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Merlin, by Edwin Arlington Robinson—A Project Gutenberg eBook
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 40906 ***</div>
<h1>MERLIN</h1>
<p> </p><p> </p>
<p class="center">BY THE SAME AUTHOR</p>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table">
<tr><td align="center"><i>POEMS</i></td></tr>
<tr><td>CAPTAIN CRAIG<br />
THE CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT<br />
THE TOWN DOWN THE RIVER<br />
THE MAN AGAINST THE SKY</td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><i>PLAYS</i></td></tr>
<tr><td>VAN ZORN. A Comedy in Three Acts<br />
THE PORCUPINE. A Drama in Three Acts</td></tr></table>
<p> </p><p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class="huge">MERLIN</span></p>
<p class="center"><span class="large"><i>A Poem</i></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><small>BY</small><br />
<span class="large">EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center">New York<br />
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY<br />
1917<br />
<i>All rights reserved</i></p>
<p> </p><p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Copyright</span>, 1917,<br />
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.<br />
<br />
Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1917.</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center">Norwood Press<br />
J. S. Cushing Co.—Berwick & Smith Co.<br />
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.</p>
<p> </p><p> </p>
<p class="center">To<br />
GEORGE BURNHAM</p>
<p> </p><p> </p>
<hr style="width: 50%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p>
<p class="title">MERLIN</p>
<p> </p>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table">
<tr><td align="center">I</td></tr>
<tr><td>“Gawaine, Gawaine, what look ye for to see,<br />
So far beyond the faint edge of the world?<br />
D’ye look to see the lady Vivian,<br />
Pursued by divers ominous vile demons<br />
That have another king more fierce than ours?<br />
Or think ye that if ye look far enough<br />
And hard enough into the feathery west<br />
Ye’ll have a glimmer of the Grail itself?<br />
And if ye look for neither Grail nor lady,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span>What look ye for to see, Gawaine, Gawaine?”<br />
So Dagonet, whom Arthur made a knight<br />
Because he loved him as he laughed at him,<br />
Intoned his idle presence on a day<br />
To Gawaine, who had thought himself alone,<br />
Had there been in him thought of anything<br />
Save what was murmured now in Camelot<br />
Of Merlin’s hushed and all but unconfirmed<br />
Appearance out of Brittany. It was heard<br />
At first there was a ghost in Arthur’s palace,<br />
But soon among the scullions and anon<br />
Among the knights a firmer credit held<br />
All tongues from uttering what all glances told—<br />
Though not for long. Gawaine, this afternoon,<br />
Fearing he might say more to Lancelot<br />
Of Merlin’s rumor-laden resurrection<br />
Than Lancelot would have an ear to cherish,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span>Had sauntered off with his imagination<br />
To Merlin’s Rock, where now there was no Merlin<br />
To meditate upon a whispering town<br />
Below him in the silence.—Once he said<br />
To Gawaine: “You are young; and that being so,<br />
Behold the shining city of our dreams<br />
And of our King.”—“Long live the King,” said Gawaine.—<br />
“Long live the King,” said Merlin after him;<br />
“Better for me that I shall not be King;<br />
Wherefore I say again, Long live the King,<br />
And add, God save him, also, and all kings—<br />
All kings and queens. I speak in general.<br />
Kings have I known that were but weary men<br />
With no stout appetite for more than peace<br />
That was not made for them.”—“Nor were they made<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span>For kings,” Gawaine said, laughing.—“You are young<br />
Gawaine, and you may one day hold the world<br />
Between your fingers, knowing not what it is<br />
That you are holding. Better for you and me,<br />
I think, that we shall not be kings.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 14em;">Gawaine,</span><br />
Remembering Merlin’s words of long ago,<br />
Frowned as he thought, and having frowned again,<br />
He smiled and threw an acorn at a lizard:<br />
“There’s more afoot and in the air to-day<br />
Than what is good for Camelot. Merlin<br />
May or may not know all, but he said well<br />
To say to me that he would not be King.<br />
No more would I be King.” Far down he gazed<br />
On Camelot, until he made of it<br />
A phantom town of many stillnesses,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span>Not reared for men to dwell in, or for kings<br />
To reign in, without omens and obscure<br />
Familiars to bring terror to their days;<br />
For though a knight, and one as hard at arms<br />
As any, save the fate-begotten few<br />
That all acknowledged or in envy loathed,<br />
He felt a foreign sort of creeping up<br />
And down him, as of moist things in the dark,—<br />
When Dagonet, coming on him unawares,<br />
Presuming on his title of Sir Fool,<br />
Addressed him and crooned on till he was done:<br />
“What look ye for to see, Gawaine, Gawaine?”<br />
<br />
“Sir Dagonet, you best and wariest<br />
Of all dishonest men, I look through Time,<br />
For sight of what it is that is to be.<br />
I look to see it, though I see it not.<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span>I see a town down there that holds a king,<br />
And over it I see a few small clouds—<br />
Like feathers in the west, as you observe;<br />
And I shall see no more this afternoon<br />
Than what there is around us every day,<br />
Unless you have a skill that I have not<br />
To ferret the invisible for rats.”<br />
<br />
“If you see what’s around us every day,<br />
You need no other showing to go mad.<br />
Remember that and take it home with you;<br />
And say tonight, ‘I had it of a fool—<br />
With no immediate obliquity<br />
For this one or for that one, or for me.’”<br />
<br />
Gawaine, having risen, eyed the fool curiously:<br />
“I’ll not forget I had it of a knight,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span>Whose only folly is to fool himself;<br />
And as for making other men to laugh,<br />
And so forget their sins and selves a little,<br />
There’s no great folly there. So keep it up,<br />
As long as you’ve a legend or a song,<br />
And have whatever sport of us you like<br />
Till havoc is the word and we fall howling.<br />
For I’ve a guess there may not be so loud<br />
A sound of laughing here in Camelot<br />
When Merlin goes again to his gay grave<br />
In Brittany. To mention lesser terrors,<br />
Men say his beard is gone.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 10em;">“Do men say that?”</span><br />
A twitch of an impatient weariness<br />
Played for a moment over the lean face<br />
Of Dagonet, who reasoned inwardly:<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span>“The friendly zeal of this inquiring knight<br />
Will overtake his tact and leave it squealing,<br />
One of these days.”—Gawaine looked hard at him:<br />
“If I be too familiar with a fool,<br />
I’m on the way to be another fool,”<br />
He mused, and owned a rueful qualm within him:<br />
“Yes, Dagonet,” he ventured, with a laugh,<br />
“Men tell me that his beard has vanished wholly,<br />
And that he shines now as the Lord’s anointed,<br />
And wears the valiance of an ageless youth<br />
Crowned with a glory of eternal peace.”<br />
<br />
Dagonet, smiling strangely, shook his head:<br />
“I grant your valiance of a kind of youth<br />
To Merlin, but your crown of peace I question;<br />
For, though I know no more than any churl<br />
Who pinches any chambermaid soever<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span>In the King’s palace, I look not to Merlin<br />
For peace, when out of his peculiar tomb<br />
He comes again to Camelot. Time swings<br />
A mighty scythe, and some day all your peace<br />
Goes down before its edge like so much clover.<br />
No, it is not for peace that Merlin comes,<br />
Without a trumpet—and without a beard,<br />
If what you say men say of him be true—<br />
Nor yet for sudden war.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 10em;">Gawaine, for a moment,</span><br />
Met then the ambiguous gaze of Dagonet,<br />
And, making nothing of it, looked abroad<br />
As if at something cheerful on all sides,<br />
And back again to the fool’s unasking eyes:<br />
“Well, Dagonet, if Merlin would have peace,<br />
Let Merlin stay away from Brittany,”<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span>Said he, with admiration for the man<br />
Whom Folly called a fool: “And we have known him;<br />
We knew him once when he knew everything.”<br />
<br />
“He knew as much as God would let him know<br />
Until he met the lady Vivian.<br />
I tell you that, for the world knows all that;<br />
Also it knows he told the King one day<br />
That he was to be buried, and alive,<br />
In Brittany; and that the King should see<br />
The face of him no more. Then Merlin sailed<br />
Away to Vivian in Broceliande,<br />
Where now she crowns him and herself with flowers,<br />
And feeds him fruits and wines and many foods<br />
Of many savors, and sweet ortolans.<br />
Wise books of every lore of every land<br />
Are there to fill his days, if he require them,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span>And there are players of all instruments—<br />
Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols; and she sings<br />
To Merlin, till he trembles in her arms<br />
And there forgets that any town alive<br />
Had ever such a name as Camelot.<br />
So Vivian holds him with her love, they say,<br />
And he, who has no age, has not grown old.<br />
I swear to nothing, but that’s what they say.<br />
That’s being buried in Broceliande<br />
For too much wisdom and clairvoyancy.<br />
But you and all who live, Gawaine, have heard<br />
This tale, or many like it, more than once;<br />
And you must know that Love, when Love invites<br />
Philosophy to play, plays high and wins,<br />
Or low and loses. And you say to me,<br />
‘If Merlin would have peace, let Merlin stay<br />
Away from Brittany.’ Gawaine, you are young,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span>And Merlin’s in his grave.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 11em;">“Merlin said once</span><br />
That I was young, and it’s a joy for me<br />
That I am here to listen while you say it.<br />
Young or not young, if that be burial,<br />
May I be buried long before I die.<br />
I might be worse than young; I might be old.”—<br />
Dagonet answered, and without a smile:<br />
“Somehow I fancy Merlin saying that;<br />
A fancy—a mere fancy.” Then he smiled:<br />
“And such a doom as his may be for you,<br />
Gawaine, should your untiring divination<br />
Delve in the veiled eternal mysteries<br />
Too far to be a pleasure for the Lord.<br />
And when you stake your wisdom for a woman,<br />
Compute the woman to be worth a grave,<br />
As Merlin did, and say no more about it.<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span>But Vivian, she played high. Oh, very high!<br />
Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols,—and her love.<br />
Gawaine, farewell.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 9em;">“Farewell, Sir Dagonet,</span><br />
And may the devil take you presently.”<br />
He followed with a vexed and envious eye,<br />
And with an arid laugh, Sir Dagonet’s<br />
Departure, till his gaunt obscurity<br />
Was cloaked and lost amid the glimmering trees.<br />
“Poor fool!” he murmured. “Or am I the fool?<br />
With all my fast ascendency in arms,<br />
That ominous clown is nearer to the King<br />
Than I am—yet; and God knows what he knows,<br />
And what his wits infer from what he sees<br />
And feels and hears. I wonder what he knows<br />
Of Lancelot, or what I might know now,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span>Could I have sunk myself to sound a fool<br />
To springe a friend.... No, I like not this day.<br />
There’s a cloud coming over Camelot<br />
Larger than any that is in the sky,—<br />
Or Merlin would be still in Brittany,<br />
With Vivian and the viols. It’s all too strange.”<br />
<br />
And later, when descending to the city,<br />
Through unavailing casements he could hear<br />
The roaring of a mighty voice within,<br />
Confirming fervidly his own conviction:<br />
“It’s all too strange, and half the world’s half crazy!”—<br />
He scowled: “Well, I agree with Lamorak.”<br />
He frowned, and passed: “And I like not this day.”</td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">II</td></tr>
<tr><td>Sir Lamorak, the man of oak and iron,<br />
Had with him now, as a care-laden guest,<br />
Sir Bedivere, a man whom Arthur loved<br />
As he had loved no man save Lancelot.<br />
Like one whose late-flown shaft of argument<br />
Had glanced and fallen afield innocuously,<br />
He turned upon his host a sudden eye<br />
That met from Lamorak’s an even shaft<br />
Of native and unused authority;<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span>And each man held the other till at length<br />
Each turned away, shutting his heavy jaws<br />
Again together, prisoning thus two tongues<br />
That might forget and might not be forgiven.<br />
Then Bedivere, to find a plain way out,<br />
Said, “Lamorak, let us drink to some one here,<br />
And end this dryness. Who shall it be—the King,<br />
The Queen, or Lancelot?”—“Merlin,” Lamorak growled;<br />
And then there were more wrinkles round his eyes<br />
Than Bedivere had said were possible.<br />
“There’s no refusal in me now for that,”<br />
The guest replied; “so, ‘Merlin’ let it be.<br />
We’ve not yet seen him, but if he be here,<br />
And even if he should not be here, say ‘Merlin.’”<br />
They drank to the unseen from two new tankards,<br />
And fell straightway to sighing for the past,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span>And what was yet before them. Silence laid<br />
A cogent finger on the lips of each<br />
Impatient veteran, whose hard hands lay clenched<br />
And restless on his midriff, until words<br />
Were stronger than strong Lamorak:<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 14em;">“Bedivere,”</span><br />
Began the solid host, “you may as well<br />
Say now as at another time hereafter<br />
That all your certainties have bruises on ’em,<br />
And all your pestilent asseverations<br />
Will never make a man a salamander—<br />
Who’s born, as we are told, so fire won’t bite him,—<br />
Or a slippery queen a nun who counts and burns<br />
Herself to nothing with her beads and candles.<br />
There’s nature, and what’s in us, to be sifted<br />
Before we know ourselves, or any man<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span>Or woman that God suffers to be born.<br />
That’s how I speak; and while you strain your mazzard,<br />
Like Father Jove, big with a new Minerva,<br />
We’ll say, to pass the time, that I speak well.<br />
God’s fish! The King had eyes; and Lancelot<br />
Won’t ride home to his mother, for she’s dead.<br />
The story is that Merlin warned the King<br />
Of what’s come now to pass; and I believe it.<br />
And Arthur, he being Arthur and a king,<br />
Has made a more pernicious mess than one,<br />
We’re told, for being so great and amorous:<br />
It’s that unwholesome and inclement cub<br />
Young Modred I’d see first in hell before<br />
I’d hang too high the Queen or Lancelot;<br />
The King, if one may say it, set the pace,<br />
And we’ve two strapping bastards here to prove it.<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span>Young Borre, he’s well enough; but as for Modred,<br />
I squirm as often as I look at him.<br />
And there again did Merlin warn the King,<br />
The story goes abroad; and I believe it.”<br />
<br />
Sir Bedivere, as one who caught no more<br />
Than what he would of Lamorak’s outpouring,<br />
Inclined his grizzled head and closed his eyes<br />
Before he sighed and rubbed his beard and spoke:<br />
“For all I know to make it otherwise,<br />
The Queen may be a nun some day or other;<br />
I’d pray to God for such a thing to be,<br />
If prayer for that were not a mockery.<br />
We’re late now for much praying, Lamorak,<br />
When you and I can feel upon our faces<br />
A wind that has been blowing over ruins<br />
That we had said were castles and high towers—<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span>Till Merlin, or the spirit of him, came<br />
As the dead come in dreams. I saw the King<br />
This morning, and I saw his face. Therefore,<br />
I tell you, if a state shall have a king,<br />
The king must have the state, and be the state;<br />
Or then shall we have neither king nor state,<br />
But bones and ashes, and high towers all fallen:<br />
And we shall have, where late there was a kingdom,<br />
A dusty wreck of what was once a glory—<br />
A wilderness whereon to crouch and mourn<br />
And moralize, or else to build once more<br />
For something better or for something worse.<br />
Therefore again, I say that Lancelot<br />
Has wrought a potent wrong upon the King,<br />
And all who serve and recognize the King,<br />
And all who follow him and all who love him.<br />
Whatever the stormy faults he may have had,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span>To look on him today is to forget them;<br />
And if it be too late for sorrow now<br />
To save him—for it was a broken man<br />
I saw this morning, and a broken king—<br />
The God who sets a day for desolation<br />
Will not forsake him in Avilion,<br />
