Part 6

Then cried Earl Yniol, “Art thou he indeed, Geraint, a name far-sounded among men For noble deeds? and truly I, when first I saw you moving by me on the bridge, Felt ye were somewhat, yea, and by your state And presence might have guessed you one of those That eat in Arthur’s hall in Camelot. Nor speak I now from foolish flattery; For this dear child hath often heard me praise Your feats of arms, and often when I paused Hath asked again, and ever loved to hear; So grateful is the noise of noble deeds To noble hearts who see but acts of wrong: O never yet had woman such a pair Of suitors as this maiden: first Limours, A creature wholly given to brawls and wine, Drunk even when he wooed; and be he dead I know not, but he past to the wild land. The second was your foe, the sparrow-hawk, My curse, my nephew—I will not let his name Slip from my lips if I can help it—he, When that I knew him fierce and turbulent Refused her to him, then his pride awoke; And since the proud man often is the mean, He sowed a slander in the common ear, Affirming that his father left him gold, And in my charge, which was not rendered to him; Bribed with large promises the men who served About my person, the more easily Because my means were somewhat broken into Through open doors and hospitality; Raised my own town against me in the night Before my Enid’s birthday, sacked my house; From mine own earldom foully ousted me; Built that new fort to overawe my friends, For truly there are those who love me yet; And keeps me in this ruinous castle here, Where doubtless he would put me soon to death, But that his pride too much despises me: And I myself sometimes despise myself; For I have let men be, and have their way; Am much too gentle, have not used my power: Nor know I whether I be very base Or very manful, whether very wise Or very foolish; only this I know, That whatsoever evil happen to me, I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb, But can endure it all most patiently.”

“Well said, true heart,” replied Geraint, “but arms, That if the sparrow-hawk, this nephew, fight In next day’s tourney I may break his pride.”

And Yniol answered, “Arms, indeed, but old And rusty, old and rusty, Prince Geraint, Are mine, and therefore at thy asking, thine. But in this tournament can no man tilt, Except the lady he loves best be there. Two forks are fixt into the meadow ground, And over these is placed a silver wand, And over that a golden sparrow-hawk, The prize of beauty for the fairest there. And this, what knight soever be in field Lays claim to for the lady at his side, And tilts with my good nephew thereupon, Who being apt at arms and big of bone Has ever won it for the lady with him, And toppling over all antagonism Has earned himself the name of sparrow-hawk.” But thou, that hast no lady, canst not fight.”

To whom Geraint with eyes all bright replied, Leaning a little toward him, “Thy leave! Let me lay lance in rest, O noble host, For this dear child, because I never saw, Though having seen all beauties of our time, Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair. And if I fall her name will yet remain Untarnished as before; but if I live, So aid me Heaven when at mine uttermost, As I will make her truly my true wife.”

Then, howsoever patient, Yniol’s heart Danced in his bosom, seeing better days, And looking round he saw not Enid there, (Who hearing her own name had stolen away) But that old dame, to whom full tenderly And folding all her hand in his he said, “Mother, a maiden is a tender thing, And best by her that bore her understood. Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest Tell her, and prove her heart toward the Prince.”

So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and she With frequent smile and nod departing found, Half disarrayed as to her rest, the girl; Whom first she kissed on either cheek, and then On either shining shoulder laid a hand, And kept her off and gazed upon her face, And told them all their converse in the hall, Proving her heart: but never light and shade Coursed one another more on open ground Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale Across the face of Enid hearing her; While slowly falling as a scale that falls, When weight is added only grain by grain, Sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast; Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word, Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of it; So moving without answer to her rest She found no rest, and ever failed to draw The quiet night into her blood, but lay Contemplating her own unworthiness; And when the pale and bloodless east began To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised Her mother too, and hand in hand they moved Down to the meadow where the jousts were held, And waited there for Yniol and Geraint.

