Part 9

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.”

Then she went back some paces of return, Met his full frown timidly firm, and said; “My lord, I saw three bandits by the rock Waiting to fall on you, and heard them boast That they would slay you, and possess your horse And armour, and your damsel should be theirs.”

He made a wrathful answer: “Did I wish Your warning or your silence? one command I laid upon you, not to speak to me, And thus ye keep it! Well then, look—for now, Whether ye wish me victory or defeat, Long for my life, or hunger for my death, Yourself shall see my vigour is not lost.”

Then Enid waited pale and sorrowful, And down upon him bare the bandit three. And at the midmost charging, Prince Geraint Drave the long spear a cubit through his breast And out beyond; and then against his brace Of comrades, each of whom had broken on him A lance that splintered like an icicle, Swung from his brand a windy buffet out Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunned the twain Or slew them, and dismounting like a man That skins the wild beast after slaying him, Stript from the three dead wolves of woman born The three gay suits of armour which they wore, And let the bodies lie, but bound the suits Of armour on their horses, each on each, And tied the bridle-reins of all the three Together, and said to her, “Drive them on Before you;” and she drove them through the waste.

He followed nearer; ruth began to work Against his anger in him, while he watched The being he loved best in all the world, With difficulty in mild obedience Driving them on: he fain had spoken to her, And loosed in words of sudden fire the wrath And smouldered wrong that burnt him all within; But evermore it seemed an easier thing At once without remorse to strike her dead, Than to cry “Halt,” and to her own bright face Accuse her of the least immodesty: And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the more That she could speak whom his own ear had heard Call herself false: and suffering thus he made Minutes an age: but in scarce longer time Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk, Before he turn to fall seaward again, Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, behold In the first shallow shade of a deep wood, Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks, Three other horsemen waiting, wholly armed, Whereof one seemed far larger than her lord, And shook her pulses, crying, “Look, a prize! Three horses and three goodly suits of arms, And all in charge of whom? a girl: set on.” “Nay,” said the second, “yonder comes a knight.” The third, “A craven; how he hangs his head.” The giant answered merrily, “Yea, but one? Wait here, and when he passes fall upon him.”

And Enid pondered in her heart and said, “I will abide the coming of my lord, And I will tell him all their villainy. My lord is weary with the fight before, And they will fall upon him unawares. I needs must disobey him for his good; How should I dare obey him to his harm? Needs must I speak, and though he kill me for it, I save a life dearer to me than mine.”

And she abode his coming, and said to him With timid firmness, “Have I leave to speak?” He said, “Ye take it, speaking,” and she spoke.

“There lurk three villains yonder in the wood, And each of them is wholly armed, and one Is larger-limbed than you are, and they say That they will fall upon you while ye pass.”

To which he flung a wrathful answer back: “And if there were an hundred in the wood, And every man were larger-limbed than I, And all at once should sally out upon me, I swear it would not ruffle me so much As you that not obey me. Stand aside, And if I fall, cleave to the better man.”

And Enid stood aside to wait the event, Not dare to watch the combat, only breathe Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath. And he, she dreaded most, bare down upon him. Aimed at the helm, his lance erred; but Geraint’s, A little in the late encounter strained, Struck through the bulky bandit’s corselet home, And then brake short, and down his enemy rolled, And there lay still; as he that tells the tale Saw once a great piece of a promontory, That had a sapling growing on it, slide From the long shore-cliff’s windy walls to the beach, And there lie still, and yet the sapling grew: So lay the man transfixt. His craven pair Of comrades making slowlier at the Prince, When now they saw their bulwark fallen, stood; On whom the victor, to confound them more, Spurred with his terrible war-cry; for as one, That listens near a torrent mountain-brook, All through the crash of the near cataract hears The drumming thunder of the huger fall At distance, were the soldiers wont to hear His voice in battle, and be kindled by it, And foemen scared, like that false pair who turned Flying, but, overtaken, died the death Themselves had wrought on many an innocent.