Or whatsoever shadowy land there be<br />
Where peace awaits him on its healing shores.”<br />
<br />
Sir Lamorak, shifting in his oaken chair,<br />
Growled like a dog and shook himself like one:<br />
“For the stone-chested, helmet-cracking knight<br />
That you are known to be from Lyonnesse<br />
To northward, Bedivere, you fol-de-rol<br />
When days are rancid, and you fiddle-faddle<br />
More like a woman than a man with hands<br />
Fit for the smiting of a crazy giant<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span>With armor an inch thick, as we all know<br />
You are, when you’re not sermonizing at us.<br />
As for the King, I say the King, no doubt,<br />
Is angry, sorry, and all sorts of things,<br />
For Lancelot, and for his easy Queen,<br />
Whom he took knowing she’d thrown sparks already<br />
On that same piece of tinder, Lancelot,<br />
Who fetched her with him from Leodogran<br />
Because the King—God save poor human reason!—<br />
Would prove to Merlin, who knew everything<br />
Worth knowing in those days, that he was wrong.<br />
I’ll drink now and be quiet,—but, by God,<br />
I’ll have to tell you, Brother Bedivere,<br />
Once more, to make you listen properly,<br />
That crowns and orders, and high palaces,<br />
And all the manifold ingredients<br />
Of this good solid kingdom, where we sit<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span>And spit now at each other with our eyes,<br />
Will not go rolling down to hell just yet<br />
Because a pretty woman is a fool.<br />
And here’s Kay coming with his fiddle face<br />
As long now as two fiddles. Sit ye down,<br />
Sir Man, and tell us everything you know<br />
Of Merlin—or his ghost without a beard.<br />
What mostly is it?”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Sir Kay, the seneschal,</span><br />
Sat wearily while he gazed upon the two:<br />
“To you it mostly is, if I err not,<br />
That what you hear of Merlin’s coming back<br />
Is nothing more or less than heavy truth.<br />
But ask me nothing of the Queen, I say,<br />
For I know nothing. All I know of her<br />
Is what her eyes have told the silences<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span>That now attend her; and that her estate<br />
Is one for less complacent execration<br />
Than quips and innuendoes of the city<br />
Would augur for her sin—if there be sin—<br />
Or for her name—if now she have a name.<br />
And where, I say, is this to lead the King,<br />
And after him, the kingdom and ourselves?<br />
Here be we, three men of a certain strength<br />
And some confessed intelligence, who know<br />
That Merlin has come out of Brittany—<br />
Out of his grave, as he would say it for us—<br />
Because the King has now a desperation<br />
More strong upon him than a woman’s net<br />
Was over Merlin—for now Merlin’s here,<br />
And two of us who knew him know how well<br />
His wisdom, if he have it any longer,<br />
Will by this hour have sounded and appraised<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span>The grief and wrath and anguish of the King,<br />
Requiring mercy and inspiring fear<br />
Lest he forego the vigil now most urgent,<br />
And leave unwatched a cranny where some worm<br />
Or serpent may come in to speculate.”<br />
<br />
“I know your worm, and his worm’s name is Modred—<br />
Albeit the streets are not yet saying so,”<br />
Said Lamorak, as he lowered his wrath and laughed<br />
A sort of poisonous apology<br />
To Kay: “And in the meantime, I’ll be gyved!<br />
Here’s Bedivere a-wailing for the King,<br />
And you, Kay, with a moist eye for the Queen.<br />
I think I’ll blow a horn for Lancelot;<br />
For by my soul a man’s in sorry case<br />
When Guineveres are out with eyes to scorch him:<br />
I’m not so ancient or so frozen certain<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span>That I’d ride horses down to skeletons<br />
If she were after me. Has Merlin seen him—<br />
This Lancelot, this Queen-fed friend of ours?”<br />
<br />
Kay answered sighing, with a lonely scowl:<br />
“The picture that I conjure leaves him out;<br />
The King and Merlin are this hour together,<br />
And I can say no more; for I know nothing.<br />
But how the King persuaded or beguiled<br />
The stricken wizard from across the water<br />
Outriddles my poor wits. It’s all too strange.”<br />
<br />
“It’s all too strange, and half the world’s half crazy!”<br />
Roared Lamorak, forgetting once again<br />
The devastating carriage of his voice.<br />
“Is the King sick?” he said, more quietly;<br />
“Is he to let one damned scratch be enough<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span>To paralyze the force that heretofore<br />
Would operate a way through hell and iron,<br />
And iron already slimy with his blood?<br />
Is the King blind—with Modred watching him?<br />
Does he forget the crown for Lancelot?<br />
Does he forget that every woman mewing<br />
Shall some day be a handful of small ashes?”<br />
<br />
“You speak as one for whom the god of Love<br />
Has yet a mighty trap in preparation.<br />
We know you, Lamorak,” said Bedivere:<br />
“We know you for a short man, Lamorak,—<br />
In deeds, if not in inches or in words;<br />
But there are fens and heights and distances<br />
That your capricious ranging has not yet<br />
Essayed in this weird region of man’s love.<br />
Forgive me, Lamorak, but your words are words.<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span>Your deeds are what they are; and ages hence<br />
Will men remember your illustriousness,<br />
If there be gratitude in history.<br />
For me, I see the shadow of the end,<br />
Wherein to serve King Arthur to the end,<br />
And, if God have it so, to see the Grail<br />
Before I die.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 7em;">But Lamorak shook his head:</span><br />
“See what you will, or what you may. For me,<br />
I see no other than a stinking mess—<br />
With Modred stirring it, and Agravaine<br />
Spattering Camelot with as much of it<br />
As he can throw. The Devil got somehow<br />
Into God’s workshop once upon a time,<br />
And out of the red clay that he found there<br />
He made a shape like Modred, and another<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span>As like as eyes are to this Agravaine.<br />
‘I never made ’em,’ said the good Lord God,<br />
‘But let ’em go, and see what comes of ’em.’<br />
And that’s what we’re to do. As for the Grail,<br />
I’ve never worried it, and so the Grail<br />
Has never worried me.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 11em;">Kay sighed. “I see</span><br />
With Bedivere the coming of the end,”<br />
He murmured; “for the King I saw today<br />
Was not, nor shall he ever be again,<br />
The King we knew. I say the King is dead;<br />
The man is living, but the King is dead.<br />
The wheel is broken.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 10em;">“Tut!” said Lamorak;</span><br />
“There are no dead kings yet in Camelot;<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span>But there is Modred who is hatching ruin,—<br />
And when it hatches I may not be here.<br />
There’s Gawaine too, and he does not forget<br />
My father, who killed his. King Arthur’s house<br />
Has more division in it than I like<br />
In houses; and if Modred’s aim be good<br />
For backs like mine, I’m not long for the scene.”</td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">III</td></tr>
<tr><td>King Arthur, as he paced a lonely floor<br />
That rolled a muffled echo, as he fancied,<br />
All through the palace and out through the world,<br />
Might now have wondered hard, could he have heard<br />
Sir Lamorak’s apathetic disregard<br />
Of what Fate’s knocking made so manifest<br />
And ominous to others near the King—<br />
If any, indeed, were near him at this hour<br />
Save Merlin, once the wisest of all men,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span>And weary Dagonet, whom he had made<br />
A knight for love of him and his abused<br />
Integrity. He might have wondered hard<br />
And wondered much; and after wondering,<br />
He might have summoned, with as little heart<br />
As he had now for crowns, the fond, lost Merlin,<br />
Whose Nemesis had made of him a slave,<br />
A man of dalliance, and a sybarite.<br />
<br />
“Men change in Brittany, Merlin,” said the King;<br />
And even his grief had strife to freeze again<br />
A dreary smile for the transmuted seer<br />
Now robed in heavy wealth of purple silk,<br />
With frogs and foreign tassels. On his face,<br />
Too smooth now for a wizard or a sage,<br />
Lay written, for the King’s remembering eyes,<br />
A pathos of a lost authority<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span>Long faded, and unconscionably gone;<br />
And on the King’s heart lay a sudden cold:<br />
“I might as well have left him in his grave,<br />
As he would say it, saying what was true,—<br />
As death is true. This Merlin is not mine,<br />
But Vivian’s. My crown is less than hers,<br />
And I am less than woman to this man.”<br />
<br />
Then Merlin, as one reading Arthur’s words<br />
On viewless tablets in the air before him:<br />
“Now, Arthur, since you are a child of mine—<br />
A foster-child, and that’s a kind of child—<br />
Be not from hearsay or despair too eager<br />
To dash your meat with bitter seasoning,<br />
So none that are more famished than yourself<br />
Shall have what you refuse. For you are King,<br />
And if you starve yourself, you starve the state;<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span>And then by sundry looks and silences<br />
Of those you loved, and by the lax regard<br />
Of those you knew for fawning enemies,<br />
You may learn soon that you are King no more,<br />
But a slack, blasted, and sad-fronted man,<br />
Made sadder with a crown. No other friend<br />
Than I could say this to you, and say more;<br />
And if you bid me say no more, so be it.”<br />
<br />
The King, who sat with folded arms, now bowed<br />
His head and felt, unfought and all aflame<br />
Like immanent hell-fire, the wretchedness<br />
That only those who are to lead may feel—<br />
And only they when they are maimed and worn<br />
Too sore to covet without shuddering<br />
The fixed impending eminence where death<br />
Itself were victory, could they but lead<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span>Unbitten by the serpents they had fed.<br />
Turning, he spoke: “Merlin, you say the truth:<br />
There is no man who could say more to me<br />
Today, or say so much to me, and live.<br />
But you are Merlin still, or part of him;<br />
I did you wrong when I thought otherwise,<br />
And I am sorry now. Say what you will.<br />
We are alone, and I shall be alone<br />
As long as Time shall hide a reason here<br />
For me to stay in this infested world<br />
Where I have sinned and erred and heeded not<br />
Your counsel; and where you yourself—God save us!—<br />
Have gone down smiling to the smaller life<br />
That you and your incongruous laughter called<br />
Your living grave. God save us all, Merlin,<br />
When you, the seer, the founder, and the prophet,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span>May throw the gold of your immortal treasure<br />
Back to the God that gave it, and then laugh<br />
Because a woman has you in her arms ...<br />
Why do you sting me now with a small hive<br />
Of words that are all poison? I do not ask<br />
Much honey; but why poison me for nothing,<br />
And with a venom that I know already<br />
As I know crowns and wars? Why tell a king—<br />
A poor, foiled, flouted, miserable king—<br />
That if he lets rats eat his fingers off<br />
He’ll have no fingers to fight battles with?<br />
I know as much as that, for I am still<br />
A king—who thought himself a little less<br />
Than God; a king who built him palaces<br />
On sand and mud, and hears them crumbling now,<br />
And sees them tottering, as he knew they must.<br />
You are the man who made me to be King—<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span>Therefore, say anything.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 11em;">Merlin, stricken deep</span><br />
With pity that was old, being born of old<br />
Foreshadowings, made answer to the King:<br />
“This coil of Lancelot and Guinevere<br />
Is not for any mortal to undo,<br />
Or to deny, or to make otherwise;<br />
But your most violent years are on their way<br />
To days, and to a sounding of loud hours<br />
That are to strike for war. Let not the time<br />
Between this hour and then be lost in fears,<br />
Or told in obscurations and vain faith<br />
In what has been your long security;<br />
For should your force be slower then than hate,<br />
And your regret be sharper than your sight,<br />
And your remorse fall heavier than your sword,—<br />
Then say farewell to Camelot, and the crown.<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span>But say not you have lost, or failed in aught<br />
Your golden horoscope of imperfection<br />
Has held in starry words that I have read.<br />
I see no farther now than I saw then,<br />
For no man shall be given of everything<br />
Together in one life; yet I may say<br />
The time is imminent when he shall come<br />
For whom I founded the Siege Perilous;<br />
And he shall be too much a living part<br />
Of what he brings, and what he burns away in,<br />
To be for long a vexed inhabitant<br />
Of this mad realm of stains and lower trials.<br />
And here the ways of God again are mixed:<br />
For this new knight who is to find the Grail<br />
For you, and for the least who pray for you<br />
In such lost coombs and hollows of the world<br />
As you have never entered, is to be<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span>The son of him you trusted—Lancelot,<br />
Of all who ever jeopardized a throne<br />
Sure the most evil-fated, saving one,<br />
Your son, begotten, though you knew not then<br />
Your leman was your sister, of Morgause;<br />
For it is Modred now, not Lancelot,<br />
Whose native hate plans your annihilation—<br />
Though he may smile till he be sick, and swear<br />
Allegiance to an unforgiven father<br />
Until at last he shake an empty tongue<br />
Talked out with too much lying—though his lies<br />
Will have a truth to steer them. Trust him not,<br />
For unto you the father, he the son<br />
Is like enough to be the last of terrors—<br />
If in a field of time that looms to you<br />
Far larger than it is you fail to plant<br />
And harvest the old seeds of what I say,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span>And so be nourished and adept again<br />
For what may come to be. But Lancelot<br />
Will have you first; and you need starve no more<br />
For the Queen’s love, the love that never was.<br />
Your Queen is now your Kingdom, and hereafter<br />
Let no man take it from you, or you die.<br />
Let no man take it from you for a day;<br />
For days are long when we are far from what<br />
We love, and mischief’s other name is distance.<br />
Let that be all, for I can say no more;<br />
Not even to Blaise the Hermit, were he living,<br />
Could I say more than I have given you now<br />
To hear; and he alone was my confessor.”<br />
<br />
The King arose and paced the floor again.<br />
“I get gray comfort of dark words,” he said;<br />
“But tell me not that you can say no more:<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span>You can, for I can hear you saying it.<br />
Yet I’ll not ask for more. I have enough—<br />
Until my new knight comes to prove and find<br />
The promise and the glory of the Grail,<br />
Though I shall see no Grail. For I have built<br />
On sand and mud, and I shall see no Grail.”—<br />
“Nor I,” said Merlin. “Once I dreamed of it,<br />
But I was buried. I shall see no Grail,<br />
Nor would I have it otherwise. I saw<br />
Too much, and that was never good for man.<br />
The man who goes alone too far goes mad—<br />
In one way or another. God knew best,<br />
And he knows what is coming yet for me.<br />
I do not ask. Like you, I have enough.”<br />
<br />
That night King Arthur’s apprehension found<br />
In Merlin an obscure and restive guest,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span>Whose only thought was on the hour of dawn,<br />
When he should see the last of Camelot<br />
And ride again for Brittany; and what words<br />
Were said before the King was left alone<br />
Were only darker for reiteration.<br />
They parted, all provision made secure<br />
For Merlin’s early convoy to the coast,<br />
And Arthur tramped the past. The loneliness<br />
Of kings, around him like the unseen dead,<br />
Lay everywhere; and he was loath to move,<br />
As if in fear to meet with his cold hand<br />
The touch of something colder. Then a whim,<br />
Begotten of intolerable doubt,<br />
Seized him and stung him until he was asking<br />
If any longer lived among his knights<br />
A man to trust as once he trusted all,<br />
And Lancelot more than all. “And it is he<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span>Who is to have me first,” so Merlin says,—<br />
“As if he had me not in hell already.<br />
Lancelot! Lancelot!” He cursed the tears<br />
That cooled his misery, and then he asked<br />
Himself again if he had one to trust<br />
Among his knights, till even Bedivere,<br />
Tor, Bors, and Percival, rough Lamorak,<br />
Griflet, and Gareth, and gay Gawaine, all<br />
Were dubious knaves,—or they were like to be,<br />
For cause to make them so; and he had made<br />
Himself to be the cause. “God set me right,<br />
Before this folly carry me on farther,”<br />
He murmured; and he smiled unhappily,<br />
Though fondly, as he thought: “Yes, there is one<br />
Whom I may trust with even my soul’s last shred;<br />
