Kitabı oku: «The Lost Land of King Arthur», sayfa 5

The literary history and the variations of the extremely ancient and supremely sorrowful story can only be adequately treated in such a volume as that of M. Losseth, who has given an account of twenty-four manuscripts containing Tristram’s history, of six works in the French National Library, of Malory’s version, and of one Italian, two Danish, and one German translation or original rendering. Some have attributed the authorship to Cormac of Ireland in the third century; others believe the Welsh bards first sang it; the French claimed it for their trovères, but have now admitted its British origin. Yet it is remarkable how French, Cornish, and Irish histories intermingle in the romance, and how the magic element occasionally enters, spoiling it as history but enriching it as a legend. The story is one of such pathos that the predominating influence of the Celt in suggesting and shaping it must instantly be recognised. But so many have worked on the theme, early and late—none perhaps with such superb effect as Wagner—that the primitive conception is apt to be forgotten or ignored; it has been overlaid with details gathered from many lands, and embellished by the poetic fancies of many races. The story has become European; Beroul, Christian of Troyes, Thomas of Brittany, Robert the northern monk, Eilhard of Oberge, Gottfrid and the other early Germans, the Provençal minstrels—all these have altered and added to the tale of the knight who slew the sea-monster, the Morhout, saved the Cornish maidens from shame and death, was wounded by a poisoned arrow, healed by Iseult the Beautiful, and both of whom, drinking of a magic love-potion intended for Iseult’s destined husband, afterwards experienced all the joys and pangs of an unhallowed love which Dante himself could not refrain from celebrating and condoning. The story abounds in mystic symbolism, or, rather, that symbolism has been found in it; and the inevitable Sun-god myth has been perceived in its details.

Tintagel, a picture in the waters, is at its best when the sky becomes a rose above it, and the sun dipping into a golden bath leaves a track gleaming like pearl across the shoaling sea. The waves as they rise and fall make emerald and purple lines in moments of magic change, and their crests of foam sparkle jewel-like with a thousand instantaneous lights. Then “all the rippling green grows royal gold” as the sun, like a splendid bubble, floats on the water’s edge. Round the pointed brown rocks are fringes of white foam ever widening and contracting; the oncoming waters with an exultant bound sometimes spring high in fountains and then sink slowly and gently as if fairy spires were dissolving in thinnest powder. Again, with a roar and an access of strength, the waves return impetuously, raging and grinding, churned as by some mighty hidden wheel into yeasty foam. Vista-like the long bright track, now a deep red band, leads back to the inner chambers of the sun, and the sea draws the orb into its dark, mysterious depths. The waves lace themselves around the pinky-green islets, and the verdant headlands, succeeding each other in almost interminable series till the eye catches the gleam of the Lizard lights, begin to soften mistily away behind the twilight veil. A little ship, far off, skims over the sea-rim and disappears; a tiny cloud floats up like a loose silken sail, silvery white. The seagulls and the choughs flit about the broken arches of the castle, and shadows fall long and deep across the deep ravinous path leading inland from the precipitous heights.

At such time Tintagel is telling its own story, weaving its own romance; and words seem vain when those shattered columns, those fallen walls, that unbridged chasm, are there to make the tale. Of the after-history of the place what matters it? We would fain have the story end, as it began, with Arthur and Guinevere, King Mark, Mage Merlin, and Tristram and Iseult. Every roll of the breakers is a voice from the past, and every crumbling chamber a chapter in that history which only the true poet transcribes. Yet even while such thoughts are forcing themselves upon the mind of the beholder of a typical August sunset over Tintagel, the end of the day will be near. The arc of the sun blazes upon the sea-line, an edge of fiery carmine, and a fleecy train of cirrus-cloud crimsons with the last rays. Slowly and yet perceptibly the light dies away and leaves the heaving sea mystically dusk and the world full of shadows. Darkness looms over Tintagel. The overhanging crags look as if they might crack, break off, and thunder down into the open-mouthed sea below. The black chough wheels about the ruins—the spirit of Arthur, say the people, revisiting the scene of his glory. Arcturus, the star of Arthur, glistens in the blue sky right over the castle height, and Arthur’s Harp shapes itself more dimly further east—for the constellations themselves were named after the puissant king. The tide is at its height and has flooded the little stony beach to which a steep path leads; the caves are full; on the horizon the night-clouds come up and shape themselves into fantastic forms of towers, and the real which are near, and the imagined which are far, scarce can be distinguished.