And thither came the twain, and when Geraint Beheld her first in field, awaiting him, He felt, were she the prize of bodily force, Himself beyond the rest pushing could move The chair of Idris. Yniol’s rusted arms Were on his princely person, but through these Princelike his bearing shone; and errant knights And ladies came, and by and by the town Flowed in, and settling circled all the lists. And there they fixt the forks into the ground, And over these they placed the silver wand, And over that the golden sparrow-hawk. Then Yniol’s nephew, after trumpet blown, Spake to the lady with him and proclaimed, “Advance and take, as fairest of the fair, What I these two years past have won for thee, The prize of beauty.” Loudly spake the Prince, “Forbear: there is a worthier,” and the knight With some surprise and thrice as much disdain Turned, and beheld the four, and all his face Glowed like the heart of a great fire at Yule, So burnt he was with passion, crying out, “Do battle for it then,” no more; and thrice They clashed together, and thrice they brake their spears. Then each, dishorsed and drawing, lashed at each So often and with such blows, that all the crowd Wondered, and now and then from distant walls There came a clapping as of phantom hands. So twice they fought, and twice they breathed, and still The dew of their great labour, and the blood Of their strong bodies, flowing, drained their force. But either’s force was matched till Yniol’s cry, “Remember that great insult done the Queen,” Increased Geraint’s, who heaved his blade aloft, And cracked the helmet through, and bit the bone, And felled him, and set foot upon his breast, And said, “Thy name?” To whom the fallen man Made answer, groaning, “Edyrn, son of Nudd! Ashamed am I that I should tell it thee. My pride is broken: men have seen my fall.” “Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd,” replied Geraint, “These two things shalt thou do, or else thou diest. First, thou thyself, with damsel and with dwarf, Shalt ride to Arthur’s court, and coming there, Crave pardon for that insult done the Queen, And shalt abide her judgment on it; next, Thou shalt give back their earldom to thy kin. These two things shalt thou do, or thou shalt die.” And Edyrn answered, “These things will I do, For I have never yet been overthrown, And thou hast overthrown me, and my pride Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall!” And rising up, he rode to Arthur’s court, And there the Queen forgave him easily. And being young, he changed and came to loathe His crime of traitor, slowly drew himself Bright from his old dark life, and fell at last In the great battle fighting for the King.

But when the third day from the hunting-morn Made a low splendour in the world, and wings Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay With her fair head in the dim-yellow light, Among the dancing shadows of the birds, Woke and bethought her of her promise given No later than last eve to Prince Geraint— So bent he seemed on going the third day, He would not leave her, till her promise given— To ride with him this morning to the court, And there be made known to the stately Queen, And there be wedded with all ceremony. At this she cast her eyes upon her dress, And thought it never yet had looked so mean. For as a leaf in mid-November is To what it is in mid-October, seemed The dress that now she looked on to the dress She looked on ere the coming of Geraint. And still she looked, and still the terror grew Of that strange bright and dreadful thing, a court, All staring at her in her faded silk: And softly to her own sweet heart she said:

“This noble prince who won our earldom back, So splendid in his acts and his attire, Sweet heaven, how much I shall discredit him! Would he could tarry with us here awhile, But being so beholden to the Prince, It were but little grace in any of us, Bent as he seemed on going this third day, To seek a second favour at his hands. Yet if he could but tarry a day or two, Myself would work eye dim, and finger lame, Far liefer than so much discredit him.”

And Enid fell in longing for a dress All branched and flowered with gold, a costly gift Of her good mother, given her on the night Before her birthday, three sad years ago, That night of fire, when Edyrn sacked their house, And scattered all they had to all the winds: For while the mother showed it, and the two Were turning and admiring it, the work To both appeared so costly, rose a cry That Edyrn’s men were on them, and they fled With little save the jewels they had on, Which being sold and sold had bought them bread: And Edyrn’s men had caught them in their flight, And placed them in this ruin; and she wished The Prince had found her in her ancient home; Then let her fancy flit across the past, And roam the goodly places that she knew; And last bethought her how she used to watch, Near that old home, a pool of golden carp; And one was patched and blurred and lustreless Among his burnished brethren of the pool; And half asleep she made comparison Of that and these to her own faded self And the gay court, and fell asleep again; And dreamt herself was such a faded form Among her burnished sisters of the pool; But this was in the garden of a king; And though she lay dark in the pool, she knew That all was bright; that all about were birds Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work; That all the turf was rich in plots that looked Each like a garnet or a turkis in it; And lords and ladies of the high court went In silver tissue talking things of state; And children of the King in cloth of gold Glanced at the doors or gamboled down the walks; And while she thought “They will not see me,” came A stately queen whose name was Guinevere, And all the children in their cloth of gold Ran to her, crying, “If we have fish at all Let them be gold; and charge the gardeners now To pick the faded creature from the pool, And cast it on the mixen that it die.” And therewithal one came and seized on her, And Enid started waking, with her heart All overshadowed by the foolish dream, And lo! it was her mother grasping her To get her well awake; and in her hand A suit of bright apparel, which she laid Flat on the couch, and spoke exultingly:

“See here, my child, how fresh the colours look, How fast they hold like colours of a shell That keeps the wear and polish of the wave. Why not? It never yet was worn, I trow: Look on it, child, and tell me if ye know it.”