And Dagonet will sing for me tonight<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span>An old song, not too merry or too sad.”<br />
When Dagonet, having entered, stood before<br />
The King as one affrighted, the King smiled:<br />
“You think because I call for you so late<br />
That I am angry, Dagonet? Why so?<br />
Have you been saying what I say to you,<br />
And telling men that you brought Merlin here?<br />
No? So I fancied; and if you report<br />
No syllable of anything I speak,<br />
You will have no regrets, and I no anger.<br />
What word of Merlin was abroad today?”<br />
<br />
“Today have I heard no man save Gawaine,<br />
And to him I said only what all men<br />
Are saying to their neighbors. They believe<br />
That you have Merlin here, and that his coming<br />
Denotes no good. Gawaine was curious,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span>But ever mindful of your majesty.<br />
He pressed me not, and we made light of it.”<br />
<br />
“Gawaine, I fear, makes light of everything,”<br />
The King said, looking down. “Sometimes I wish<br />
I had a full Round Table of Gawaines.<br />
But that’s a freak of midnight,—never mind it.<br />
Sing me a song—one of those endless things<br />
That Merlin liked of old, when men were younger<br />
And there were more stars twinkling in the sky.<br />
I see no stars that are alive tonight,<br />
And I am not the king of sleep. So then,<br />
Sing me an old song.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 10em;">Dagonet’s quick eye</span><br />
Caught sorrow in the King’s; and he knew more,<br />
In a fool’s way, than even the King himself<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span>Of what was hovering over Camelot.<br />
“O King,” he said, “I cannot sing tonight.<br />
If you command me I shall try to sing,<br />
But I shall fail; for there are no songs now<br />
In my old throat, or even in these poor strings<br />
That I can hardly follow with my fingers.<br />
Forgive me—kill me—but I cannot sing.”<br />
Dagonet fell down then on both his knees<br />
And shook there while he clutched the King’s cold hand<br />
And wept for what he knew.<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 11em;">“There, Dagonet;</span><br />
I shall not kill my knight, or make him sing.<br />
No more; get up, and get you off to bed.<br />
There’ll be another time for you to sing,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span>So get you to your covers and sleep well.”<br />
Alone again, the King said, bitterly:<br />
“Yes, I have one friend left, and they who know<br />
As much of him as of themselves believe<br />
That he’s a fool. Poor Dagonet’s a fool.<br />
And if he be a fool, what else am I<br />
Than one fool more to make the world complete?<br />
‘The love that never was!’ ... Fool, fool, fool, fool!”<br />
<br />
The King was long awake. No covenant<br />
With peace was his tonight; and he knew sleep<br />
As he knew the cold eyes of Guinevere<br />
That yesterday had stabbed him, having first<br />
On Lancelot’s name struck fire, and left him then<br />
As now they left him—with a wounded heart,<br />
A wounded pride, and a sickening pang worse yet<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span>Of lost possession. He thought wearily<br />
Of watchers by the dead, late wayfarers,<br />
Rough-handed mariners on ships at sea,<br />
Lone-yawning sentries, wastrels, and all others<br />
Who might be saying somewhere to themselves,<br />
“The King is now asleep in Camelot;<br />
God save the King.”—“God save the King, indeed,<br />
If there be now a king to save,” he said.<br />
Then he saw giants rising in the dark,<br />
Born horribly of memories and new fears<br />
That in the gray-lit irony of dawn<br />
Were partly to fade out and be forgotten;<br />
And then there might be sleep, and for a time<br />
There might again be peace. His head was hot<br />
And throbbing; but the rest of him was cold,<br />
As he lay staring hard where nothing stood,<br />
And hearing what was not, even while he saw<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span>And heard, like dust and thunder far away,<br />
The coming confirmation of the words<br />
Of him who saw so much and feared so little<br />
Of all that was to be. No spoken doom<br />
That ever chilled the last night of a felon<br />
Prepared a dragging anguish more profound<br />
And absolute than Arthur, in these hours,<br />
Made out of darkness and of Merlin’s words;<br />
No tide that ever crashed on Lyonnesse<br />
Drove echoes inland that were lonelier<br />
For widowed ears among the fisher-folk,<br />
Than for the King were memories tonight<br />
Of old illusions that were dead for ever.</td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">IV</td></tr>
<tr><td>The tortured King—seeing Merlin wholly meshed<br />
In his defection, even to indifference,<br />
And all the while attended and exalted<br />
By some unfathomable obscurity<br />
Of divination, where the Grail, unseen,<br />
Broke yet the darkness where a king saw nothing—<br />
Feared now the lady Vivian more than Fate;<br />
For now he knew that Modred, Lancelot,<br />
The Queen, the King, the Kingdom, and the World,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span>Were less to Merlin, who had made him King,<br />
Than one small woman in Broceliande.<br />
Whereas the lady Vivian, seeing Merlin<br />
Acclaimed and tempted and allured again<br />
To service in his old magnificence,<br />
Feared now King Arthur more than storms and robbers;<br />
For Merlin, though he knew himself immune<br />
To no least whispered little wish of hers<br />
That might afflict his ear with ecstasy,<br />
Had yet sufficient of his old command<br />
Of all around him to invest an eye<br />
With quiet lightning, and a spoken word<br />
With easy thunder, so accomplishing<br />
A profit and a pastime for himself—<br />
And for the lady Vivian, when her guile<br />
Outlived at intervals her graciousness;<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span>And this equipment of uncertainty,<br />
Which now had gone away with him to Britain<br />
With Dagonet, so plagued her memory<br />
That soon a phantom brood of goblin doubts<br />
Inhabited his absence, which had else<br />
Been empty waiting and a few brave fears,<br />
And a few more, she knew, that were not brave,<br />
Or long to be disowned, or manageable.<br />
She thought of him as he had looked at her<br />
When first he had acquainted her alarm<br />
At sight of the King’s letter with its import;<br />
And she remembered now his very words:<br />
“The King believes today as in his boyhood<br />
That I am Fate,” he said; and when they parted<br />
She had not even asked him not to go;<br />
She might as well, she thought, have bid the wind<br />
Throw no more clouds across a lonely sky<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span>Between her and the moon,—so great he seemed<br />
In his oppressed solemnity, and she,<br />
In her excess of wrong imagining,<br />
So trivial in an hour, and, after all<br />
A creature of a smaller consequence<br />
Than kings to Merlin, who made kings and kingdoms<br />
And had them as a father; and so she feared<br />
King Arthur more than robbers while she waited<br />
For Merlin’s promise to fulfil itself,<br />
And for the rest that was to follow after:<br />
“He said he would come back, and so he will.<br />
He will because he must, and he is Merlin,<br />
The master of the world—or so he was;<br />
And he is coming back again to me<br />
Because he must and I am Vivian.<br />
It’s all as easy as two added numbers:<br />
Some day I’ll hear him ringing at the gate,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span>As he rang on that morning in the spring,<br />
Ten years ago; and I shall have him then<br />
For ever. He shall never go away<br />
Though kings come walking on their hands and knees<br />
To take him on their backs.” When Merlin came,<br />
She told him that, and laughed; and he said strangely:<br />
“Be glad or sorry, but no kings are coming.<br />
Not Arthur, surely; for now Arthur knows<br />
That I am less than Fate.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 11em;">Ten years ago</span><br />
The King had heard, with unbelieving ears<br />
At first, what Merlin said would be the last<br />
Reiteration of his going down<br />
To find a living grave in Brittany:<br />
“Buried alive I told you I should be,<br />
By love made little and by woman shorn,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span>Like Samson, of my glory; and the time<br />
Is now at hand. I follow in the morning<br />
Where I am led. I see behind me now<br />
The last of crossways, and I see before me<br />
A straight and final highway to the end<br />
Of all my divination. You are King,<br />
And in your kingdom I am what I was.<br />
Wherever I have warned you, see as far<br />
As I have seen; for I have shown the worst<br />
There is to see. Require no more of me,<br />
For I can be no more than what I was.”<br />
So, on the morrow, the King said farewell;<br />
And he was never more to Merlin’s eye<br />
The King than at that hour; for Merlin knew<br />
How much was going out of Arthur’s life<br />
With him, as he went southward to the sea.<br />
<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span>Over the waves and into Brittany<br />
Went Merlin, to Broceliande. Gay birds<br />
Were singing high to greet him all along<br />
A broad and sanded woodland avenue<br />
That led him on forever, so he thought,<br />
Until at last there was an end of it;<br />
And at the end there was a gate of iron,<br />
Wrought heavily and invidiously barred.<br />
He pulled a cord that rang somewhere a bell<br />
Of many echoes, and sat down to rest,<br />
Outside the keeper’s house, upon a bench<br />
Of carven stone that might for centuries<br />
Have waited there in silence to receive him.<br />
The birds were singing still; leaves flashed and swung<br />
Before him in the sunlight; a soft breeze<br />
Made intermittent whisperings around him<br />
Of love and fate and danger, and faint waves<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span>Of many sweetly-stinging fragile odors<br />
Broke lightly as they touched him; cherry-boughs<br />
Above him snowed white petals down upon him,<br />
And under their slow falling Merlin smiled<br />
Contentedly, as one who contemplates<br />
No longer fear, confusion, or regret,<br />
May smile at ruin or at revelation.<br />
<br />
A stately fellow with a forest air<br />
Now hailed him from within, with searching words<br />
And curious looks, till Merlin’s glowing eye<br />
Transfixed him and he flinched: “My compliments<br />
And homage to the lady Vivian.<br />
Say Merlin from King Arthur’s Court is here,<br />
A pilgrim and a stranger in appearance,<br />
Though in effect her friend and humble servant.<br />
Convey to her my speech as I have said it,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span>Without abbreviation or delay,<br />
And so deserve my gratitude forever.”<br />
“But Merlin?” the man stammered; “Merlin? Merlin?”—<br />
“One Merlin is enough. I know no other.<br />
Now go you to the lady Vivian<br />
And bring to me her word, for I am weary.”<br />
Still smiling at the cherry-blossoms falling<br />
Down on him and around him in the sunlight,<br />
He waited, never moving, never glancing<br />
This way or that, until his messenger<br />
Came jingling into vision, weighed with keys,<br />
And inly shaken with much wondering<br />
At this great wizard’s coming unannounced<br />
And unattended. When the way was open<br />
The stately messenger, now bowing low<br />
In reverence and awe, bade Merlin enter;<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span>And Merlin, having entered, heard the gate<br />
Clang back behind him; and he swore no gate<br />
Like that had ever clanged in Camelot,<br />
Or any other place if not in hell.<br />
“I may be dead; and this good fellow here,<br />
With all his keys,” he thought, “may be the Devil,—<br />
Though I were loath to say so, for the keys<br />
Would make him rather more akin to Peter;<br />
And that’s fair reasoning for this fair weather.”<br />
<br />
“The lady Vivian says you are most welcome,”<br />
Said now the stately-favored servitor,<br />
“And are to follow me. She said, ‘Say Merlin—<br />
A pilgrim and a stranger in appearance,<br />
Though in effect my friend and humble servant—<br />
Is welcome for himself, and for the sound<br />
Of his great name that echoes everywhere.’”—<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span>“I like you and I like your memory,”<br />
Said Merlin, curiously, “but not your gate.<br />
Why forge for this elysian wilderness<br />
A thing so vicious with unholy noise?”—<br />
“There’s a way out of every wilderness<br />
For those who dare or care enough to find it,”<br />
The guide said: and they moved along together,<br />
Down shaded ways, through open ways with hedgerows.<br />
And into shade again more deep than ever,<br />
But edged anon with rays of broken sunshine<br />
In which a fountain, raining crystal music,<br />
Made faery magic of it through green leafage,<br />
Till Merlin’s eyes were dim with preparation<br />
For sight now of the lady Vivian.<br />
He saw at first a bit of living green<br />
That might have been a part of all the green<br />
Around the tinkling fountain where she gazed<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span>Upon the circling pool as if her thoughts<br />
Were not so much on Merlin—whose advance<br />
Betrayed through his enormity of hair<br />
The cheeks and eyes of youth—as on the fishes.<br />
But soon she turned and found him, now alone,<br />
And held him while her beauty and her grace<br />
Made passing trash of empires, and his eyes<br />
Told hers of what a splendid emptiness<br />
Her tedious world had been without him in it<br />
Whose love and service were to be her school,<br />
Her triumph, and her history: “This is Merlin,”<br />
She thought; “and I shall dream of him no more.<br />
And he has come, he thinks, to frighten me<br />
With beards and robes and his immortal fame;<br />
Or is it I who think so? I know not.<br />
I’m frightened, sure enough, but if I show it,<br />
I’ll be no more the Vivian for whose love<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span>He tossed away his glory, or the Vivian<br />
Who saw no man alive to make her love him<br />
Till she saw Merlin once in Camelot,<br />
And seeing him, saw no other. In an age<br />
That has no plan for me that I can read<br />
Without him, shall he tell me what I am,<br />
And why I am, I wonder?” While she thought,<br />
And feared the man whom her perverse negation<br />
Must overcome somehow to soothe her fancy,<br />
She smiled and welcomed him; and so they stood,<br />
Each finding in the other’s eyes a gleam<br />
Of what eternity had hidden there.<br />
<br />
“Are you always all in green, as you are now?”<br />
Said Merlin, more employed with her complexion,<br />
Where blood and olive made wild harmony<br />
With eyes and wayward hair that were too dark<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span>For peace if they were not subordinated;<br />
“If so you are, then so you make yourself<br />
A danger in a world of many dangers.<br />
If I were young, God knows if I were safe<br />
Concerning you in green, like a slim cedar,<br />
As you are now, to say my life was mine:<br />
Were you to say to me that I should end it,<br />
Longevity for me were jeopardized.<br />
Have you your green on always and all over?”<br />
<br />
“Come here, and I will tell you about that,”<br />
Said Vivian, leading Merlin with a laugh<br />
To an arbored seat where they made opposites:<br />
“If you are Merlin—and I know you are,<br />
For I remember you in Camelot,—<br />
You know that I am Vivian, as I am;<br />
And if I go in green, why, let me go so,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span>And say at once why you have come to me<br />
Cloaked over like a monk, and with a beard<br />
As long as Jeremiah’s. I don’t like it.<br />
I’ll never like a man with hair like that<br />
While I can feed a carp with little frogs.<br />
I’m rather sure to hate you if you keep it,<br />
And when I hate a man I poison him.”<br />
<br />
“You’ve never fed a carp with little frogs,”<br />
Said Merlin; “I can see it in your eyes.”—<br />
“I might then, if I haven’t,” said the lady;<br />
“For I’m a savage, and I love no man<br />
As I have seen him yet. I’m here alone,<br />
With some three hundred others, all of whom<br />
Are ready, I dare say, to die for me;<br />
I’m cruel and I’m cold, and I like snakes;<br />
And some have said my mother was a fairy,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span>Though I believe it not.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 10em;">“Why not believe it?”</span><br />
Said Merlin; “I believe it. I believe<br />
Also that you divine, as I had wished,<br />
In my surviving ornament of office<br />
A needless imposition on your wits,<br />
If not yet on the scope of your regard.<br />
Even so, you cannot say how old I am,<br />
Or yet how young. I’m willing cheerfully<br />
To fight, left-handed, Hell’s three headed hound<br />
If you but whistle him up from where he lives;<br />
I’m cheerful and I’m fierce, and I’ve made kings;<br />
And some have said my father was the Devil,<br />
Though I believe it not. Whatever I am,<br />
I have not lived in Time until to-day.”<br />
A moment’s worth of wisdom there escaped him,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span>But Vivian seized it, and it was not lost.<br />
Embroidering doom with many levities,<br />
Till now the fountain’s crystal silver, fading,<br />