Lytton seems to have had Tintagel, or a very similar place in the north, in his mind when he described the arrival of the Cymrian King, pursued by the Saxons, at a beach of far resounding seas where wave-hollowed caves arched, and

 
“Column and vault, and seaweed-dripping domes
Long vistas opening through the streets of dark,
Seem’d like a city’s skeleton, the homes
Of giant races vanish’d.”
 

This tract of land around Tintagel is crowded with memorials and with relics about which superstition has cast its web. The caer-camp at Trenail Bury, and the huge stone monuments which lie embedded in the earth, take us back to British times. The pools, looking black and weird among the hills, all have their legends, and the wells commemorate a multitude of saints known only to Cornwall. Castle-an-Dinas looms majestically at a height of nearly eight hundred feet against the horizon: here was King Arthur’s hunting ground, and the remains of the structure cresting the summit was his palace. The scenes of some of his hard-fought battles are the wide valleys closed in by the shadowy hills, and the crags dashed by the tumultuous sea. You may wander at will for miles in any direction still keeping in sight the sturdy granite church standing exposed on the highest bit of the coast; you will hear no sound but the whimpering cry of the gulls; and you will be free to reconstruct here in imagination the vanished realm of King Arthur, while the words of the old priest, Joseph Iscarus of Exeter, ring in your ears—

 
“From this blest place immortal Arthur sprung
Whose wondrous deeds shall be for ever sung,
Sweet music to the ear, sweet honey to the tongue.
The only prince that hears the just applause,
Greatest that e’er shall be, and best that ever was.”
 

CHAPTER V
OF CAERLEON-UPON-USK

 
“Caerleon, now step in with stately style,
No feeble phrase may serve to set thee forth;
Thy famous town was spoke of many a myle,
Thou hast been great, though now but little worth:
Thy noble bounds hath reacht beyond them all,
In thee hath been King Arthur’s golden hall,
In thee the wise and worthies did repose.”—Old Poet.
 

 
“Slow sets the summer sun,
Slow fall the mists, and, closing, droop the flowers,
Faint in the gloaming dies the vesper bell,
And dreamland sleeps round golden Carduel.”—Lytton.
 

 
“When Arthur first in court began,
And was approvèd King,
By force of armes great victoreys wanne,
And conquest home did bring.”—Percy Reliques.
 

“Old Caerleon-upon-Usk” is the enchanted capital of the kingdom called Romance. Its domes of fretted gold, its countless pinnacles, its seventy churches, its gorgeous palace, and its giant tower—

 
“From whose high crest, they say,
Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset,
And white sails flying on the yellow sea,”
 

by the wonder-working art of poets and old-time chroniclers have a reality for us to-day, though they may never have been visible. But the city of the Hero-King is a city seen through a veil. The glittering spires show through the mists of time; in a half-shadow we discern the lofty turrets, and mark the lanceolate windows with their shining diamond-panes; a dreamy brightness reveals the gilded roofs and the “magic casements” where Guinevere and her maidens stood and watched the tourneying knights, and glanced their loves and hopes upon the combatants. The name of Arthur conjures up the scene, and fancy releases the city from its spell of slumber and ruin and fashions it again in splendour. It is said that this city of Legions was once the rival of Rome in grandeur. When the all-conquering king had subdued thirty kingdoms, he could find no more suitable place than Caerleon for holding a magnificent court to place the crown upon his head, and to invite the kings and dukes under his subjection to the ceremony. When he had communicated his designs to the familiar friends, he pitched upon Caerleon as a proper place for his purpose; for, besides its great wealth above the other cities, its situation was most pleasant and fit for so great a solemnity. For on one side it was washed by that noble river (the Usk), so that the kings and princes from the countries beyond the seas might have the convenience of sailing up to it. On the other side was the beauty of meadows and groves, and the magnificence of the royal palaces. Besides, there was a college of two hundred philosophers, who, being learned in astronomy and the other arts, were diligent in observing the courses of the arts, and gave King Arthur the predictions of the events that would happen at that time. So runs Geoffrey’s chronicle, and he reports that at the festival there were present numerous kings, princes, prelates, and consuls, all named; and no prince of any consideration on this side Spain forbore attending. The ceremony of the coronation, as described by Geoffrey, was a stupendous event. The archbishops, headed by Dubritius, were conducted to the royal palace to place the crown upon the monarch’s head. Arthur was invested with his imperial habiliments, and conducted in great pomp to the Metropolitan Church, supported by the bishops and four kings, who bore golden swords before him. The queen, “dressed out in her richest ornaments,” and attended by bishops and four queens, bearing before her four white doves, joined the procession; and the people of Caerleon in their tens of thousands “made all imaginable demonstrations of joy.” Then transporting music was played, both in the churches and the streets all day, and was so beautiful that the knights knew not which of the many orchestras to prefer. After the service the king and queen retired to their separate palaces, “for the Britons still observed the ancient custom of Troy, by which men and women used to celebrate their festivals apart.” One thousand young noblemen, clothed in ermine, served the banquet at the king’s table; and in the queen’s palace innumerable servitors, dressed with a variety of ornaments, performed their offices. The knights, in best apparel, were in full attendance, and the ladies, celebrated for their wit, encouraged them in their tourneys. No man, says Geoffrey, was worthy of a woman’s love until he had given proof of his valour in three separate battles; “thus was the valour of the men an encouragement for the women’s chastity, and the love of the women a spur to the soldiers’ bravery.” The victors in the jousts at Caerleon that day were rewarded by Arthur in person, and the capital was a blaze of splendour and a scene of unequalled exploits.¹⁸

