"Geraint," said Gwenhwyvar, "knowest thou the name of that tall knight yonder?" "I know him not," said he, "and the strange armour that he wears prevents my either seeing his face or his features."

"Go, maiden," said Gwenhwyvar, "and ask the dwarf who that knight is." Then the maiden went up to the dwarf; and the dwarf waited for the maiden, when he saw her coming towards him. And the maiden inquired of the dwarf who the knight was. "I will not tell thee," he answered. "Since thou art so churlish as not to tell me," said she, "I will ask him himself." "Thou shalt not ask him, by my faith,"

said he. "Wherefore?" said she. "Because thou art not of honour sufficient to befit thee to speak to my Lord." Then the maiden turned her horse's head towards the knight, upon which the dwarf struck her with the whip that was in his hand across the face and the eyes, until the blood flowed forth. And the maiden, through the hurt she received from the blow, returned to Gwenhwyvar, complaining of the pain. "Very rudely has the dwarf treated thee," said Geraint.

"I will go myself to know who the knight is." "Go," said Gwenhwyvar.

And Geraint went up to the dwarf. "Who is yonder knight?" said Geraint. "I will not tell thee," said the dwarf. "Then will I ask him himself," said he. "That wilt thou not, by my faith," said the dwarf; "thou art not honourable enough to speak with my Lord." Said Geraint, "I have spoken with men of equal rank with him." And he turned his horse's head towards the knight; but the dwarf overtook him, and struck him as he had done the maiden, so that the blood coloured the scarf that Geraint wore. Then Geraint put his hand upon the hilt of his sword, but he took counsel with himself, and considered that it would be no vengeance for him to slay the dwarf, and to be attacked unarmed by the armed knight, so he returned to where Gwenhwyvar was.

"And while they listen'd for the distant hunt, And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, King Arthur's hound of deepest mouth, there rode Full slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf; Whereof the dwarf lagg'd latest, and the knight Had vizor up, and show'd a youthful face, Imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments.

And Guinevere, not mindful of his face In the King's hall, desired his name, and sent Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf; Who being vicious, old and irritable, And doubling all his master's vice of pride, Made answer sharply that she should not know.

'Then will I ask it of himself,' she said.

'Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not,' cried the dwarf; 'Thou art not worthy ev'n to speak of him'; And when she put her horse toward the knight, Struck at her with his whip, and she return'd Indignant to the Queen; whereat Geraint Exclaiming, 'Surely I will learn the name,'

Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask'd it of him, Who answer'd as before; and when the Prince Had put his horse in motion toward the knight, Struck at him with his whip, and cut his cheek.

The Prince's blood spirted upon the scarf, Dyeing it; and his quick, instinctive hand Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him: But he, from his exceeding manfulness And pure n.o.bility of temperament, Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrain'd From ev'n a word."

The self-restraint of Geraint, who does not slay the dwarf,

"From his exceeding manfulness And pure n.o.bility of temperament,"

may appear "too polite," and too much in accord with the still undiscovered idea of "leading sweet lives." However, the uninvented idea does occur in the Welsh original: "Then Geraint put his hand upon the hilt of his sword, but he took counsel with himself, and considered that it would be no vengeance for him to slay the dwarf,"

while he also reflects that he would be "attacked unarmed by the armed knight." Perhaps Tennyson may be blamed for omitting this obvious motive for self-restraint. Geraint therefore follows the knight in hope of finding arms, and arrives at the town all busy with preparations for the tournament of the sparrow-hawk. This was a challenge sparrow-hawk: the knight had won it twice, and if he won it thrice it would be his to keep. The rest, in the tale, is exactly followed in the Idyll. Geraint is entertained by the ruined Yniol.

The youth bears the "costrel" full of "good purchased mead" (the ruined Earl not brewing for himself), and Enid carries the manchet bread in her veil, "old, and beginning to be worn out." All Tennyson's own is the beautiful pa.s.sage -

"And while he waited in the castle court, The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang Clear thro' the open cas.e.m.e.nt of the hall, Singing; and as the sweet voice of a bird, Heard by the lander in a lonely isle, Moves him to think what kind of bird it is That sings so delicately clear, and make Conjecture of the plumage and the form; So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint; And made him like a man abroad at morn When first the liquid note beloved of men Comes flying over many a windy wave To Britain, and in April suddenly Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with green and red, And he suspends his converse with a friend, Or it may be the labour of his hands, To think or say, 'There is the nightingale'; So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said, 'Here, by G.o.d's grace, is the one voice for me.'"