Became a splash and a mere chilliness,<br />
They mocked their fate with easy pleasantries<br />
That were too false and small to be forgotten,<br />
And with ingenious insincerities<br />
That had no repetition or revival.<br />
At last the lady Vivian arose,<br />
And with a crying of how late it was<br />
Took Merlin’s hand and led him like a child<br />
Along a dusky way between tall cones<br />
Of tight green cedars: “Am I like one of these?<br />
You said I was, though I deny it wholly.”—<br />
“Very,” said Merlin, to his bearded lips<br />
Uplifting her small fingers.—“O, that hair!”<br />
She moaned, as if in sorrow: “Must it be?<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span>Must every prophet and important wizard<br />
Be clouded so that nothing but his nose<br />
And eyes, and intimations of his ears,<br />
Are there to make us know him when we see him?<br />
Praise heaven I’m not a prophet! Are you glad?”—<br />
<br />
He did not say that he was glad or sorry;<br />
For suddenly came flashing into vision<br />
A thing that was a manor and a palace,<br />
With walls and roofs that had a flaming sky<br />
Behind them, like a sky that he remembered,<br />
And one that had from his rock-sheltered haunt<br />
Above the roofs of his forsaken city<br />
Made flame as if all Camelot were on fire.<br />
The glow brought with it a brief memory<br />
Of Arthur as he left him, and the pain<br />
That fought in Arthur’s eyes for losing him,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span>And must have overflowed when he had vanished.<br />
But now the eyes that looked hard into his<br />
Were Vivian’s, not the King’s; and he could see,<br />
Or so he thought, a shade of sorrow in them.<br />
She took his two hands: “You are sad,” she said.—<br />
He smiled: “Your western lights bring memories<br />
Of Camelot. We all have memories—<br />
Prophets, and women who are like slim cedars;<br />
But you are wrong to say that I am sad.”—<br />
“Would you go back to Camelot?” she asked,<br />
Her fingers tightening. Merlin shook his head.<br />
“Then listen while I tell you that I’m glad,”<br />
She purred, as if assured that he would listen:<br />
“At your first warning, much too long ago,<br />
Of this quaint pilgrimage of yours to see<br />
‘The fairest and most orgulous of ladies’—<br />
No language for a prophet, I am sure—<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span>Said I, ‘When this great Merlin comes to me,<br />
My task and avocation for some time<br />
Will be to make him willing, if I can,<br />
To teach and feed me with an ounce of wisdom.’<br />
For I have eaten to an empty shell,<br />
After a weary feast of observation<br />
Among the glories of a tinsel world<br />
That had for me no glory till you came,<br />
A life that is no life. Would you go back<br />
To Camelot?”—Merlin shook his head again,<br />
And the two smiled together in the sunset.<br />
<br />
They moved along in silence to the door,<br />
Where Merlin said: “Of your three hundred here<br />
There is but one I know, and him I favor;<br />
I mean the stately one who shakes the keys<br />
Of that most evil sounding gate of yours,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span>Which has a clang as if it shut forever.”—<br />
“If there be need, I’ll shut the gate myself,”<br />
She said. “And you like Blaise? Then you shall have him.<br />
He was not born to serve, but serve he must,<br />
It seems, and be enamoured of my shadow.<br />
He cherishes the taint of some high folly<br />
That haunts him with a name he cannot know,<br />
And I could fear his wits are paying for it.<br />
Forgive his tongue, and humor it a little.”—<br />
“I knew another one whose name was Blaise,”<br />
He said; and she said lightly, “Well, what of it?”—<br />
“And he was nigh the learnedest of hermits;<br />
His home was far away from everywhere,<br />
And he was all alone there when he died.”—<br />
“Now be a pleasant Merlin,” Vivian said,<br />
Patting his arm, “and have no more of that;<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span>For I’ll not hear of dead men far away,<br />
Or dead men anywhere this afternoon.<br />
There’ll be a trifle in the way of supper<br />
This evening, but the dead shall not have any.<br />
Blaise and this man will tell you all there is<br />
For you to know. Then you’ll know everything.”<br />
She laughed, and vanished like a humming-bird.</td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">V</td></tr>
<tr><td>The sun went down, and the dark after it<br />
Starred Merlin’s new abode with many a sconced<br />
And many a moving candle, in whose light<br />
The prisoned wizard, mirrored in amazement,<br />
Saw fronting him a stranger, falcon-eyed,<br />
Firm-featured, of a negligible age,<br />
And fair enough to look upon, he fancied,<br />
Though not a warrior born, nor more a courtier.<br />
A native humor resting in his long<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span>And solemn jaws now stirred, and Merlin smiled<br />
To see himself in purple, touched with gold,<br />
And fledged with snowy lace.—The careful Blaise,<br />
Having drawn some time before from Merlin’s wallet<br />
The sable raiment of a royal scholar,<br />
Had eyed it with a long mistrust and said:<br />
“The lady Vivian would be vexed, I fear,<br />
To meet you vested in these learned weeds<br />
Of gravity and death; for she abhors<br />
Mortality in all its hues and emblems—<br />
Black wear, long argument, and all the cold<br />
And solemn things that appertain to graves.”—<br />
And Merlin, listening, to himself had said,<br />
“This fellow has a freedom, yet I like him;”<br />
And then aloud: “I trust you. Deck me out,<br />
However, with a temperate regard<br />
For what your candid eye may find in me<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span>Of inward coloring. Let them reap my beard,<br />
Moreover, with a sort of reverence,<br />
For I shall never look on it again.<br />
And though your lady frown her face away<br />
To think of me in black, for God’s indulgence,<br />
Array me not in scarlet or in yellow.”—<br />
And so it came to pass that Merlin sat<br />
At ease in purple, even though his chin<br />
Reproached him as he pinched it, and seemed yet<br />
A little fearful of its nakedness.<br />
He might have sat and scanned himself for ever<br />
Had not the careful Blaise, regarding him,<br />
Remarked again that in his proper judgment,<br />
And on the valid word of his attendants,<br />
No more was to be done. “Then do no more,”<br />
Said Merlin, with a last look at his chin;<br />
“Never do more when there’s no more to do,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span>And you may shun thereby the bitter taste<br />
Of many disillusions and regrets.<br />
God’s pity on us that our words have wings<br />
And leave our deeds to crawl so far below them;<br />
For we have all two heights, we men who dream,<br />
Whether we lead or follow, rule or serve.”—<br />
“God’s pity on us anyhow,” Blaise answered,<br />
“Or most of us. Meanwhile, I have to say,<br />
As long as you are here, and I’m alive,<br />
Your summons will assure the loyalty<br />
Of all my diligence and expedition.<br />
The gong that you hear singing in the distance<br />
Was rung for your attention and your presence.”—<br />
“I wonder at this fellow, yet I like him,”<br />
Said Merlin; and he rose to follow him.<br />
<br />
The lady Vivian in a fragile sheath<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span>Of crimson, dimmed and veiled ineffably<br />
By the flame-shaken gloom wherein she sat,<br />
And twinkled if she moved, heard Merlin coming,<br />
And smiled as if to make herself believe<br />
Her joy was all a triumph; yet her blood<br />
Confessed a tingling of more wonderment<br />
Than all her five and twenty worldly years<br />
Of waiting for this triumph could remember;<br />
And when she knew and felt the slower tread<br />
Of his unseen advance among the shadows<br />
To the small haven of uncertain light<br />
That held her in it as a torch-lit shoal<br />
Might hold a smooth red fish, her listening skin<br />
Responded with a creeping underneath it,<br />
And a crinkling that was incident alike<br />
To darkness, love, and mice. When he was there,<br />
She looked up at him in a whirl of mirth<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span>And wonder, as in childhood she had gazed<br />
Wide-eyed on royal mountebanks who made<br />
So brief a shift of the impossible<br />
That kings and queens would laugh and shake themselves;<br />
Then rising slowly on her little feet,<br />
Like a slim creature lifted, she thrust out<br />
Her two small hands as if to push him back—<br />
Whereon he seized them. “Go away,” she said;<br />
“I never saw you in my life before.”—<br />
“You say the truth,” he answered; “when I met<br />
Myself an hour ago, my words were yours.<br />
God made the man you see for you to like,<br />
If possible. If otherwise, turn down<br />
These two prodigious and remorseless thumbs<br />
And leave your lions to annihilate him.”—<br />
<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span>“I have no other lion than yourself,”<br />
She said; “and since you cannot eat yourself,<br />
Pray do a lonely woman, who is, you say,<br />
More like a tree than any other thing<br />
In your discrimination, the large honor<br />
Of sharing with her a small kind of supper.”—<br />
“Yes, you are like a tree,—or like a flower;<br />
More like a flower to-night.” He bowed his head<br />
And kissed the ten small fingers he was holding,<br />
As calmly as if each had been a son;<br />
Although his heart was leaping and his eyes<br />
Had sight for nothing save a swimming crimson<br />
Between two glimmering arms. “More like a flower<br />
To-night,” he said, as now he scanned again<br />
The immemorial meaning of her face<br />
And drew it nearer to his eyes. It seemed<br />
A flower of wonder with a crimson stem<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span>Came leaning slowly and regretfully<br />
To meet his will—a flower of change and peril<br />
That had a clinging blossom of warm olive<br />
Half stifled with a tyranny of black,<br />
And held the wayward fragrance of a rose<br />
Made woman by delirious alchemy.<br />
She raised her face and yoked his willing neck<br />
With half her weight; and with hot lips that left<br />
The world with only philosophy<br />
For Merlin or for Anaxagoras,<br />
Called his to meet them and in one long hush<br />
Of capture to surrender and make hers<br />
The last of anything that might remain<br />
Of what were now their beardless wizardry.<br />
Then slowly she began to push herself<br />
Away, and slowly Merlin let her go<br />
As far from him as his outreaching hands<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>Could hold her fingers while his eyes had all<br />
The beauty of the woodland and the world<br />
Before him in the firelight, like a nymph<br />
Of cities, or a queen a little weary<br />
Of inland stillness and immortal trees.<br />
“Are you to let me go again sometime,”<br />
She said,—“before I starve to death, I wonder?<br />
If not, I’ll have to bite the lion’s paws,<br />
And make him roar. He cannot shake his mane,<br />
For now the lion has no mane to shake;<br />
The lion hardly knows himself without it,<br />
And thinks he has no face, but there’s a lady<br />
Who says he had no face until he lost it.<br />
So there we are. And there’s a flute somewhere,<br />
Playing a strange old tune. You know the words:<br />
‘The Lion and the Lady are both hungry.’”<br />
<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span>Fatigue and hunger—tempered leisurely<br />
With food that some devout magician’s oven<br />
Might after many failures have delivered,<br />
And wine that had for decades in the dark<br />
Of Merlin’s grave been slowly quickening,<br />
And with half-heard, dream-weaving interludes<br />
Of distant flutes and viols, made yet more distant<br />
By far, nostalgic hautboys blown from nowhere,—<br />
Were tempered not so leisurely, may be,<br />
With Vivian’s inextinguishable eyes<br />
Between two shining silver candlesticks<br />
That lifted each a trembling flame to make<br />
The rest of her a dusky loveliness<br />
Against a bank of shadow. Merlin made,<br />
As well as he was able while he ate,<br />
A fair division of the fealty due<br />
To food and beauty, albeit more times than one<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span>Was he at odds with his urbanity<br />
In honoring too long the grosser viand.<br />
“The best invention in Broceliande<br />
Has not been over-taxed in vain, I see,”<br />
She told him, with her chin propped on her fingers<br />
And her eyes flashing blindness into his:<br />
“I put myself out cruelly to please you,<br />
And you, for that, forget almost at once<br />
The name and image of me altogether.<br />
You needn’t, for when all is analyzed,<br />
It’s only a bird-pie that you are eating.”<br />
<br />
“I know not what you call it,” Merlin said;<br />
“Nor more do I forget your name and image,<br />
Though I do eat; and if I did not eat,<br />
Your sending out of ships and caravans<br />
To get whatever ’tis that’s in this thing<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span>Would be a sorrow for you all your days;<br />
And my great love, which you have seen by now,<br />
Might look to you a lie; and like as not<br />
You’d actuate some sinewed mercenary<br />
To carry me away to God knows where<br />
And seal me in a fearsome hole to starve,<br />
Because I made of this insidious picking<br />
An idle circumstance. My dear fair lady—<br />
And there is not another under heaven<br />
So fair as you are as I see you now—<br />
I cannot look at you too much and eat;<br />
And I must eat, or be untimely ashes,<br />
Whereon the light of your celestial gaze<br />
Would fall, I fear me, for no longer time<br />
Than on the solemn dust of Jeremiah—<br />
Whose beard you likened once, in heathen jest,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span>To mine that now is no man’s.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 14em;">“Are you sorry?”</span><br />
Said Vivian, filling Merlin’s empty goblet;<br />
“If you are sorry for the loss of it,<br />
Drink more of this and you may tell me lies<br />
Enough to make me sure that you are glad;<br />
But if your love is what you say it is,<br />
Be never sorry that my love took off<br />
That horrid hair to make your face at last<br />
A human fact. Since I have had your name<br />
To dream of and say over to myself,<br />
The visitations of that awful beard<br />
Have been a terror for my nights and days—<br />
For twenty years. I’ve seen it like an ocean,<br />
Blown seven ways at once and wrecking ships,<br />
With men and women screaming for their lives;<br />
I’ve seen it woven into shining ladders<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span>That ran up out of sight and so to heaven,<br />
All covered with white ghosts with hanging robes<br />
Like folded wings,—and there were millions of them,<br />
Climbing, climbing, climbing, all the time;<br />
And all the time that I was watching them<br />
I thought how far above me Merlin was,<br />
And wondered always what his face was like.<br />
But even then, as a child, I knew the day<br />
Would come some time when I should see his face,<br />
And hear his voice, and have him in my house<br />
Till he should care no more to stay in it,<br />
And go away to found another kingdom.”—<br />
“Not that,” he said; and, sighing, drank more wine;<br />
“One kingdom for one Merlin is enough.”—<br />
“One Merlin for one Vivian is enough,”<br />
She said. “If you care much, remember that;<br />
But the Lord knows how many Vivians<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span>One Merlin’s entertaining eye might favor,<br />
Indifferently well and all at once,<br />
If they were all at hand. Praise heaven they’re not.”<br />
<br />
“If they were in the world—praise heaven they’re not—<br />
And if one Merlin’s entertaining eye<br />
Saw two of them, there might be left him then<br />
The sight of no eye to see anything—<br />
Not even the Vivian who is everything,<br />
She being Beauty, Beauty being She,<br />
She being Vivian, and so forever.”—<br />
“I’m glad you don’t see two of me,” she said;<br />
“For there’s a whole world yet for you to eat<br />
And drink and say to me before I know<br />
The kind of creature that you see in me.<br />
I’m withering for a little more attention,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span>But, being woman, I can wait. These cups<br />
That you see coming are for the last there is<br />
Of what my father gave to kings alone,<br />
And far from always. You are more than kings<br />
To me; therefore I give it all to you,<br />
Imploring you to spare no more of it<br />
Than what a cockle-shell would hold for me<br />
To pledge your love and mine in. Take the rest,<br />
That I may see tonight the end of it;<br />
I’ll have no living remnant of the dead<br />
Annoying me until it fades and sours<br />
Of too long cherishing; for Time enjoys<br />
The look that’s on our faces when we scowl<br />
On unexpected ruins, and thrift itself<br />
May be a kind of slow unwholesome fire<br />
That eats away to dust the life that feeds it.<br />
You smile, I see, but I said what I said.<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span>One hardly has to live a thousand years<br />
To contemplate a lost economy;<br />
So let us drink it while it’s yet alive<br />
And you and I are not untimely ashes.<br />
My last words are your own, and I don’t like ’em.”—<br />
A sudden laughter scattered from her eyes<br />
A threatening wisdom. He smiled and let her laugh,<br />