We get further pictures of Caerleon from other of the early historians. Giraldus Cambriensis recorded in the twelfth century that at Caerleon might be seen many vestiges of its former glory, “immense palaces ornamented with gilded roofs, in imitation of Roman magnificence, a tower of prodigious size, and relics of temples.” Three centuries before Cæsar’s invasion, Belin Mawr laid the city’s foundations; and in the sixth century—

 
“Cymri’s dragon, from the Roman’s hold,
Spread with calm wing o’er Carduel’s domes of gold.”
 

In the “Mabinogion” we also get a casual glimpse of King Arthur’s royal state at Caerleon: “Arthur was accustomed to hold his court at Caerleon-upon-Usk. And there he held it seven Easters and five Christmases. And once upon a time he held his court there at Whitsuntide. For Caerleon was the place most easy of access in his dominions, both by sea and land. And there were assembled nine crowned kings, who were his tributaries, and likewise earls and barons. For they were his invited guests at all the high festivals, unless they were prevented by any great hindrance. And when he was at Caerleon holding his court, thirteen churches were set apart for mass.” But the scene at the coronation of Arthur was never excelled; and if Geoffrey of Monmouth could be believed, such a noble assembly, such a display of magnificence, such prodigality of sport and hospitality were never before or afterward seen in Britain; and the historian adds that at that time King Arthur’s country had arrived at “such a pitch of grandeur, that in abundance of riches, luxury, ornaments, and politeness of inhabitants it far surpassed all other countries.”

But what is Caerleon now? Late on an August afternoon, when the sky was stricken with the first shadowy pallor of evening, a white, sandy, deserted lane led me past a few scattered houses and a small church to the riverside. The tide was out and the waters had shrunk almost into silence. An old tower, thickly overgrown with trailing weeds, stands on the bank, and tells of other times. The fields stretching away from the right bank of the Usk are irregularly divided by the remnant of an old Roman wall, rising about twelve feet, and supposed to have been originally four miles long, connecting Caerleon with the outposts. Antiquaries differ in opinion as to whence the stone was obtained; those marvel-working Romans who came over with Julius Frontinus in the first century, and made Caerleon the head-quarters of the second Augustan Legion, left the secret buried in the monument they raised. The wall passes by, and beyond, the Priory and the Round Table Field, where a deep indentation probably marks the site of a Roman amphitheatre. This supposition derives circumstantial confirmation from the fact that a contiguous field has borne from time out of record the name of the Bearhouse Field—the site of the house in which wild beasts were kept for gladiatorial contests. But legend floats about the scene and fantastically shapes itself into a marvellous tale, that here King Arthur with his knights sits entranced in a subterranean chamber, and there will remain until Britain in her hour of peril calls him forth to new and greater conquests. The Welsh bards have sung how—

 
“He first ordained the circled board;
The knights whose martial deeds far-famed that Table Round,
Which truest in their loves, which most in arms renowned,
The laws which long upheld that Order, they report:
The Pentecosts prepar’d at Caerleon in her Court,
That Table’s ancient seat.”
 

