stranger;— I swear by all that's sacred, I'll not tell One syllable to a soul:—and so farewell!" He galloped off without another word, And vanished where the road turned. Gawayne heard, Long after he had disappeared, the sound Of iron hoof-beats on the frozen ground, Till all died into silence, save those drear And hollow voices from the Murmuring Mere. But Gawayne chose the lower road, and passed Along the desolate shore. The die was cast. The western skies, as the red sun sank low, Cast purple shades across the drifted snow, And Gawayne knew that the dread hour was come For the fulfillment of his martyrdom. And now, from just beyond a jutting hill, Came hideous sounds, as of a giant mill That hisses, roars, and sputters, clicks and clacks;— It was the Green Knight sharpening his axe! And Gawayne, coming past the corner, found him, With ghastly mouldering skulls and bones strewn round him, In joyous fury urging the keen steel Against the surface of his grinding wheel. The place was a wild hollow, circled round With barren hills, and on the bottom ground Stood the Green Chapel, moss-grown, solitary;— In sooth, it seemed the devil's mortuary! The Green Knight's back was turned, and he stirred not Till Gawayne hailed him sharply; then he shot One glance—as when, o'erhead, a living wire Startles the night with flashes of green fire;— Then hurried forward, bland as bland could be, And greeted Gawayne with green courtesy. "Dear sir, I ask a thousand pardons; pray Forgive me. You are punctual to the day; That's good! Of course I knew you would not fail. How do you do? You look a trifle pale; I trust, with all my heart, you are not ill? Just the cold air? It does blow rather chill! What can I do to cheer you? Let me see;— Suppose I brew a cup of hot green tea? You'ld rather not? You're pressed for time? Of course, I understand; then just get off your horse, And I'll do all I can to expedite Our little business for you. There, that's right; And now your helmet? Thanks; and if you please Perhaps you'll kindly kneel down on your knees, As I did when I came to Camelot; So! Are you all ready? Will you bide the blow?" And Gawayne said "I will," in such soft notes As happy bridegrooms utter, when their throats Are paralyzed with blest anticipation;— (What Gawayne looked for was decapitation!) And then the Green Knight swung his axe in air With a loud whirr; and Gawayne, kneeling there, Shrank back an inch; and the green giant stayed His threatening hand, and with a cold sneer said: "You shrink, sir, from the axe; I can't hit true Unless you hold still, as I did for you." "Your pardon," Gawayne said, with bated breath; "This time I swear to hold as still as death." He did so, and the Green Knight swung again His axe, and whirled it round his head, and then, Pausing a second time, said: "Very good! You're holding quite still now; I knew you would!" Gawayne, in anger, said: "Jest, if you like, After the blow; tarry no longer; strike!" So once again the ponderous axe was raised; But this time down it came, and lightly grazed Sir Gawayne's neck. He felt the hot blood flow, And saw red drops that sank deep in the snow, And then he jumped up, faced his foe, and cried: "Enough: you owed me one blow, though I died; But be you man or beast or devil abhorred, I yield no further; with my mortal sword I do defy you; and if mortal man May hope against" ... But the Green Knight began A low melodious laugh, like running brooks Whose pebbly babble fills the shadowy nooks Of green-aisled woodlands, when the winds are still. "My friend, we bear each other no ill will. When first I swung my axe, you showed some fear; I owed you that much for your blow last year. The second time I swung,—yet spared your life,— That paid you for the kiss you gave my wife!" "Your wife!" "My wife, Sir Gawayne; 't was my word; And when I swung my weapon for the third And last time, then I made the red blood spirt For that green girdle underneath your shirt! You played me false, my friend!" And Gawayne knelt Once more, and casting off the magic belt, In bitter broken words confessed his shame, And begged the Green Knight to avenge the name Of injured knighthood, and with one last blow To end his guilty life. "Nay, nay, not so," The other softly said. "Be of good cheer; Your fault was small, for all men hold life dear. We tempted you, my friend, with all our might, And proved you in good sooth a noble knight; A veritable Joseph, sir, you are!" Quoth Gawayne drily, "Thanks, Lord Potiphar! But may I ask you why you played this part?" The other said: "Ask Lady Elfinhart!" He smiled, and from his smile a genial glow Of green mid-summer seemed to overflow, Filling with verdure all that barren place. The warm red blood rushed to Sir Gawayne's face; He caught his breath, and in his eager eyes There shone a sudden flash of dark surmise, And then he stood a long while pondering; But in his breast his heart began to sing The old, old music whose still echoes roll Forever voiceless through the listening soul. He said farewell to his good fairy friend As in a dream, where real and unreal blend In phantom unison, and with the light Of love to lead him home, rode through the night, Beside the tranquil murmurs of the Mere, And through the silence of the passing year; And earth and sea and starlit sky took part In the still exaltation of his heart, While all but love and wonder was forgot, Until he came to high-towered Camelot. To Camelot he came, and there he found The good King Arthur and his Table Round Awaiting his return in anxious doubt; But ere he passed the gates a mighty shout Rose from the watchmen on the outward wall And bore the tidings to the inmost hall. From every window flaunting flags were flung; From the high battlements brass trumpets sung; And great bells, chiming in the topmost tower, Pealed salutation to the joyous hour, As Gawayne, riding through the cullis-port, Faced the glad throng that filled the palace court. And with this tribute paid to knightly glory It seems most fitting to conclude my story. Entreat me not, dear reader, to impart Further of Gawayne, or of Elfinhart. Let your own fancy round the story out Whatever way you please; I cannot doubt The sequel; but when I, in silent thought, Had brought Sir Gawayne back to her, and sought With hand profane to lift the veil, behind Whose secret shelter their two hearts enshrined The mutual covenant of love's mystery, That pure fane would not desecrated be. But this alone I know: the power that wove Through human lives the warp and woof of love Wrought not in darkness, nor with hand unsure;— His fabric must forevermore endure. And hence I doubt not that these two were blest As none may be, save they who have confessed Allegiance to that mighty spirit's law, And trod his holy ground with reverent awe. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GAWAYNE AND THE GREEN KNIGHT: A FAIRY TALE *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. 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