Thereon Geraint, dismounting, picked the lance That pleased him best, and drew from those dead wolves Their three gay suits of armour, each from each, And bound them on their horses, each on each, And tied the bridle-reins of all the three Together, and said to her, “Drive them on Before you,” and she drove them through the wood.

He followed nearer still: the pain she had To keep them in the wild ways of the wood, Two sets of three laden with jingling arms, Together, served a little to disedge The sharpness of that pain about her heart: And they themselves, like creatures gently born But into bad hands fallen, and now so long By bandits groomed, pricked their light ears, and felt Her low firm voice and tender government.

So through the green gloom of the wood they past, And issuing under open heavens beheld A little town with towers, upon a rock, And close beneath, a meadow gemlike chased In the brown wild, and mowers mowing in it: And down a rocky pathway from the place There came a fair-haired youth, that in his hand Bare victual for the mowers: and Geraint Had ruth again on Enid looking pale: Then, moving downward to the meadow ground, He, when the fair-haired youth came by him, said, “Friend, let her eat; the damsel is so faint.” “Yea, willingly,” replied the youth; “and thou, My lord, eat also, though the fare is coarse, And only meet for mowers;” then set down His basket, and dismounting on the sward They let the horses graze, and ate themselves. And Enid took a little delicately, Less having stomach for it than desire To close with her lord’s pleasure; but Geraint Ate all the mowers’ victual unawares, And when he found all empty, was amazed; And “Boy,” said he, “I have eaten all, but take A horse and arms for guerdon; choose the best.” He, reddening in extremity of delight, “My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold.” “Ye will be all the wealthier,” cried the Prince. “I take it as free gift, then,” said the boy, “Not guerdon; for myself can easily, While your good damsel rests, return, and fetch Fresh victual for these mowers of our Earl; For these are his, and all the field is his, And I myself am his; and I will tell him How great a man thou art: he loves to know When men of mark are in his territory: And he will have thee to his palace here, And serve thee costlier than with mowers’ fare.”

Then said Geraint, “I wish no better fare: I never ate with angrier appetite Than when I left your mowers dinnerless. And into no Earl’s palace will I go. I know, God knows, too much of palaces! And if he want me, let him come to me. But hire us some fair chamber for the night, And stalling for the horses, and return With victual for these men, and let us know.”

“Yea, my kind lord,” said the glad youth, and went, Held his head high, and thought himself a knight, And up the rocky pathway disappeared, Leading the horse, and they were left alone.

But when the Prince had brought his errant eyes Home from the rock, sideways he let them glance At Enid, where she droopt: his own false doom, That shadow of mistrust should never cross Betwixt them, came upon him, and he sighed; Then with another humorous ruth remarked The lusty mowers labouring dinnerless, And watched the sun blaze on the turning scythe, And after nodded sleepily in the heat. But she, remembering her old ruined hall, And all the windy clamour of the daws About her hollow turret, plucked the grass There growing longest by the meadow’s edge, And into many a listless annulet, Now over, now beneath her marriage ring, Wove and unwove it, till the boy returned And told them of a chamber, and they went; Where, after saying to her, “If ye will, Call for the woman of the house,” to which She answered, “Thanks, my lord;” the two remained Apart by all the chamber’s width, and mute As two creatures voiceless through the fault of birth, Or two wild men supporters of a shield, Painted, who stare at open space, nor glance The one at other, parted by the shield.

On a sudden, many a voice along the street, And heel against the pavement echoing, burst Their drowse; and either started while the door, Pushed from without, drave backward to the wall, And midmost of a rout of roisterers, Femininely fair and dissolutely pale, Her suitor in old years before Geraint, Entered, the wild lord of the place, Limours. He moving up with pliant courtliness, Greeted Geraint full face, but stealthily, In the mid-warmth of welcome and graspt hand, Found Enid with the corner of his eye, And knew her sitting sad and solitary. Then cried Geraint for wine and goodly cheer To feed the sudden guest, and sumptuously According to his fashion, bad the host Call in what men soever were his friends, And feast with these in honour of their Earl; “And care not for the cost; the cost is mine.”