While we wander about the green hillocks which compose that mysterious circle our minds can feel the inspiration of the scene and sport with the phantoms of the unreal world. It is on such occasions that we feel the touch of other times and seem to hear the echo of voices stilled. The flame of romance kindles a thousand images; half the present fades away, and in its place appears what has vanished or has never been. The long procession of the dead troops by, and the tale of bygone days is recalled. Here, once, were the sounds of tumult; the king’s pavilion was set, and the tourney was “let cry.” Then were heard the clatter of the steeds, the rush to arms, the clang of sword and spear, the shattering of hauberk and shield; then through the streets resounded the trumpet-call to arms and the proclamation of the king; then gathered and dispersed the noble order of knights and the flower of chivalry, setting forth upon noble quests or returning to relate their deeds to Arthur and to lay their spoils at the feet of Guinevere. Along these lanes rode Sir Lancelot and Sir Galahad, Sir Gawain, and Sir Kaye. Here came kings from north, south, and west to do homage to Arthur. Here,

 
“Among the myriad-room’d
And many-corridor’d perplexities
Of Arthur’s palace,”
 

the drama of pain and shame was acted by the queen and Arthur’s greatest knight, a man “not after Arthur’s heart.” Here, where the bee hums and the moth alights, were knightly jousts and stubborn contests. Steel grappled with steel, and the hard ground trembled under the shock of mounted warriors. Here, where the grass grows long and the daisy and primrose brighten out among the green, were mailed men and mirthful maidens; here they feasted and sang and dedicated their days to love and chivalry. But the wind roves over the open plain; and scarcely a stone, a tottering arch, or a fallen tower, has escaped the iconoclasm of time’s remorseless hand. The massive walls which defied the siege of the all-conquering Roman have been thrown down, and the regal palaces which never yielded to the pagan have sunk and disappeared in the dust. Their very foundations cannot be traced. But beneath the ruins sleeps romance, and in the pervading silence is closed the last song of ancient chivalry. The dust of the heroes is scattered, and

 
“The attributes of those high days
Now only live in minstrel-lays.”
 

Everything is past but the names of men and places—names that we have and ideals that we make. A ford with Arthur’s name, a stone associated with his deeds, a city where his temples were reared! Tranquilly flows the river and washes the unfrequented banks; and Caerleon-upon-Usk, like a wave that has been spent and dies upon the shore, has ebbed into the quietude of tideless time and has been lost. Yet, to him who goes with open mind and simple faith, Caerleon is even now a wonderland, and fragments of its marvellous story are scattered on the roadside, in the undulating meadows, and along the banks of the wide brown river. Everywhere we find remnants of a remarkable past; and though the city has dwindled to a hamlet and is sequestered from the busy toiling world, it seems like the city of fable which slept until the promised prince came and released it from the fetters of enchantment. So may Caerleon one day be awakened.

The healing sun-god, Belenus (from whose name our modern Billingsgate is derived), was the Celtic Apollo, and to him is ascribed the foundation of Caerleon. Others, with better reason, ascribe it to Lleon, an ancient British king. The Romans, about the year 70 A.D., made it one of their chief stations in Britannia Secunda, and the city in their time is reputed to have been nine miles in area. Akeman Street went from it to Cirencester, and the maritime Julian Way passed through it from Bath to Neath, while the mountain Julian Way connected it with Abergavenny. Fragments of a Roman fortress 12 feet thick and 1,800 yards in circuit have been found, and the Roman amphitheatre, 16 feet high and 222 feet by 192 feet in extent, is popularly known as the festival scene of King Arthur and his knights. Some of the Roman bricks and tiles are to be found in the modern structures, and part of the old Roman wall twelve feet high is still visible. In the days of Hadrian the best part of the city was Caerleon ultra pontem—that part lying beyond the wooden movable bridge, which is now replaced by one of stone.¹⁹ The local museum is crowded with memorials of antiquity—tesselated pavements, Roman stones and inscriptions, baths, altars, sculpture, Roman lamps (found in a road cutting), glass vessels, bronze ornaments, harness buckles, keys, coins, and stone facings of the rooms in the Castle Villa. Most curious and valuable of all, perhaps, is a boundary stone showing that the sea-walls were the work of the third-century Romans and made by their soldiery. But the sea has receded from Caerleon and is now quite two miles away, and Newport has arisen where once the ships of Caerleon sailed. All the Roman temples which King Arthur found in the city he is said to have converted into Christian churches, St. Dubric, the most famous of the ecclesiastics of antiquity, being appointed the archbishop. On the other hand, the archbishopric is said to date from 182, and to have lasted until 521. But the remarkable and significant fact is that while relics in abundance of the early Romans can be found, nothing has been preserved of the later British or Saxon times, and not a trace can be discovered of the surpassing glory of the Arthurian capital. Tradition avers that for four hundred years before the Christian era Caerleon was a royal residence and the burial place of British kings; but tradition dispenses with proofs.