Then looked into the dark where there was nothing:<br />
“There’s more in this than I have seen,” he thought,<br />
“Though I shall see it.”—“Drink,” she said again;<br />
“There’s only this much in the world of it,<br />
And I am near to giving all to you<br />
Because you are so great and I so little.”<br />
<br />
With a long-kindling gaze that caught from hers<br />
A laughing flame, and with a hand that shook<br />
Like Arthur’s kingdom, Merlin slowly raised<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span>A golden cup that for a golden moment<br />
Was twinned in air with hers; and Vivian,<br />
Who smiled at him across their gleaming rims,<br />
From eyes that made a fuel of the night<br />
Surrounding her, shot glory over gold<br />
At Merlin, while their cups touched and his trembled.<br />
He drank, not knowing what, nor caring much<br />
For kings who might have cared less for themselves,<br />
He thought, had all the darkness and wild light<br />
That fell together to make Vivian<br />
Been there before them then to flower anew<br />
Through sheathing crimson into candle-light<br />
With each new leer of their loose, liquorish eyes.<br />
Again he drank, and he cursed every king<br />
Who might have touched her even in her cradle;<br />
For what were kings to such as he, who made them<br />
And saw them totter—for the world to see,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span>And heed, if the world would? He drank again,<br />
And yet again—to make himself assured<br />
No manner of king should have the last of it—<br />
The cup that Vivian filled unfailingly<br />
Until she poured for nothing. “At the end<br />
Of this incomparable flowing gold,”<br />
She prattled on to Merlin, who observed<br />
Her solemnly, “I fear there may be specks.”—<br />
He sighed aloud, whereat she laughed at him<br />
And pushed the golden cup a little nearer.<br />
He scanned it with a sad anxiety,<br />
And then her face likewise, and shook his head<br />
As if at her concern for such a matter:<br />
“Specks? What are specks? Are you afraid of them?”<br />
He murmured slowly, with a drowsy tongue;<br />
“There are specks everywhere. I fear them not.<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span>If I were king in Camelot, I might<br />
Fear more than specks. But now I fear them not.<br />
You are too strange a lady to fear specks.”<br />
<br />
He stared a long time at the cup of gold<br />
Before him but he drank no more. There came<br />
Between him and the world a crumbling sky<br />
Of black and crimson, with a crimson cloud<br />
That held a far off town of many towers,<br />
All swayed and shaken, till at last they fell,<br />
And there was nothing but a crimson cloud<br />
That crumbled into nothing, like the sky<br />
That vanished with it, carrying away<br />
The world, the woman, and all memory of them,<br />
Until a slow light of another sky<br />
Made gray an open casement, showing him<br />
Faint shapes of an exotic furniture<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span>That glimmered with a dim magnificence,<br />
And letting in the sound of many birds<br />
That were, as he lay there remembering,<br />
The only occupation of his ears<br />
Until it seemed they shared a fainter sound,<br />
As if a sleeping child with a black head<br />
Beside him drew the breath of innocence.<br />
<br />
One shining afternoon around the fountain,<br />
As on the shining day of his arrival,<br />
The sunlight was alive with flying silver<br />
That had for Merlin a more dazzling flash<br />
Than jewels rained in dreams, and a richer sound<br />
Than harps, and all the morning stars together,—<br />
When jewels and harps and stars and everything<br />
That flashed and sang and was not Vivian,<br />
Seemed less than echoes of her least of words—<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span>For she was coming. Suddenly, somewhere<br />
Behind him, she was coming; that was all<br />
He knew until she came and took his hand<br />
And held it while she talked about the fishes.<br />
When she looked up he thought a softer light<br />
Was in her eyes than once he had found there;<br />
And had there been left yet for dusky women<br />
A beauty that was heretofore not hers,<br />
He told himself he must have seen it then<br />
Before him in the face at which he smiled<br />
And trembled. “Many men have called me wise,”<br />
He said, “but you are wiser than all wisdom<br />
If you know what you are.”—“I don’t,” she said;<br />
“I know that you and I are here together;<br />
I know that I have known for twenty years<br />
That life would be almost a constant yawning<br />
Until you came; and now that you are here,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span>I know that you are not to go away<br />
Until you tell me that I’m hideous;<br />
I know that I like fishes, ferns, and snakes,—<br />
Maybe because I liked them when the world<br />
Was young and you and I were salamanders;<br />
I know, too, a cool place not far from here,<br />
Where there are ferns that are like marching men<br />
Who never march away. Come now and see them,<br />
And do as they do—never march away.<br />
When they are gone, some others, crisp and green,<br />
Will have their place, but never march away.”—<br />
He smoothed her silky fingers, one by one:<br />
“Some other Merlin, also, do you think,<br />
Will have his place—and never march away?”—<br />
Then Vivian laid a finger on his lips<br />
And shook her head at him before she laughed:<br />
“There is no other Merlin than yourself,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span>And you are never going to be old.”<br />
Oblivious of a world that made of him<br />
A jest, a legend, and a long regret,<br />
And with a more commanding wizardry<br />
Than his to rule a kingdom where the king<br />
Was Love and the queen Vivian, Merlin found<br />
His queen without the blemish of a word<br />
That was more rough than honey from her lips,<br />
Or the first adumbration of a frown<br />
To cloud the night-wild fire that in her eyes<br />
Had yet a smoky friendliness of home,<br />
And a foreknowing care for mighty trifles.<br />
“There are miles and miles for you to wander in,”<br />
She told him once: “Your prison yard is large,<br />
And I would rather take my two ears off<br />
And feed them to the fishes in the fountain<br />
Than buzz like an incorrigible bee<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span>For always around yours, and have you hate<br />
The sound of me; for some day then, for certain,<br />
Your philosophic rage would see in me<br />
A bee in earnest, and your hand would smite<br />
My life away. And what would you do then?<br />
I know: for years and years you’d sit alone<br />
Upon my grave, and be the grieving image<br />
Of lean remorse, and suffer miserably;<br />
And often, all day long, you’d only shake<br />
Your celebrated head and all it holds,<br />
Or beat it with your fist the while you groaned<br />
Aloud and went on saying to yourself:<br />
‘Never should I have killed her, or believed<br />
She was a bee that buzzed herself to death,<br />
First having made me crazy, had there been<br />
Judicious distance and wise absences<br />
To keep the two of us inquisitive.’”—<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span>“I fear you bow your unoffending head<br />
Before a load that should be mine,” said he;<br />
“If so, you led me on by listening.<br />
You should have shrieked and jumped, and then fled yelling;<br />
That’s the best way when a man talks too long.<br />
God’s pity on me if I love your feet<br />
More now than I could ever love the face<br />
Of any one of all those Vivians<br />
You summoned out of nothing on the night<br />
When I saw towers. I’ll wander and amend.”—<br />
At that she flung the noose of her soft arms<br />
Around his neck and kissed him instantly:<br />
“You are the wisest man that ever was,<br />
And I’ve a prayer to make: May all you say<br />
To Vivian be a part of what you knew<br />
Before the curse of her unquiet head<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span>Was on your shoulder, as you have it now,<br />
To punish you for knowing beyond knowledge.<br />
You are the only one who sees enough<br />
To make me see how far away I am<br />
From all that I have seen and have not been;<br />
You are the only thing there is alive<br />
Between me as I am and as I was<br />
When Merlin was a dream. You are to listen<br />
When I say now to you that I’m alone.<br />
Like you, I saw too much; and unlike you<br />
I made no kingdom out of what I saw—<br />
Or none save this one here that you must rule,<br />
Believing you are ruled. I see too far<br />
To rule myself. Time’s way with you and me<br />
Is our way, in that we are out of Time<br />
And out of tune with Time. We have this place,<br />
And you must hold us in it or we die.<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span>Look at me now and say if what I say<br />
Be folly or not; for my unquiet head<br />
Is no conceit of mine. I had it first<br />
When I was born; and I shall have it with me<br />
Till my unquiet soul is on its way<br />
To be, I hope, where souls are quieter.<br />
So let the first and last activity<br />
Of what you say so often is your love<br />
Be always to remember that our lyres<br />
Are not strung for Today. On you it falls<br />
To keep them in accord here with each other,<br />
For you have wisdom, I have only sight<br />
For distant things—and you. And you are Merlin.<br />
Poor wizard! Vivian is your punishment<br />
For making kings of men who are not kings;<br />
And you are mine, by the same reasoning,<br />
For living out of Time and out of tune<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span>With anything but you. No other man<br />
Could make me say so much of what I know<br />
As I say now to you. And you are Merlin!”<br />
<br />
She looked up at him till his way was lost<br />
Again in the familiar wilderness<br />
Of night that love made for him in her eyes,<br />
And there he wandered as he said he would;<br />
He wandered also in his prison-yard,<br />
And, when he found her coming after him,<br />
Beguiled her with her own admonishing<br />
And frowned upon her with a fierce reproof<br />
That many a time in the old world outside<br />
Had set the mark of silence on strong men—<br />
Whereat she laughed, not always wholly sure,<br />
Nor always wholly glad, that he who played<br />
So lightly was the wizard of her dreams:<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span>“No matter—if only Merlin keep the world<br />
Away,” she thought. “Our lyres have many strings,<br />
But he must know them all, for he is Merlin.”—<br />
And so for years, till ten of them were gone,—<br />
Ten years, ten seasons, or ten flying ages—<br />
Fate made Broceliande a paradise,<br />
By none invaded, until Dagonet,<br />
Like a discordant, awkward bird of doom,<br />
Flew in with Arthur’s message. For the King,<br />
In sorrow cleaving to simplicity,<br />
And having in his love a quick remembrance<br />
Of Merlin’s old affection for the fellow,<br />
Had for this vain, reluctant enterprise<br />
Appointed him—the knight who made men laugh,<br />
And was a fool because he played the fool.<br />
<br />
“The King believes today, as in his boyhood,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>That I am Fate; and I can do no more<br />
Than show again what in his heart he knows,”<br />
Said Merlin to himself and Vivian:<br />
“This time I go because I made him King,<br />
Thereby to be a mirror for the world;<br />
This time I go, but never after this,<br />
For I can be no more than what I was,<br />
And I can do no more than I have done.”<br />
He took her slowly in his arms and felt<br />
Her body throbbing like a bird against him:<br />
“This time I go; I go because I must.”<br />
<br />
And in the morning, when he rode away<br />
With Dagonet and Blaise through the same gate<br />
That once had clanged as if to shut for ever,<br />
She had not even asked him not to go;<br />
For it was then that in his lonely gaze<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span>Of helpless love and sad authority<br />
She found the gleam of his imprisoned power<br />
That Fate withheld; and, pitying herself,<br />
She pitied the fond Merlin she had changed,<br />
And saw the Merlin who had changed the world.</td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">VI</td></tr>
<tr><td>“No kings are coming on their hands and knees,<br />
Nor yet on horses or in chariots,<br />
To carry me away from you again,”<br />
Said Merlin, winding around Vivian’s ear<br />
A shred of her black hair. “King Arthur knows<br />
That I have done with kings, and that I speak<br />
No more their crafty language. Once I knew it,<br />
But now the only language I have left<br />
Is one that I must never let you hear<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span>Too long, or know too well. When towering deeds<br />
Once done shall only out of dust and words<br />
Be done again, the doer may then be wary<br />
Lest in the complement of his new fabric<br />
There be more words than dust.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 12em;">“Why tell me so?”</span><br />
Said Vivian; and a singular thin laugh<br />
Came after her thin question. “Do you think<br />
That I’m so far away from history<br />
That I require, even of the wisest man<br />
Who ever said the wrong thing to a woman,<br />
So large a light on what I know already—<br />
When all I seek is here before me now<br />
In your new eyes that you have brought for me<br />
From Camelot? The eyes you took away<br />
Were sad and old; and I could see in them<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span>A Merlin who remembered all the kings<br />
He ever saw, and wished himself, almost,<br />
Away from Vivian, to make other kings,<br />
And shake the world again in the old manner.<br />
I saw myself no bigger than a beetle<br />
For several days, and wondered if your love<br />
Were large enough to make me any larger<br />
When you came back. Am I a beetle still?”<br />
She stood up on her toes and held her cheek<br />
For some time against his, and let him go.<br />
<br />
“I fear the time has come for me to wander<br />
A little in my prison-yard,” he said.—<br />
“No, tell me everything that you have seen<br />
And heard and done, and seen done, and heard done,<br />
Since you deserted me. And tell me first<br />
What the King thinks of me.”—“The King believes<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span>That you are almost what you are,” he told her:<br />
“The beauty of all ages that are vanished,<br />
Reborn to be the wonder of one woman.”—<br />
“I knew he hated me. What else of him?”—<br />
“And all that I have seen and heard and done,<br />
Which is not much, would make a weary telling;<br />
And all your part of it would be to sleep,<br />
And dream that Merlin had his beard again.”—<br />
“Then tell me more about your good fool knight,<br />
Sir Dagonet. If Blaise were not half-mad<br />
Already with his pondering on the name<br />
And shield of his unshielding nameless father,<br />
I’d make a fool of him. I’d call him Ajax;<br />
I’d have him shake his fist at thunder-storms,<br />
And dance a jig as long as there was lightning,<br />
And so till I forgot myself entirely.<br />
Not even your love may do so much as that.”—<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span>“Thunder and lightning are no friends of mine,”<br />
Said Merlin slowly, “more than they are yours;<br />
They bring me nearer to the elements<br />
From which I came than I care now to be.”—<br />
“You owe a service to those elements;<br />
For by their service you outwitted age<br />
And made the world a kingdom of your will.”—<br />
He touched her hand, smiling: “Whatever service<br />
Of mine awaits them will not be forgotten,”<br />
He said; and the smile faded on his face,—<br />
“Now of all graceless and ungrateful wizards—”<br />
But there she ceased, for she found in his eyes<br />
The first of a new fear. “The wrong word rules<br />
Today,” she said; “and we’ll have no more journeys.”<br />
<br />
Although he wandered rather more than ever<br />
Since he had come again to Brittany<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span>From Camelot, Merlin found eternally<br />
Before him a new loneliness that made<br />
Of garden, park, and woodland, all alike,<br />
A desolation and a changelessness<br />
Defying reason, without Vivian<br />
Beside him, like a child with a black head,<br />
Or moving on before him, or somewhere<br />
So near him that, although he saw it not<br />
With eyes, he felt the picture of her beauty<br />
And shivered at the nearness of her being.<br />
Without her now there was no past or future,<br />
And a vague, soul-consuming premonition<br />
He found the only tenant of the present;<br />
He wondered, when she was away from him,<br />
If his avenging injured intellect<br />
Might shine with Arthur’s kingdom a twin mirror,<br />
Fate’s plaything, for new ages without eyes<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span>To see therein themselves and their declension.<br />
Love made his hours a martyrdom without her;<br />
The world was like an empty house without her,<br />
Where Merlin was a prisoner of love<br />
Confined within himself by too much freedom,<br />
Repeating an unending exploration<br />
Of many solitary silent rooms,<br />
And only in a way remembering now<br />
That once their very solitude and silence<br />
Had by the magic of expectancy<br />
Made sure what now he doubted—though his doubts,<br />
Day after day, were founded on a shadow.<br />
<br />
For now to Merlin, in his paradise,<br />