Yniol frankly admits in the tale that he was in the wrong in the quarrel with his nephew. The poet, however, gives him the right, as is natural. The combat is exactly followed in the Idyll, as is Geraint's insistence in carrying his bride to Court in her faded silks. Geraint, however, leaves Court with Enid, not because of the scandal about Lancelot, but to do his duty in his own country. He becomes indolent and uxorious, and Enid deplores his weakness, and awakes his suspicions, thus:-

And one morning in the summer time they were upon their couch, and Geraint lay upon the edge of it. And Enid was without sleep in the apartment which had windows of gla.s.s. And the sun shone upon the couch. And the clothes had slipped from off his arms and his breast, and he was asleep. Then she gazed upon the marvellous beauty of his appearance, and she said, "Alas, and am I the cause that these arms and this breast have lost their glory and the warlike fame which they once so richly enjoyed!" And as she said this, the tears dropped from her eyes, and they fell upon his breast. And the tears she shed, and the words she had spoken, awoke him; and another thing contributed to awaken him, and that was the idea that it was not in thinking of him that she spoke thus, but that it was because she loved some other man more than him, and that she wished for other society, and thereupon Geraint was troubled in his mind, and he called his squire; and when he came to him, "Go quickly," said he, "and prepare my horse and my arms, and make them ready. And do thou arise," said he to Enid, "and apparel thyself; and cause thy horse to be accoutred, and clothe thee in the worst riding-dress that thou hast in thy possession. And evil betide me," said he, "if thou returnest here until thou knowest whether I have lost my strength so completely as thou didst say. And if it be so, it will then be easy for thee to seek the society thou didst wish for of him of whom thou wast thinking." So she arose, and clothed herself in her meanest garments. "I know nothing, Lord," said she, "of thy meaning."

"Neither wilt thou know at this time," said he.

"At last, it chanced that on a summer morn (They sleeping each by either) the new sun Beat thro' the blindless cas.e.m.e.nt of the room, And heated the strong warrior in his dreams; Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside, And bared the knotted column of his throat, The ma.s.sive square of his heroic breast, And arms on which the standing muscle sloped, As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone, Running too vehemently to break upon it.

And Enid woke and sat beside the couch, Admiring him, and thought within herself, Was ever man so grandly made as he?

Then, like a shadow, past the people's talk And accusation of uxoriousness Across her mind, and bowing over him, Low to her own heart piteously she said:

'O n.o.ble breast and all-puissant arms, Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men Reproach you, saying all your force is gone?

I AM the cause, because I dare not speak And tell him what I think and what they say.

And yet I hate that he should linger here; I cannot love my lord and not his name.

Far liefer had I gird his harness on him, And ride with him to battle and stand by, And watch his mightful hand striking great blows At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world.

Far better were I laid in the dark earth, Not hearing any more his n.o.ble voice, Not to be folded more in these dear arms, And darken'd from the high light in his eyes, Than that my lord thro' me should suffer shame.

Am I so bold, and could I so stand by, And see my dear lord wounded in the strife, Or maybe pierced to death before mine eyes, And yet not dare to tell him what I think, And how men slur him, saying all his force Is melted into mere effeminacy?

O me, I fear that I am no true wife.'

Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke, And the strong pa.s.sion in her made her weep True tears upon his broad and naked breast, And these awoke him, and by great mischance He heard but fragments of her later words, And that she fear'd she was not a true wife.

And then he thought, 'In spite of all my care, For all my pains, poor man, for all my pains, She is not faithful to me, and I see her Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur's hall.'

Then tho' he loved and reverenced her too much To dream she could be guilty of foul act, Right thro' his manful breast darted the pang That makes a man, in the sweet face of her Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable.

At this he hurl'd his huge limbs out of bed, And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried, 'My charger and her palfrey'; then to her, 'I will ride forth into the wilderness; For tho' it seems my spurs are yet to win, I have not fall'n so low as some would wish.

And thou, put on thy worst and meanest dress And ride with me.' And Enid ask'd, amazed, 'If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault.'

But he, 'I charge thee, ask not, but obey.'

Then she bethought her of a faded silk, A faded mantle and a faded veil, And moving toward a cedarn cabinet, Wherein she kept them folded reverently With sprigs of summer laid between the folds, She took them, and array'd herself therein, Remembering when first he came on her Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, And all her foolish fears about the dress, And all his journey to her, as himself Had told her, and their coming to the court."

Tennyson's

"Arms on which the standing muscle sloped, As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone, Running too vehemently to break upon it,"

is suggested perhaps by Theocritus--"The muscles on his brawny arms stood out like rounded rocks that the winter torrent has rolled and worn smooth, in the great swirling stream" (Idyll xxii.)

The second part of the poem follows the original less closely. Thus Limours, in the tale, is not an old suitor of Enid; Edyrn does not appear to the rescue; certain cruel games, veiled in a magic mist, occur in the tale, and are omitted by the poet; "Gwyffert pet.i.t, so called by the Franks, whom the Cymry call the Little King," in the tale, is not a character in the Idyll, and, generally, the gross Celtic exaggerations of Geraint's feats are toned down by Tennyson.

