The Last Tournament, part 2 of 4

¶So Tristram won, and Lancelot gave, the gems, Not speaking other word than “Hast thou won? Art thou the purest, brother? See, the hand Wherewith thou takest this, is red!” to whom Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot’s languorous mood, Made answer, “Ay, but wherefore toss me this Like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound? Lest be thy fair Queen’s fantasy. Strength of heart And might of limb, but mainly use and skill, Are winners in this pastime of our King. My hand—belike the lance hath dript upon it— No blood of mine, I trow; but O chief knight, Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield, Great brother, thou nor I have made the world; Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine.”

¶And Tristram round the gallery made his horse Caracole; then bowed his homage, bluntly saying, “Fair damsels, each to him who worships each Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, behold This day my Queen of Beauty is not here.” And most of these were mute, some angered, one Murmuring, “All courtesy is dead,” and one, “The glory of our Round Table is no more.”

¶Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung, And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day Went glooming down in wet and weariness: But under her black brows a swarthy one Laughed shrilly, crying, “Praise the patient saints, Our one white day of Innocence hath past, Though somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it. The snowdrop only, flowering through the year, Would make the world as blank as Winter-tide. Come—let us gladden their sad eyes, our Queen’s And Lancelot’s, at this night’s solemnity With all the kindlier colours of the field.”

¶So dame and damsel glittered at the feast Variously gay: for he that tells the tale Likened them, saying, as when an hour of cold Falls on the mountain in midsummer snows, And all the purple slopes of mountain flowers Pass under white, till the warm hour returns With veer of wind, and all are flowers again; So dame and damsel cast the simple white, And glowing in all colours, the live grass, Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, glanced About the revels, and with mirth so loud Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the Queen, And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts, Brake up their sports, then slowly to her bower Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord.

¶And little Dagonet on the morrow morn, High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide, Danced like a withered leaf before the hall. Then Tristram saying, “Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?” Wheeled round on either heel, Dagonet replied, “Belike for lack of wiser company; Or being fool, and seeing too much wit Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip To know myself the wisest knight of all.” “Ay, fool,” said Tristram, “but ’tis eating dry To dance without a catch, a roundelay To dance to.” Then he twangled on his harp, And while he twangled little Dagonet stood Quiet as any water-sodden log Stayed in the wandering warble of a brook; But when the twangling ended, skipt again; And being asked, “Why skipt ye not, Sir Fool?” Made answer, “I had liefer twenty years Skip to the broken music of my brains Than any broken music thou canst make.” Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come, “Good now, what music have I broken, fool?” And little Dagonet, skipping, “Arthur, the King’s; For when thou playest that air with Queen Isolt, Thou makest broken music with thy bride, Her daintier namesake down in Brittany— And so thou breakest Arthur’s music too.” “Save for that broken music in thy brains, Sir Fool,” said Tristram, “I would break thy head. Fool, I came too late, the heathen wars were o’er, The life had flown, we sware but by the shell— I am but a fool to reason with a fool— Come, thou art crabbed and sour: but lean me down, Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses’ ears, And harken if my music be not true.

¶“‘Free love—free field—we love but while we may: The woods are hushed, their music is no more: The leaf is dead, the yearning past away: New leaf, new life—the days of frost are o’er: New life, new love, to suit the newer day: New loves are sweet as those that went before: Free love—free field—we love but while we may.’

¶“Ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune, Not stood stockstill. I made it in the woods, And heard it ring as true as tested gold.”

¶But Dagonet with one foot poised in his hand, “Friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday Made to run wine?—but this had run itself All out like a long life to a sour end— And them that round it sat with golden cups To hand the wine to whosoever came— The twelve small damosels white as Innocence, In honour of poor Innocence the babe, Who left the gems which Innocence the Queen Lent to the King, and Innocence the King Gave for a prize—and one of those white slips Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one, ‘Drink, drink, Sir Fool,’ and thereupon I drank, Spat—pish—the cup was gold, the draught was mud.”

¶And Tristram, “Was it muddier than thy gibes? Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee?— Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool— ‘Fear God: honour the King—his one true knight— Sole follower of the vows’—for here be they Who knew thee swine enow before I came, Smuttier than blasted grain: but when the King Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up It frighted all free fool from out thy heart; Which left thee less than fool, and less than swine, A naked aught—yet swine I hold thee still, For I have flung thee pearls and find thee swine.”

¶And little Dagonet mincing with his feet, “Knight, an ye fling those rubies round my neck In lieu of hers, I’ll hold thou hast some touch Of music, since I care not for thy pearls. Swine? I have wallowed, I have washed—the world Is flesh and shadow—I have had my day. The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind Hath fouled me—an I wallowed, then I washed— I have had my day and my philosophies— And thank the Lord I am King Arthur’s fool. Swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams and geese Trooped round a Paynim harper once, who thrummed On such a wire as musically as thou Some such fine song—but never a king’s fool.”

¶And Tristram, “Then were swine, goats, asses, geese The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard Had such a mastery of his mystery That he could harp his wife up out of hell.”

¶Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot, “And whither harp’st thou thine? down! and thyself Down! and two more: a helpful harper thou, That harpest downward! Dost thou know the star We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven?”

¶And Tristram, “Ay, Sir Fool, for when our King Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights, Glorying in each new glory, set his name High on all hills, and in the signs of heaven.”

¶And Dagonet answered, “Ay, and when the land Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set yourself To babble about him, all to show your wit— And whether he were King by courtesy, Or King by right—and so went harping down The black king’s highway, got so far, and grew So witty that ye played at ducks and drakes With Arthur’s vows on the great lake of fire. Tuwhoo! do ye see it? do ye see the star?”

¶“Nay, fool,” said Tristram, “not in open day.” And Dagonet, “Nay, nor will: I see it and hear. It makes a silent music up in heaven, And I, and Arthur and the angels hear, And then we skip.” “Lo, fool,” he said, “ye talk Fool’s treason: is the King thy brother fool?” Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrilled, “Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools! Conceits himself as God that he can make Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk From burning spurge, honey from hornet-combs, And men from beasts—Long live the king of fools!”

¶And down the city Dagonet danced away; But through the slowly-mellowing avenues And solitary passes of the wood Rode Tristram toward Lyonnesse and the west. Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt With ruby-circled neck, but evermore Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye For all that walked, or crept, or perched, or flew. Anon the face, as, when a gust hath blown, Unruffling waters re-collect the shape Of one that in them sees himself, returned; But at the slot or fewmets of a deer, Or even a fallen feather, vanished again.