And Enid looked, but all confused at first, Could scarce divide it from her foolish dream: Then suddenly she knew it and rejoiced, And answered, “Yea, I know it; your good gift, So sadly lost on that unhappy night; Your own good gift!” “Yea, surely,” said the dame, “And gladly given again this happy morn. For when the jousts were ended yesterday, Went Yniol through the town, and everywhere He found the sack and plunder of our house All scattered through the houses of the town; And gave command that all which once was ours Should now be ours again: and yester-eve, While ye were talking sweetly with your Prince, Came one with this and laid it in my hand, For love or fear, or seeking favour of us, Because we have our earldom back again. And yester-eve I would not tell you of it, But kept it for a sweet surprise at morn. Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise? For I myself unwillingly have worn My faded suit, as you, my child, have yours, And howsoever patient, Yniol his. Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house, With store of rich apparel, sumptuous fare, And page, and maid, and squire, and seneschal, And pastime both of hawk and hound, and all That appertains to noble maintenance. Yea, and he brought me to a goodly house; But since our fortune swerved from sun to shade, And all through that young traitor, cruel need Constrained us, but a better time has come; So clothe yourself in this, that better fits Our mended fortunes and a Prince’s bride: For though ye won the prize of fairest fair, And though I heard him call you fairest fair, Let never maiden think, however fair, She is not fairer in new clothes than old. And should some great court-lady say, the Prince Hath picked a ragged-robin from the hedge, And like a madman brought her to the court, Then were ye shamed, and, worse, might shame the Prince To whom we are beholden; but I know, That when my dear child is set forth at her best, That neither court nor country, though they sought Through all the provinces like those of old That lighted on Queen Esther, has her match.”

Here ceased the kindly mother out of breath; And Enid listened brightening as she lay; Then, as the white and glittering star of morn Parts from a bank of snow, and by and by Slips into golden cloud, the maiden rose, And left her maiden couch, and robed herself, Helped by the mother’s careful hand and eye, Without a mirror, in the gorgeous gown; Who, after, turned her daughter round, and said, She never yet had seen her half so fair; And called her like that maiden in the tale, Whom Gwydion made by glamour out of flowers And sweeter than the bride of Cassivelaun, Flur, for whose love the Roman Caesar first Invaded Britain, “But we beat him back, As this great Prince invaded us, and we, Not beat him back, but welcomed him with joy And I can scarcely ride with you to court, For old am I, and rough the ways and wild; But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall dream I see my princess as I see her now, Clothed with my gift, and gay among the gay.”

But while the women thus rejoiced, Geraint Woke where he slept in the high hall, and called For Enid, and when Yniol made report Of that good mother making Enid gay In such apparel as might well beseem His princess, or indeed the stately Queen, He answered: “Earl, entreat her by my love, Albeit I give no reason but my wish, That she ride with me in her faded silk.” Yniol with that hard message went; it fell Like flaws in summer laying lusty corn: For Enid, all abashed she knew not why, Dared not to glance at her good mother’s face, But silently, in all obedience, Her mother silent too, nor helping her, Laid from her limbs the costly-broidered gift, And robed them in her ancient suit again, And so descended. Never man rejoiced More than Geraint to greet her thus attired; And glancing all at once as keenly at her As careful robins eye the delver’s toil, Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall, But rested with her sweet face satisfied; Then seeing cloud upon the mother’s brow, Her by both hands she caught, and sweetly said,