Had come an unseen angel with a sword<br />
Unseen, the touch of which was a long fear<br />
For longer sorrow that had never come,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span>Yet might if he compelled it. He discovered,<br />
One golden day in autumn as he wandered,<br />
That he had made the radiance of two years<br />
A misty twilight when he might as well<br />
Have had no mist between him and the sun,<br />
The sun being Vivian. On his coming then<br />
To find her all in green against a wall<br />
Of green and yellow leaves, and crumbling bread<br />
For birds around the fountain while she sang<br />
And the birds ate the bread, he told himself<br />
That everything today was as it was<br />
At first, and for a minute he believed it.<br />
“I’d have you always all in green out here,”<br />
He said, “if I had much to say about it.”—<br />
She clapped her crumbs away and laughed at him:<br />
“I’ve covered up my bones with every color<br />
That I can carry on them without screaming,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span>And you have liked them all—or made me think so.”—<br />
“I must have liked them if you thought I did,”<br />
He answered, sighing; “but the sight of you<br />
Today as on the day I saw you first,<br />
All green, all wonderful” ... He tore a leaf<br />
To pieces with a melancholy care<br />
That made her smile.—“Why pause at ‘wonderful’?<br />
You’ve hardly been yourself since you came back<br />
From Camelot, where that unpleasant King<br />
Said things that you have never said to me.”—<br />
He looked upon her with a worn reproach:<br />
“The King said nothing that I keep from you.”—<br />
“What is it then?” she asked, imploringly;<br />
“You man of moods and miracles, what is it?”—<br />
He shook his head and tore another leaf:<br />
“There is no need of asking what it is;<br />
Whatever you or I may choose to name it,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span>The name of it is Fate, who played with me<br />
And gave me eyes to read of the unwritten<br />
More lines than I have read. I see no more<br />
Today than yesterday, but I remember.<br />
My ways are not the ways of other men;<br />
My memories go forward. It was you<br />
Who said that we were not in tune with Time;<br />
It was not I who said it.”—“But you knew it;<br />
What matter then who said it?”—“It was you<br />
Who said that Merlin was your punishment<br />
For being in tune with him and not with Time—<br />
With Time or with the world; and it was you<br />
Who said you were alone, even here with Merlin;<br />
It was not I who said it. It is I<br />
Who tell you now my inmost thoughts.” He laughed<br />
As if at hidden pain around his heart,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span>But there was not much laughing in his eyes.<br />
They walked, and for a season they were silent:<br />
“I shall know what you mean by that,” she said,<br />
“When you have told me. Here’s an oak you like,<br />
And here’s a place that fits me wondrous well<br />
To sit in. You sit there. I’ve seen you there<br />
Before; and I have spoiled your noble thoughts<br />
By walking all my fingers up and down<br />
Your countenance, as if they were the feet<br />
Of a small animal with no great claws.<br />
Tell me a story now about the world,<br />
And the men in it, what they do in it,<br />
And why it is they do it all so badly.”—<br />
“I’ve told you every story that I know,<br />
Almost,” he said.—“O, don’t begin like that.”—<br />
“Well, once upon a time there was a King.”—<br />
“That has a more commendable address;<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span>Go on, and tell me all about the King;<br />
I’ll bet the King had warts or carbuncles,<br />
Or something wrong in his divine insides,<br />
To make him wish that Adam had died young.”<br />
<br />
Merlin observed her slowly with a frown<br />
Of saddened wonder. She laughed rather lightly,<br />
And at his heart he felt again the sword<br />
Whose touch was a long fear for longer sorrow.<br />
“Well, once upon a time there was a king,”<br />
He said again, but now in a dry voice<br />
That wavered and betrayed a venturing.<br />
He paused, and would have hesitated longer,<br />
But something in him that was not himself<br />
Compelled an utterance that his tongue obeyed,<br />
As an unwilling child obeys a father<br />
Who might be richer for obedience<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span>If he obeyed the child: “There was a king<br />
Who would have made his reign a monument<br />
For kings and peoples of the waiting ages<br />
To reverence and remember, and to this end<br />
He coveted and won, with no ado<br />
To make a story of, a neighbor queen<br />
Who limed him with her smile and had of him,<br />
In token of their sin, what he found soon<br />
To be a sort of mongrel son and nephew—<br />
And a most precious reptile in addition—<br />
To ornament his court and carry arms,<br />
And latterly to be the darker half<br />
Of ruin. Also the king, who made of love<br />
More than he made of life and death together,<br />
Forgot the world and his example in it<br />
For yet another woman—one of many—<br />
And this one he made Queen, albeit he knew<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span>That her unsworn allegiance to the knight<br />
That he had loved the best of all his order<br />
Must one day bring along the coming end<br />
Of love and honor and of everything;<br />
And with a kingdom builded on two pits<br />
Of living sin,—so founded by the will<br />
Of one wise counsellor who loved the king,<br />
And loved the world and therefore made him king<br />
To be a mirror for it,—the king reigned well<br />
For certain years, awaiting a sure doom;<br />
For certain years he waved across the world<br />
A royal banner with a Dragon on it;<br />
And men of every land fell worshipping<br />
The Dragon as it were the living God,<br />
And not the living sin.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 10em;">She rose at that,</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span>And after a calm yawn, she looked at Merlin:<br />
“Why all this new insistence upon sin?”<br />
She said; “I wonder if I understand<br />
This king of yours, with all his pits and dragons;<br />
I know I do not like him.” A thinner light<br />
Was in her eyes than he had found in them<br />
Since he became the willing prisoner<br />
That she had made of him; and on her mouth<br />
Lay now a colder line of irony<br />
Than all his fears or nightmares could have drawn<br />
Before today: “What reason do you know<br />
For me to listen to this king of yours?<br />
What reading has a man of woman’s days,<br />
Even though the man be Merlin and a prophet?”<br />
<br />
“I know no call for you to love the king,”<br />
Said Merlin, driven ruinously along<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span>By the vindictive urging of his fate;<br />
“I know no call for you to love the king,<br />
Although you serve him, knowing not yet the king<br />
You serve. There is no man, or any woman,<br />
For whom the story of the living king<br />
Is not the story of the living sin.<br />
I thought my story was the common one,<br />
For common recognition and regard.”<br />
<br />
“Then let us have no more of it,” she said;<br />
“For we are not so common, I believe,<br />
That we need kings and pits and flags and dragons<br />
To make us know that we have let the world<br />
Go by us. Have you missed the world so much<br />
That you must have it in with all its clots<br />
And wounds and bristles on to make us happy—<br />
Like Blaise, with shouts and horns and seven men<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span>Triumphant with a most unlovely boar?<br />
Is there no other story in the world<br />
Than this one of a man that you made king<br />
To be a moral for the speckled ages?<br />
You said once long ago, if you remember,<br />
‘You are too strange a lady to fear specks’;<br />
And it was you, you said, who feared them not.<br />
Why do you look at me as at a snake<br />
All coiled to spring at you and strike you dead?<br />
I am not going to spring at you, or bite you;<br />
I’m going home. And you, if you are kind,<br />
Will have no fear to wander for an hour.<br />
I’m sure the time has come for you to wander;<br />
And there may come a time for you to say<br />
What most you think it is that we need here<br />
To make of this Broceliande a refuge<br />
Where two disheartened sinners may forget<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span>A world that has today no place for them.”<br />
A melancholy wave of revelation<br />
Broke over Merlin like a rising sea,<br />
Long viewed unwillingly and long denied.<br />
He saw what he had seen, but would not feel,<br />
Till now the bitterness of what he felt<br />
Was in his throat, and all the coldness of it<br />
Was on him and around him like a flood<br />
Of lonelier memories than he had said<br />
Were memories, although he knew them now<br />
For what they were—for what his eyes had seen,<br />
For what his ears had heard and what his heart<br />
Had felt, with him not knowing what it felt.<br />
But now he knew that his cold angel’s name<br />
Was Change, and that a mightier will than his<br />
Or Vivian’s had ordained that he be there.<br />
To Vivian he could not say anything<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span>But words that had no more of hope in them<br />
Than anguish had of peace: “I meant the world ...<br />
I meant the world,” he groaned; “not you—not me.”<br />
<br />
Again the frozen line of irony<br />
Was on her mouth. He looked up once at it.<br />
And then away—too fearful of her eyes<br />
To see what he could hear now in her laugh<br />
That melted slowly into what she said,<br />
Like snow in icy water: “This world of yours<br />
Will surely be the end of us. And why not?<br />
I’m overmuch afraid we’re part of it,—<br />
Or why do we build walls up all around us,<br />
With gates of iron that make us think the day<br />
Of judgment’s coming when they clang behind us?<br />
And yet you tell me that you fear no specks!<br />
With you I never cared for them enough<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span>To think of them. I was too strange a lady.<br />
And your return is now a speckled king<br />
And something that you call a living sin—<br />
That’s like an uninvited poor relation<br />
Who comes without a welcome, rather late,<br />
And on a foundered horse.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 9em;">“Specks? What are specks?”</span><br />
He gazed at her in a forlorn wonderment<br />
That made her say: “You said, ‘I fear them not.’<br />
‘If I were king in Camelot,’ you said,<br />
‘I might fear more than specks.’ Have you forgotten?<br />
Don’t tell me, Merlin, you are growing old.<br />
Why don’t you make somehow a queen of me,<br />
And give me half the world? I’d wager thrushes<br />
That I should reign, with you to turn the wheel,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span>As well as any king that ever was.<br />
The curse on me is that I cannot serve<br />
A ruler who forgets that he is king.”<br />
<br />
In his bewildered misery Merlin then<br />
Stared hard at Vivian’s face, more like a slave<br />
Who sought for common mercy than like Merlin:<br />
“You speak a language that was never mine,<br />
Or I have lost my wits. Why do you seize<br />
The flimsiest of opportunities<br />
To make of what I said another thing<br />
Than love or reason could have let me say,<br />
Or let me fancy? Why do you keep the truth<br />
So far away from me, when all your gates<br />
Will open at your word and let me go<br />
To some place where no fear or weariness<br />
Of yours need ever dwell? Why does a woman,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span>Made otherwise a miracle of love<br />
And loveliness, and of immortal beauty,<br />
Tear one word by the roots out of a thousand,<br />
And worry it, and torture it, and shake it,<br />
Like a small dog that has a rag to play with?<br />
What coil of an ingenious destiny<br />
Is this that makes of what I never meant<br />
A meaning as remote as hell from heaven?”<br />
<br />
“I don’t know,” Vivian said reluctantly,<br />
And half as if in pain; “I’m going home.<br />
I’m going home and leave you here to wander.<br />
Pray take your kings and sins away somewhere<br />
And bury them, and bury the Queen in also.<br />
I know this king; he lives in Camelot,<br />
And I shall never like him. There are specks<br />
Almost all over him. Long live the king,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span>But not the king who lives in Camelot,<br />
With Modred, Lancelot, and Guinevere—<br />
And all four speckled like a merry nest<br />
Of addled eggs together. You made him King<br />
Because you loved the world and saw in him<br />
From infancy a mirror for the millions.<br />
The world will see itself in him, and then<br />
The world will say its prayers and wash its face,<br />
And build for some new king a new foundation.<br />
Long live the King!... But now I apprehend<br />
A time for me to shudder and grow old<br />
And garrulous—and so become a fright<br />
For Blaise to take out walking in warm weather—<br />
Should I give way to long considering<br />
Of worlds you may have lost while prisoned here<br />
With me and my light mind. I contemplate<br />
Another name for this forbidden place,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span>And one more fitting. Tell me, if you find it,<br />
Some fitter name than Eden. We have had<br />
A man and woman in it for some time,<br />
And now, it seems, we have a Tree of Knowledge.”<br />
She looked up at the branches overhead<br />
And shrugged her shoulders. Then she went away;<br />
And what was left of Merlin’s happiness,<br />
Like a disloyal phantom, followed her.<br />
<br />
He felt the sword of his cold angel thrust<br />
And twisted in his heart, as if the end<br />
Were coming next, but the cold angel passed<br />
Invisibly and left him desolate,<br />
With misty brow and eyes. “The man who sees<br />
May see too far, and he may see too late<br />
The path he takes unseen,” he told himself<br />
When he found thought again. “The man who sees<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span>May go on seeing till the immortal flame<br />
That lights and lures him folds him in its heart,<br />
And leaves of what there was of him to die<br />
An item of inhospitable dust<br />
That love and hate alike must hide away;<br />
Or there may still be charted for his feet<br />
A dimmer faring, where the touch of time<br />
Were like the passing of a twilight moth<br />
From flower to flower into oblivion,<br />
If there were not somewhere a barren end<br />
Of moths and flowers, and glimmering far away<br />
Beyond a desert where the flowerless days<br />
Are told in slow defeats and agonies,<br />
The guiding of a nameless light that once<br />
Had made him see too much—and has by now<br />
Revealed in death, to the undying child<br />
Of Lancelot, the Grail. For this pure light<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span>Has many rays to throw, for many men<br />
To follow; and the wise are not all pure,<br />
Nor are the pure all wise who follow it.<br />
There are more rays than men. But let the man<br />
Who saw too much, and was to drive himself<br />
From paradise, play too lightly or too long<br />
Among the moths and flowers, he finds at last<br />
There is a dim way out; and he shall grope<br />
Where pleasant shadows lead him to the plain<br />
That has no shadow save his own behind him.<br />
And there, with no complaint, nor much regret,<br />
Shall he plod on, with death between him now<br />
And the far light that guides him, till he falls<br />
And has an empty thought of empty rest;<br />
Then Fate will put a mattock in his hands<br />
And lash him while he digs himself the grave<br />
That is to be the pallet and the shroud<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span>Of his poor blundering bones. The man who saw<br />
Too much must have an eye to see at last<br />
Where Fate has marked the clay; and he shall delve,<br />
Although his hand may slacken, and his knees<br />
May rock without a method as he toils;<br />
For there’s a delving that is to be done—<br />
If not for God, for man. I see the light,<br />
But I shall fall before I come to it;<br />
For I am old. I was young yesterday.<br />
Time’s hand that I have held away so long<br />
Grips hard now on my shoulder. Time has won.<br />
Tomorrow I shall say to Vivian<br />
That I am old and gaunt and garrulous,<br />
And tell her one more story: I am old.”<br />
<br />
There were long hours for Merlin after that,<br />
And much long wandering in his prison-yard,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span>Where now the progress of each heavy step<br />
Confirmed a stillness of impending change<br />
And imminent farewell. To Vivian’s ear<br />
There came for many days no other story<br />
Than Merlin’s iteration of his love<br />
And his departure from Broceliande,<br />
Where Merlin still remained. In Vivian’s eye,<br />
There was a quiet kindness, and at times<br />
A smoky flash of incredulity<br />
That faded into pain. Was this the Merlin—<br />
This incarnation of idolatry<br />
And all but supplicating deference—<br />
This bowed and reverential contradiction<br />
Of all her dreams and her realities—<br />
Was this the Merlin who for years and years<br />
Before she found him had so made her love him<br />
That kings and princes, thrones and diadems,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span>And honorable men who drowned themselves<br />
For love, were less to her than melon-shells?<br />