In other respects, as when Geraint eats the mowers' dinner, the tale supplies the materials. But it does not dwell tenderly on the reconciliation. The tale is more or less in the vein of "patient Grizel," and he who told it is more concerned with the fighting than with amoris redintegratio, and the sufferings of Enid. The Idyll is enriched with many beautiful pictures from nature, such as this:-

"But at the flash and motion of the man They vanish'd panic-stricken, like a shoal Of darting fish, that on a summer morn Adown the crystal d.y.k.es at Camelot Come slipping o'er their shadows on the sand, But if a man who stands upon the brink But lift a shining hand against the sun, There is not left the twinkle of a fin Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower; So, scared but at the motion of the man, Fled all the boon companions of the Earl, And left him lying in the public way."

In Balin and Balan Tennyson displays great constructive power, and remarkable skill in moulding the most recalcitrant materials. Balin or Balyn, according to Mr Rhys, is the Belinus of Geoffrey of Monmouth, "whose name represents the Celtic divinity described in Latin as Apollo Belenus or Belinus." {14} In Geoffrey, Belinus, euphemerised, or reduced from G.o.d to hero, has a brother, Brennius, the Celtic Bran, King of Britain from Caithness to the Humber.

Belinus drives Bran into exile. "Thus it is seen that Belinus or Balyn was, mythologically speaking, the natural enemy" (as Apollo Belinus, the radiant G.o.d) "of the dark divinity Bran or Balan."

If this view be correct, the two brothers answer to the good and bad principles of myths like that of the Huron Iouskeha the Sun, and Anatensic the Moon, or rather Taouiscara and Iouskeha, the hostile brothers, Black and White. {15} These mythical brethren are, in Malory, two knights of Northumberland, Balin the wild and Balan.

Their adventures are mixed up with a hostile Lady of the Lake, whom Balin slays in Arthur's presence, with a sword which none but Balin can draw from sheath; and with an evil black-faced knight Garlon, invisible at will, whom Balin slays in the castle of the knight's brother, King Pellam. Pursued from room to room by Pellam, Balin finds himself in a chamber full of relics of Joseph of Arimathea.

There he seizes a spear, the very spear with which the Roman soldier pierced the side of the Crucified, and wounds Pellam. The castle falls in ruins "through that dolorous stroke." Pellam becomes the maimed king, who can only be healed by the Holy Grail. Apparently Celtic myths of obscure antiquity have been adapted in France, and interwoven with fables about Joseph of Arimathea and Christian mysteries. It is not possible here to go into the complicated learning of the subject. In Malory, Balin, after dealing the dolorous stroke, borrows a strange shield from a knight, and, thus accoutred, meets his brother Balan, who does not recognise him. They fight, both die and are buried in one tomb, and Galahad later achieves the adventure of winning Balin's sword. "Thus endeth the tale of Balyn and of Balan, two brethren born in Northumberland, good knights," says Malory, simply, and unconscious of the strange mythological medley under the coat armour of romance.

The materials, then, seemed confused and obdurate, but Tennyson works them into the course of the fatal love of Lancelot and Guinevere, and into the spiritual texture of the Idylls. Balin has been expelled from Court for the wildness that gives him his name, Balin le Sauvage. He had buffeted a squire in hall. He and Balan await all challengers beside a well. Arthur encounters and dismounts them.

Balin devotes himself to self-conquest. Then comes tidings that Pellam, of old leagued with Lot against Arthur, has taken to religion, collects relics, claims descent from Joseph of Arimathea, and owns the sacred spear that pierced the side of Christ. But Garlon is with him, the knight invisible, who appears to come from an Irish source, or at least has a parallel in Irish legend. This Garlon has an unknightly way of killing men by viewless blows from the rear. Balan goes to encounter Garlon. Balin remains, learning courtesy, modelling himself on Lancelot, and gaining leave to bear Guinevere's Crown Matrimonial for his cognisance,--which, of course, Balan does not know, -

"As golden earnest of a better life."

But Balin sees reason to think that Lancelot and Guinevere love even too well.

"Then chanced, one morning, that Sir Balin sat Close-bower'd in that garden nigh the hall.

A walk of roses ran from door to door; A walk of lilies crost it to the bower: And down that range of roses the great Queen Came with slow steps, the morning on her face; And all in shadow from the counter door Sir Lancelot as to meet her, then at once, As if he saw not, glanced aside, and paced The long white walk of lilies toward the bower.

Follow'd the Queen; Sir Balin heard her 'Prince, Art thou so little loyal to thy Queen, As pa.s.s without good morrow to thy Queen?'

To whom Sir Lancelot with his eyes on earth, 'Fain would I still be loyal to the Queen.'

'Yea so,' she said, 'but so to pa.s.s me by - So loyal scarce is loyal to thyself, Whom all men rate the king of courtesy.

Let be: ye stand, fair lord, as in a dream.'

Then Lancelot with his hand among the flowers, 'Yea--for a dream. Last night methought I saw That maiden Saint who stands with lily in hand In yonder shrine. All round her prest the dark, And all the light upon her silver face Flow'd from the spiritual lily that she held.

Lo! these her emblems drew mine eyes--away: For see, how perfect-pure! As light a flush As hardly tints the blossom of the quince Would mar their charm of stainless maidenhood.'