“O my new mother, be not wroth or grieved At thy new son, for my petition to her. When late I left Caerleon, our great Queen, In words whose echo lasts, they were so sweet, Made promise, that whatever bride I brought, Herself would clothe her like the sun in Heaven. Thereafter, when I reached this ruined hall, Beholding one so bright in dark estate, I vowed that could I gain her, our fair Queen, No hand but hers, should make your Enid burst Sunlike from cloud—and likewise thought perhaps, That service done so graciously would bind The two together; fain I would the two Should love each other: how can Enid find A nobler friend? Another thought was mine; I came among you here so suddenly, That though her gentle presence at the lists Might well have served for proof that I was loved, I doubted whether daughter’s tenderness, Or easy nature, might not let itself Be moulded by your wishes for her weal; Or whether some false sense in her own self Of my contrasting brightness, overbore Her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall; And such a sense might make her long for court And all its perilous glories: and I thought, That could I someway prove such force in her Linked with such love for me, that at a word (No reason given her) she could cast aside A splendour dear to women, new to her, And therefore dearer; or if not so new, Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the power Of intermitted usage; then I felt That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and flows, Fixt on her faith. Now, therefore, I do rest, A prophet certain of my prophecy, That never shadow of mistrust can cross Between us. Grant me pardon for my thoughts: And for my strange petition I will make Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day, When your fair child shall wear your costly gift Beside your own warm hearth, with, on her knees, Who knows? another gift of the high God, Which, maybe, shall have learned to lisp you thanks.”

He spoke: the mother smiled, but half in tears, Then brought a mantle down and wrapt her in it, And claspt and kissed her, and they rode away.

Now thrice that morning Guinevere had climbed The giant tower, from whose high crest, they say, Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, And white sails flying on the yellow sea; But not to goodly hill or yellow sea Looked the fair Queen, but up the vale of Usk, By the flat meadow, till she saw them come; And then descending met them at the gates, Embraced her with all welcome as a friend, And did her honour as the Prince’s bride, And clothed her for her bridals like the sun; And all that week was old Caerleon gay, For by the hands of Dubric, the high saint, They twain were wedded with all ceremony.

And this was on the last year’s Whitsuntide. But Enid ever kept the faded silk, Remembering how first he came on her, Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, And all her foolish fears about the dress, And all his journey toward her, as himself Had told her, and their coming to the court.

And now this morning when he said to her, “Put on your worst and meanest dress,” she found And took it, and arrayed herself therein.

Geraint and Enid

O purblind race of miserable men, How many among us at this very hour Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves, By taking true for false, or false for true; Here, through the feeble twilight of this world Groping, how many, until we pass and reach That other, where we see as we are seen!

So fared it with Geraint, who issuing forth That morning, when they both had got to horse, Perhaps because he loved her passionately, And felt that tempest brooding round his heart, Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce Upon a head so dear in thunder, said: “Not at my side. I charge thee ride before, Ever a good way on before; and this I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife, Whatever happens, not to speak to me, No, not a word!” and Enid was aghast; And forth they rode, but scarce three paces on, When crying out, “Effeminate as I am, I will not fight my way with gilded arms, All shall be iron;” he loosed a mighty purse, Hung at his belt, and hurled it toward the squire. So the last sight that Enid had of home Was all the marble threshold flashing, strown With gold and scattered coinage, and the squire Chafing his shoulder: then he cried again, “To the wilds!” and Enid leading down the tracks Through which he bad her lead him on, they past The marches, and by bandit-haunted holds, Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the hern, And wildernesses, perilous paths, they rode: Round was their pace at first, but slackened soon: A stranger meeting them had surely thought They rode so slowly and they looked so pale, That each had suffered some exceeding wrong. For he was ever saying to himself, “O I that wasted time to tend upon her, To compass her with sweet observances, To dress her beautifully and keep her true”— And there he broke the sentence in his heart Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue May break it, when his passion masters him. And she was ever praying the sweet heavens To save her dear lord whole from any wound. And ever in her mind she cast about For that unnoticed failing in herself, Which made him look so cloudy and so cold; Till the great plover’s human whistle amazed Her heart, and glancing round the waste she feared In every wavering brake an ambuscade. Then thought again, “If there be such in me, I might amend it by the grace of Heaven, If he would only speak and tell me of it.”

But when the fourth part of the day was gone, Then Enid was aware of three tall knights On horseback, wholly armed, behind a rock In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs all; And heard one crying to his fellow, “Look, Here comes a laggard hanging down his head, Who seems no bolder than a beaten hound; Come, we will slay him and will have his horse And armour, and his damsel shall be ours.”

Then Enid pondered in her heart, and said: “I will go back a little to my lord, And I will tell him all their caitiff talk; For, be he wroth even to slaying me, Far liefer by his dear hand had I die, Than that my lord should suffer loss or shame.”