Was this the Merlin whom her fate had sent<br />
One spring day to come ringing at her gate,<br />
Bewildering her love with happy terror<br />
That later was to be all happiness?<br />
Was this the Merlin who had made the world<br />
Half over, and then left it with a laugh<br />
To be the youngest, oldest, weirdest, gayest,<br />
And wisest, and sometimes the foolishest<br />
Of all the men of her consideration?<br />
Was this the man who had made other men<br />
As ordinary as arithmetic?<br />
Was this man Merlin who came now so slowly<br />
Towards the fountain where she stood again<br />
In shimmering green? Trembling, he took her hands<br />
And pressed them fondly, one upon the other,<br />
Between his:<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 6em;">“I was wrong that other day,</span><br />
For I have one more story. I am old.”<br />
He waited like one hungry for the word<br />
Not said; and she found in his eyes a light<br />
As patient as a candle in a window<br />
That looks upon the sea and is a mark<br />
For ships that have gone down. “Tomorrow,” he said;<br />
“Tomorrow I shall go away again<br />
To Camelot; and I shall see the King<br />
Once more; and I may come to you again<br />
Once more; and I shall go away again<br />
For ever. There is now no more than that<br />
For me to do; and I shall do no more.<br />
I saw too much when I saw Camelot;<br />
And I saw farther backward into Time,<br />
And forward, than a man may see and live,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span>When I made Arthur king. I saw too far,<br />
But not so far as this. Fate played with me<br />
As I have played with Time; and Time, like me,<br />
Being less than Fate, will have on me his vengeance.<br />
On Fate there is no vengeance, even for God.”<br />
He drew her slowly into his embrace<br />
And held her there, but when he kissed her lips<br />
They were as cold as leaves and had no answer;<br />
For Time had given him then, to prove his words,<br />
A frozen moment of a woman’s life.<br />
<br />
When Merlin the next morning came again<br />
In the same pilgrim robe that he had worn<br />
While he sat waiting where the cherry-blossoms<br />
Outside the gate fell on him and around him,<br />
Grief came to Vivian at the sight of him;<br />
And like a flash of a swift ugly knife,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span>A blinding fear came with it. “Are you going?”<br />
She said, more with her lips than with her voice;<br />
And he said, “I am going. Blaise and I<br />
Are going down together to the shore,<br />
And Blaise is coming back. For this one day<br />
Be good enough to spare him, for I like him.<br />
I tell you now, as once I told the King,<br />
That I can be no more than what I was,<br />
And I can say no more than I have said.<br />
Sometimes you told me that I spoke too long,<br />
And sent me off to wander. That was good.<br />
I go now for another wandering,<br />
And I pray God that all be well with you.”<br />
<br />
For long there was a whining in her ears<br />
Of distant wheels departing. When it ceased,<br />
She closed the gate again so quietly<br />
That Merlin could have heard no sound of it.</td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">VII</td></tr>
<tr><td>By Merlin’s Rock, where Dagonet the fool<br />
Was given through many a dying afternoon<br />
To sit and meditate on human ways<br />
And ways divine, Gawaine and Bedivere<br />
Stood silent, gazing down on Camelot.<br />
The two had risen and were going home:<br />
“It hits me sore, Gawaine,” said Bedivere,<br />
“To think on all the tumult and affliction<br />
Down there, and all the noise and preparation<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span>That hums of coming death, and, if my fears<br />
Be born of reason, of what’s more than death.<br />
Wherefore, I say to you again, Gawaine,—<br />
To you—that this late hour is not too late<br />
For you to change yourself and change the King;<br />
For though the King may love me with a love<br />
More tried, and older, and more sure, may be,<br />
Than for another, for such a time as this<br />
The friend who turns him to the world again<br />
Shall have a tongue more gracious and an eye<br />
More shrewd than mine. For such a time as this<br />
The King must have a glamour to persuade him.”<br />
<br />
“The King shall have a glamour, and anon,”<br />
Gawaine said, and he shot death from his eyes;<br />
“If you were King, as Arthur is—or was—<br />
And Lancelot had carried off your Queen,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span>And killed a score or so of your best knights—<br />
Not mentioning my two brothers, whom he slew<br />
Unarmored and unarmed—God save your wits!<br />
Two stewards with skewers could have done as much,<br />
And you and I might now be rotting for it.”<br />
<br />
“But Lancelot’s men were crowded,—they were crushed;<br />
And there was nothing for them but to strike<br />
Or die, not seeing where they struck. Think you<br />
They would have slain Gareth and Gaheris,<br />
And Tor, and all those other friends of theirs?<br />
God’s mercy for the world he made, I say,<br />
And for the blood that writes the story of it.<br />
Gareth and Gaheris, Tor and Lamorak,—<br />
All dead, with all the others that are dead!<br />
These years have made me turn to Lamorak<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span>For counsel—and now Lamorak is dead.”<br />
“Why do you fling those two names in my face?<br />
’Twas Modred made an end of Lamorak,<br />
Not I; and Lancelot now has done for Tor.<br />
I’ll urge no king on after Lancelot<br />
For such a two as Tor and Lamorak:<br />
Their father killed my father, and their friend<br />
Was Lancelot, not I. I’ll own my fault—<br />
I’m living; and while I’ve a tongue can talk,<br />
I’ll say this to the King: ‘Burn Lancelot<br />
By inches till he give you back the Queen;<br />
Then hang him—drown him—or do anything<br />
To rid the world of him.’ He killed my brothers,<br />
And he was once my friend. Now damn the soul<br />
Of him who killed my brothers! There you have me.”<br />
<br />
“You are a strong man, Gawaine, and your strength<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span>Goes ill where foes are. You may cleave their limbs<br />
And heads off, but you cannot damn their souls;<br />
What you may do now is to save their souls,<br />
And bodies too, and like enough your own.<br />
Remember that King Arthur is a king,<br />
And where there is a king there is a kingdom<br />
Is not the kingdom any more to you<br />
Than one brief enemy? Would you see it fall,<br />
And the King with it, for one mortal hate<br />
That burns out reason? Gawaine, you are king<br />
Today. Another day may see no king<br />
But Havoc, if you have no other word<br />
For Arthur now than hate for Lancelot.<br />
Is not the world as large as Lancelot?<br />
Is Lancelot, because one woman’s eyes<br />
Are brighter when they look on him, to sluice<br />
The world with angry blood? Poor flesh! Poor flesh!<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span>And you, Gawaine,—are you so gaffed with hate<br />
You cannot leave it and so plunge away<br />
To stiller places and there see, for once,<br />
What hangs on this pernicious expedition<br />
The King in his insane forgetfulness<br />
Would undertake—with you to drum him on?<br />
Are you as mad as he and Lancelot<br />
Made ravening into one man twice as mad<br />
As either? Is the kingdom of the world,<br />
Now rocking, to go down in sound and blood<br />
And ashes and sick ruin, and for the sake<br />
Of three men and a woman? If it be so,<br />
God’s mercy for the world he made, I say,—<br />
And say again to Dagonet. Sir Fool,<br />
Your throne is empty, and you may as well<br />
Sit on it and be ruler of the world<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span>From now till supper-time.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 11em;">Sir Dagonet,</span><br />
Appearing, made reply to Bedivere’s<br />
Dry welcome with a famished look of pain,<br />
On which he built a smile: “If I were King,<br />
You, Bedivere, should be my counsellor;<br />
And we should have no more wars over women.<br />
I’ll sit me down and meditate on that.”<br />
Gawaine, for all his anger, laughed a little,<br />
And clapped the fool’s lean shoulder; for he loved him<br />
And was with Arthur when he made him knight.<br />
Then Dagonet said on to Bedivere,<br />
As if his tongue would make a jest of sorrow:<br />
“Sometime I’ll tell you what I might have done<br />
Had I been Lancelot and you King Arthur—<br />
Each having in himself the vicious essence<br />
That now lives in the other and makes war.<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span>When all men are like you and me, my lord,<br />
When all are rational or rickety,<br />
There may be no more war. But what’s here now?<br />
Lancelot loves the Queen, and he makes war<br />
Of love; the King, being bitten to the soul<br />
By love and hate that work in him together,<br />
Makes war of madness; Gawaine hates Lancelot,<br />
And he, to be in tune, makes war of hate;<br />
Modred hates everything, yet he can see<br />
With one damned illegitimate small eye<br />
His father’s crown, and with another like it<br />
He sees the beauty of the Queen herself;<br />
He needs the two for his ambitious pleasure,<br />
And therefore he makes war of his ambition;<br />
And somewhere in the middle of all this<br />
There’s a squeezed world that elbows for attention.<br />
Poor Merlin, buried in Broceliande!<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span>He must have had an academic eye<br />
For woman when he founded Arthur’s kingdom,<br />
And in Broceliande he may be sorry.<br />
Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols. God be with him!<br />
I’m glad they tell me there’s another world,<br />
For this one’s a disease without a doctor.”<br />
<br />
“No, not so bad as that,” said Bedivere;<br />
“The doctor, like ourselves, may now be learning;<br />
And Merlin may have gauged his enterprise<br />
Whatever the cost he may have paid for knowing.<br />
We pass, but many are to follow us,<br />
And what they build may stay; though I believe<br />
Another age will have another Merlin,<br />
Another Camelot, and another King.<br />
Sir Dagonet, farewell.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 9em;">“Farewell, Sir Knight,</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span>And you, Sir Knight: Gawaine, you have the world<br />
Now in your fingers—an uncommon toy,<br />
Albeit a small persuasion in the balance<br />
With one man’s hate. I’m glad you’re not a fool,<br />
For then you might be rickety, as I am,<br />
And rational as Bedivere. Farewell.<br />
I’ll sit here and be king. God save the King!”<br />
<br />
But Gawaine scowled and frowned and answered nothing<br />
As he went slowly down with Bedivere<br />
To Camelot, where Arthur’s army waited<br />
The King’s word for the melancholy march<br />
To Joyous Gard, where Lancelot hid the Queen<br />
And armed his host, and there was now no joy,<br />
As there was now no joy for Dagonet<br />
While he sat brooding, with his wan cheek-bones<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span>Hooked with his bony fingers: “Go, Gawaine,”<br />
He mumbled: “Go your way, and drag the world<br />
Along down with you. What’s a world or so<br />
To you if you can hide an ell of iron<br />
Somewhere in Lancelot, and hear him wheeze<br />
And sputter once or twice before he goes<br />
Wherever the Queen sends him? There’s a man<br />
Who should have been a king, and would have been,<br />
Had he been born so. So should I have been<br />
A king, had I been born so, fool or no:<br />
King Dagonet, or Dagonet the King;<br />
King-Fool, Fool-King; ’twere not impossible.<br />
I’ll meditate on that and pray for Arthur,<br />
Who made me all I am, except a fool.<br />
Now he goes mad for love, as I might go<br />
Had I been born a king and not a fool.<br />
Today I think I’d rather be a fool;<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span>Today the world is less than one scared woman—<br />
Wherefore a field of waving men may soon<br />
Be shorn by Time’s indifferent scythe, because<br />
The King is mad. The seeds of history<br />
Are small, but given a few gouts of warm blood<br />
For quickening, they sprout out wondrously<br />
And have a leaping growth whereof no man<br />
May shun such harvesting of change or death,<br />
Or life, as may fall on him to be borne.<br />
When I am still alive and rickety,<br />
And Bedivere’s alive and rational—<br />
If he come out of this, and there’s a doubt,—<br />
The King, Gawaine, Modred, and Lancelot<br />
May all be lying underneath a weight<br />
Of bloody sheaves too heavy for their shoulders,<br />
All spent, and all dishonored, and all dead;<br />
And if it come to be that this be so,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span>And it be true that Merlin saw the truth,<br />
Such harvest were the best. Your fool sees not<br />
So far as Merlin sees: yet if he saw<br />
The truth—why then, such harvest were the best.<br />
I’ll pray for Arthur; I can do no more.”<br />
<br />
“Why not for Merlin? Or do you count him,<br />
In this extreme, so foreign to salvation<br />
That prayer would be a stranger to his name?”<br />
<br />
Poor Dagonet, with terror shaking him,<br />
Stood up and saw before him an old face<br />
Made older with an inch of silver beard,<br />
And faded eyes more eloquent of pain<br />
And ruin than all the faded eyes of age<br />
Till now had ever been, although in them<br />
There was a mystic and intrinsic peace<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span>Of one who sees where men of nearer sight<br />
See nothing. On their way to Camelot,<br />
Gawaine and Bedivere had passed him by,<br />
With lax attention for the pilgrim cloak<br />
They passed, and what it hid: yet Merlin saw<br />
Their faces, and he saw the tale was true<br />
That he had lately drawn from solemn strangers.<br />
<br />
“Well, Dagonet, and by your leave,” he said,<br />
“I’ll rest my lonely relics for a while<br />
On this rock that was mine and now is yours.<br />
I favor the succession; for you know<br />
Far more than many doctors, though your doubt<br />
Is your peculiar poison. I foresaw<br />
Long since, and I have latterly been told<br />
What moves in this commotion down below<br />
To show men what it means. It means the end—<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span>If men whose tongues had less to say to me<br />
Than had their shoulders are adept enough<br />
To know; and you may pray for me or not,<br />
Sir Friend, Sir Dagonet.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 11em;">“Sir Fool, you mean,”</span><br />
Dagonet said, and gazed on Merlin sadly:<br />
“I’ll never pray again for anything,<br />
And last of all for this that you behold—<br />
The smouldering faggot of unlovely bones<br />
That God has given to me to call Myself.<br />
When Merlin comes to Dagonet for prayer,<br />
It is indeed the end.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 10em;">“And in the end</span><br />
Are more beginnings, Dagonet, than men<br />
Shall name or know today. It was the end<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span>Of Arthur’s insubstantial majesty<br />
When to him and his knights the Grail foreshowed<br />
The quest of life that was to be the death<br />
Of many, and the slow discouraging<br />
Of many more. Or do I err in this?”<br />
<br />
“No,” Dagonet replied; “there was a Light;<br />
And Galahad, in the Siege Perilous,<br />
Alone of all on whom it fell, was calm;<br />
There was a Light wherein men saw themselves<br />
In one another as they might become—<br />
Or so they dreamed. There was a long to-do,<br />
And Gawaine, of all forlorn ineligibles,<br />
Rose up the first, and cried more lustily<br />
Than any after him that he should find<br />
The Grail, or die for it,—though he did neither;<br />
For he came back as living and as fit<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span>For new and old iniquity as ever.<br />
Then Lancelot came back, and Bors came back,—<br />
Like men who had seen more than men should see,<br />
And still come back. They told of Percival,<br />
Who saw too much to make of this worn life<br />
A long necessity, and of Galahad,<br />
Who died and is alive. They all saw Something.<br />
God knows the meaning or the end of it,<br />
But they saw Something. And if I’ve an eye,<br />
Small joy has the Queen been to Lancelot<br />
Since he came back from seeing what he saw;<br />
For though his passion hold him like hot claws,<br />
He’s neither in the world nor out of it.<br />
Gawaine is king, though Arthur wears the crown;<br />
And Gawaine’s hate for Lancelot is the sword<br />
That hangs by one of Merlin’s fragile hairs<br />
Above the world. Were you to see the King,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span>The frenzy that has overthrown his wisdom,<br />
Instead of him and his upheaving empire,<br />
Might have an end.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 9em;">“I came to see the King,”</span><br />
Said Merlin, like a man who labors hard<br />
And long with an importunate confession.<br />
“No, Dagonet, you cannot tell me why,<br />
Although your tongue is eager with wild hope<br />
To tell me more than I may tell myself<br />
About myself. All this that was to be<br />
Might show to man how vain it were to wreck<br />
The world for self, if it were all in vain.<br />
When I began with Arthur I could see<br />
In each bewildered man who dots the earth<br />
A moment with his days a groping thought<br />
Of an eternal will, strangely endowed<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span>With merciful illusions whereby self<br />
Becomes the will itself and each man swells<br />
In fond accordance with his agency.<br />
Now Arthur, Modred, Lancelot, and Gawaine<br />
Are swollen thoughts of this eternal will<br />
Which have no other way to find the way<br />
That leads them on to their inheritance<br />
Than by the time-infuriating flame<br />
Of a wrecked empire, lighted by the torch<br />
Of woman, who, together with the light<br />
That Galahad found, is yet to light the world.”<br />
<br />
A wan smile crept across the weary face<br />
Of Dagonet the fool: “If you knew that<br />
Before your burial in Broceliande,<br />
No wonder your eternal will accords<br />
With all your dreams of what the world requires.<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span>My master, I may say this unto you<br />
Because I am a fool, and fear no man;<br />
My fear is that I’ve been a groping thought<br />
That never swelled enough. You say the torch<br />
Of woman and the light that Galahad found<br />
Are some day to illuminate the world?<br />
I’ll meditate on that. The world is done<br />
For me; and I have been, to make men laugh,<br />
A lean thing of no shape and many capers.<br />
I made them laugh, and I could laugh anon<br />
Myself to see them killing one another<br />
Because a woman with corn-colored hair<br />
Has pranked a man with horns. ’Twas but a flash<br />
Of chance, and Lancelot, the other day<br />
That saved this pleasing sinner from the fire<br />
That she may spread for thousands. Were she now<br />
The cinder the King willed, or were you now<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span>To see the King, the fire might yet go out;<br />
But the eternal will says otherwise.<br />
So be it; I’ll assemble certain gold<br />
That I may say is mine and get myself<br />
Away from this accurst unhappy court,<br />
And in some quiet place where shepherd clowns<br />
And cowherds may have more respondent ears<br />
Than kings and kingdom-builders, I shall troll<br />
Old men to easy graves and be a child<br />
Again among the children of the earth.<br />
I’ll have no more of kings, even though I loved<br />
King Arthur, who is mad, as I could love<br />
No other man save Merlin, who is dead.”<br />
<br />
“Not wholly dead, but old. Merlin is old.”<br />
The wizard shivered as he spoke, and stared<br />
Away into the sunset where he saw<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span>Once more, as through a cracked and cloudy glass,<br />
A crumbling sky that held a crimson cloud<br />
Wherein there was a town of many towers<br />
All swayed and shaken, in a woman’s hand<br />
This time, till out of it there spilled and flashed<br />
And tumbled, like loose jewels, town, towers, and walls,<br />
And there was nothing but a crumbling sky<br />
That made anon of black and red and ruin<br />
A wild and final rain on Camelot.<br />
He bowed, and pressed his eyes: “Now by my soul,<br />
I have seen this before—all black and red—<br />
Like that—like that—like Vivian—black and red;<br />
Like Vivian, when her eyes looked into mine<br />
Across the cups of gold. A flute was playing—<br />
Then all was black and red.”<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 12em;">Another smile</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span>Crept over the wan face of Dagonet,<br />
Who shivered in his turn. “The torch of woman,”<br />
He muttered, “and the light that Galahad found,<br />
Will some day save us all, as they saved Merlin.<br />
Forgive my shivering wits, but I am cold,<br />
And it will soon be dark. Will you go down<br />
With me to see the King, or will you not?<br />
If not, I go tomorrow to the shepherds.<br />
The world is mad, and I’m a groping thought<br />
Of your eternal will; the world and I<br />
Are strangers, and I’ll have no more of it—<br />
Except you go with me to see the King.”<br />
<br />
“No, Dagonet, you cannot leave me now,”<br />
Said Merlin, sadly. “You and I are old;<br />
And, as you say, we fear no man. God knows<br />
I would not have the love that once you had<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span>For me be fear of me, for I am past<br />
All fearing now. But Fate may send a fly<br />
Sometimes, and he may sting us to the grave,<br />
So driven to test our faith in what we see.<br />
Are you, now I am coming to an end,<br />
As Arthur’s days are coming to an end,<br />
To sting me like a fly? I do not ask<br />
Of you to say that you see what I see,<br />
Where you see nothing; nor do I require<br />
Of any man more vision than is his;<br />
Yet I could wish for you a larger part<br />
For your last entrance here than this you play<br />
Tonight of a sad insect stinging Merlin.<br />
The more you sting, the more he pities you;<br />
And you were never overfond of pity.<br />
Had you been so, I doubt if Arthur’s love,<br />
Or Gawaine’s, would have made of you a knight.<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span>No, Dagonet, you cannot leave me now,<br />
Nor would you if you could. You call yourself<br />
A fool, because the world and you are strangers.<br />
You are a proud man, Dagonet; you have suffered<br />
What I alone have seen. You are no fool;<br />
And surely you are not a fly to sting<br />
My love to last regret. Believe or not<br />
What I have seen, or what I say to you,<br />
But say no more to me that I am dead<br />
Because the King is mad, and you are old,<br />
And I am older. In Broceliande<br />
Time overtook me as I knew he must;<br />
And I, with a fond overplus of words,<br />
Had warned the lady Vivian already,<br />
Before these wrinkles and this hesitancy<br />
Inhibiting my joints oppressed her sight<br />
With age and dissolution. She said once<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span>That she was cold and cruel; but she meant<br />
That she was warm and kind, and over-wise<br />
For woman in a world where men see not<br />
Beyond themselves. She saw beyond them all,<br />
As I did; and she waited, as I did,<br />
The coming of a day when cherry-blossoms<br />
Were to fall down all over me like snow<br />
In springtime. I was far from Camelot<br />
That afternoon; and I am farther now<br />
From her. I see no more for me to do<br />
Than to leave her and Arthur and the world<br />
Behind me, and to pray that all be well<br />
With Vivian, whose unquiet heart is hungry<br />
For what is not, and what shall never be<br />
Without her, in a world that men are making,<br />
Knowing not how, nor caring yet to know<br />
How slowly and how grievously they do it,—<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span>Though Vivian, in her golden shell of exile,<br />
Knows now and cares, not knowing that she cares,<br />
Nor caring that she knows. In time to be,<br />
The like of her shall have another name<br />
Than Vivian, and her laugh shall be a fire,<br />
Not shining only to consume itself<br />
With what it burns. She knows not yet the name<br />
Of what she is, for now there is no name;<br />
Some day there shall be. Time has many names,<br />
Unwritten yet, for what we say is old<br />
Because we are so young that it seems old.<br />
And this is all a part of what I saw<br />
Before you saw King Arthur. When we parted,<br />
I told her I should see the King again,<br />
And, having seen him, might go back again<br />
To see her face once more. But I shall see<br />
No more the lady Vivian. Let her love<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span>What man she may, no other love than mine<br />
Shall be an index of her memories.<br />
I fear no man who may come after me,<br />
And I see none. I see her, still in green,<br />
Beside the fountain. I shall not go back.<br />
We pay for going back; and all we get<br />
Is one more needless ounce of weary wisdom<br />
To bring away with us. If I come not,<br />
The lady Vivian will remember me,<br />
And say: ‘I knew him when his heart was young,<br />
Though I have lost him now. Time called him home,<br />
And that was as it was; for much is lost<br />
Between Broceliande and Camelot.’”<br />
<br />
He stared away into the west again,<br />
Where now no crimson cloud or phantom town<br />
Deceived his eyes. Above a living town<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span>There were gray clouds and ultimate suspense,<br />
And a cold wind was coming. Dagonet,<br />
Now crouched at Merlin’s feet in his dejection,<br />
Saw multiplying lights far down below,<br />
Where lay the fevered streets. At length he felt<br />
On his lean shoulder Merlin’s tragic hand<br />
And trembled, knowing that a few more days<br />
Would see the last of Arthur and the first<br />
Of Modred, whose dark patience had attained<br />
To one precarious half of what he sought:<br />
“And even the Queen herself may fall to him,”<br />
Dagonet murmured.—“The Queen fall to Modred?<br />
Is that your only fear tonight?” said Merlin;<br />
“She may, but not for long.”—“No, not my fear;<br />
For I fear nothing. But I wish no fate<br />
Like that for any woman the King loves,<br />
Although she be the scourge and end of him<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span>That you saw coming, as I see it now.”<br />
Dagonet shook, but he would have no tears,<br />
He swore, for any king, queen, knave, or wizard—<br />
Albeit he was a stranger among those<br />
Who laughed at him because he was a fool.<br />
“You said the truth, I cannot leave you now,”<br />
He stammered, and was angry for the tears<br />
That mocked his will and choked him.<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 14em;">Merlin smiled,</span><br />
Faintly, and for the moment: “Dagonet,<br />
I need your word as one of Arthur’s knights<br />
That you will go on with me to the end<br />
Of my short way, and say unto no man<br />
Or woman that you found or saw me here.<br />
No good would follow, for a doubt would live<br />
Unstifled of my loyalty to him<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span>Whose deeds are wrought for those who are to come;<br />
And many who see not what I have seen,<br />
Or what you see tonight, would prattle on<br />
For ever, and their children after them,<br />
Of what might once have been had I gone down<br />
With you to Camelot to see the King.<br />
I came to see the King,—but why see kings?<br />
All this that was to be is what I saw<br />
Before there was an Arthur to be king,<br />
And so to be a mirror wherein men<br />
May see themselves, and pause. If they see not,<br />
Or if they do see and they ponder not,—<br />
I saw; but I was neither Fate nor God.<br />
I saw too much; and this would be the end,<br />
Were there to be an end. I saw myself—<br />
A sight no other man has ever seen;<br />
And through the dark that lay beyond myself<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span>I saw two fires that are to light the world.”<br />
On Dagonet the silent hand of Merlin<br />
Weighed now as living iron that held him down<br />
With a primeval power. Doubt, wonderment,<br />
Impatience, and a self-accusing sorrow<br />
Born of an ancient love, possessed and held him<br />
Until his love was more than he could name,<br />
And he was Merlin’s fool, not Arthur’s now:<br />
“Say what you will, I say that I’m the fool<br />
Of Merlin, King of Nowhere; which is Here.<br />
With you for king and me for court, what else<br />
Have we to sigh for but a place to sleep?<br />
I know a tavern that will take us in;<br />
And on the morrow I shall follow you<br />
Until I die for you. And when I die ...”—<br />
“Well, Dagonet, the King is listening.”—<br />
And Dagonet answered, hearing in the words<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span>Of Merlin a grave humor and a sound<br />
Of graver pity, “I shall die a fool.”<br />
He heard what might have been a father’s laugh,<br />
Faintly behind him; and the living weight<br />
Of Merlin’s hand was lifted. They arose,<br />
And, saying nothing, found a groping way<br />
Down through the gloom together. Fiercer now,<br />
The wind was like a flying animal<br />
That beat the two of them incessantly<br />
With icy wings, and bit them as they went.<br />
The rock above them was an empty place<br />
Where neither seer nor fool should view again<br />
The stricken city. Colder blew the wind<br />
Across the world, and on it heavier lay<br />
The shadow and the burden of the night;<br />
And there was darkness over Camelot.</td></tr></table>
<p> </p>
<p class="center">Printed in the United States of America.</p>
<p> </p><p> </p>
<hr style="width: 50%;" />
<div class="verts">
<div class="border">
<p class="dropcap"><span class="caps">The</span> following pages contain advertisements of books by the same author.</p></div>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><strong>BY THE SAME AUTHOR</strong></p>
<p class="title">The Man Against the Sky</p>
<p class="center"><i>Cloth, $1.00; Leather, $1.60</i></p>
<p>It has been some years since Mr. Robinson has given us a new collection of
poems. Those who remember “Captain Craig, A Book of Poems,” a volume which
brought to its author the heartiest of congratulations, placing him at
once in the rank of those American writers whose contributions to
literature are of permanent value, will welcome this new work and will
find that their anticipation of it and hopes for it have been realized.</p>
<p>“A new book by Edwin Arlington Robinson is something of a literary
event.... In these selections we have the richly assorted best of
Robinson; which is the same as saying that we have here one of the most
direct and distinctive writers of the day.”—<i>Chicago Evening Post.</i></p>
<p>“He is writing as good poetry as is being written on either side of the
Atlantic.”—<i>New York Sun.</i></p>
<p>“Mr. Robinson, with his fascinating, discursive style, is one of the best
singers in this country to-day.”—<i>Springfield Republican.</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p class="title">The Porcupine: A Drama in Three Acts</p>
<p class="center"><i>Cloth, 12mo, $1.25</i></p>
<p>Edwin Arlington Robinson’s comedy “Van Zorn” proved him to be one of the
most accomplished of the younger generation of American dramatists. Of
this play the <i>Boston Transcript</i> said “It is an effective presentation of
modern life in New York City, in which a poet shows his skill of
playwriting ... he brings to the American drama to-day a thing it sadly
lacks, and that is character.” In manner and technique Mr. Robinson’s new
play “The Porcupine” recalls some of the work of Ibsen. Written adroitly
and with the literary cleverness exhibited in “Van Zorn” it tells a story
of a domestic entanglement in a dramatic fashion well calculated to hold
the reader’s attention.</p>
<p>“He writes admirable dialogue, and his characters have strong and
consistent individuality. Moreover, he has freshness of invention, and
knows how to unfold an interesting story in dramatic form.”—<i>Nation.</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p class="title">Van Zorn: A Comedy</p>
<p class="center"><i>Cloth, 12mo, $1.25</i></p>
<p>“The setting is American and the characters are true to the American
type.... The second act is drama in its highest expression.”—<i>San
Francisco Chronicle.</i></p>
<p>“He has done something unique. His comedy depicts life among the artists
in Manhattan. It is the first time it has been done by one of the
initiated.”—<i>Brooklyn Daily Eagle.</i></p>
<p>“‘Van Zorn,’ by Edwin Arlington Robinson, might be called a comedy of
temperament, introspection, and destiny. It tells an interesting story and
is stimulative to thought.”—<i>Providence Journal.</i></p>
<p>“An effective presentation of modern life in New York City, in which a
poet shows his skill at prose playwriting ... he brings into the American
drama to-day a thing it sadly lacks, and that is character.”—<i>Boston
Transcript.</i></p>
<p>“A lively tale told with humor and dramatic force.”—<i>Booknews Monthly.</i></p>
<p>“... the attraction of the play is the manner in which from scene to scene
the interest is piqued, until at last there is a dénouement almost Shavian
in its impudence, that is, in the impudence of the main
characters.”—<i>Kentucky Post.</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p class="title">Captain Craig, A Book of Poems</p>
<p class="center"><i>Revised edition with additional poems, 12mo, cloth, $1.25</i></p>
<p>“There are few poets writing in English to-day whose work is so permeated
by individual charm as is Mr. Robinson’s. Always one feels the presence of
a man behind the poet—a man who knows life and people and things and
writes of them clearly, with a subtle poetic insight that is not visible
in the work of any other living writer.”—<i>Brooklyn Daily Eagle.</i></p>
<p>“The ‘Book of Annandale,’ a splendid poem included in this collection, is
one of the most moving emotional narratives found in modern
poetry.”—<i>Review of Reviews.</i></p>
<p>“... His handling of Greek themes reveals him as a lyrical poet of
inimitable charm and skill.”—<i>Reedy’s Mirror.</i></p>
<p>“A poem that must endure; if things that deserve long life get it.”—<i>N.
Y. Evening Sun.</i></p>
<p>“Wherever you hear people who know speak of American poets ... they assume
that you take the genius and place of Edwin Arlington Robinson as
granted.... A man with something to say that has value and beauty. His
thought is deep and his ideas are high and stimulating.”—<i>Boston
Transcript.</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center">THE MACMILLAN COMPANY<br />
Publisher<span class="spacer"> </span>64-66 Fifth Avenue<span class="spacer"> </span>New York</p></div>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 40906 ***</div>
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