King Arthur’s ninth great battle against the Saxons took place at Caerleon, and he had previously encountered them at the most celebrated of the city’s outposts, Caerwent. The latter place has a history little inferior to that of Caerleon itself, and has strong claims to consideration both as a Roman settlement and as a reputed Arthurian stronghold. It is uninviting in aspect to-day, but the fragments of stately piles and the innumerable coins and medals that have been unearthed attest its former consequence. Caerwent is situated on the Via Julia, or military road, and Leland bore witness to the many evidences of its ancient importance, with its massive walls and gates. It is even affirmed that Caerwent was originally the capital of the Silures, but that afterwards it was a “dependence” on Caerleon, with which it communicated by a subterranean passage. The entrance to that passage was from a lane which still retains the name of Arthur.

Some fifty years ago a stranger went to Caerleon, and without giving his name or stating his errand, took up his abode at the Hanbury Arms, one of the oldest hostelries in the kingdom. The Hanbury Arms is a white, quaintly-built house, facing the Usk, and originally stood at a point in the road commanding three approaches to the city. But the change of time has given a new entrance to Caerleon, and travellers will now find the Hanbury Arms on the remote side. Its low-browed windows, with the stone mullions of unusual thickness, and the square hooded dripstones above, indicate that the house dates from the fourteenth or fifteenth century. To this place the stranger made his way, his advent being almost unnoticed and his purpose unknown. A local chronicler wrote: “Quiet and unobtrusive to a degree, he soon attracted attention from his very reserved and seclusive habits. Day after day passed, and his figure was seldom seen. Frequently he would leave the house early in the morning, and go no one knew whither, and on his return retire to his room until next morning. It was soon recognised that the stranger was fond of long walks, and there was not a hill in the neighbourhood up whose sides he did not climb. For a time no companion or friend seemed to notice him, but occasionally a letter arriving at the post office was delivered to him. At first the name attracted no attention, but at length ‘Alfred Tennyson,’ inscribed on successive missives, seemed to have a special interest for the local postmaster. He repeated the name until its familiarity led him to suspect that the stranger was no other than the Poet Laureate, and this ultimately proved correct. On the fact becoming generally known that Tennyson was staying at Caerleon, visitors frequently called upon him, but he endeavoured to maintain his seclusion to the last.... In 1859 the result of Tennyson’s sojourn at ‘Caerwysg’ was seen, when he produced to the world his Idylls of the King. Some few of the inhabitants still remember the poet.” Tennyson’s half-dozen allusions to Caerleon are slight, but they do not lack distinctness; the most striking are those semi-descriptive references in Geraint and Enid, and in Balin and Balan, neither of which could have been so written had not the poet visited the spot.

The Caerleon of fancy, not of reality, is described at much greater length and with much higher charm by Lytton. If Tennyson was content with a sweeping reference to the palace and its chambers, Lytton could only be satisfied with a detailed account of the High Council Hall in which was set the king’s ivory throne, and around which gathered “the Deathless Twelve of the Heroic King,” the Knights of the Round Table. He tells how the dragon of the Cymri “spread with calm wing o’er Carduel’s domes of gold,” and how the city lay in a vale, sheltered by the dark forests which mantled the environing hills, while his picture of the daily customs of the people of the city was revealed in the words:—

 
“Some plied in lusty race the glist’ning oar;
Some noiseless snared the silver-scaléd prey;
Some wreathed the dance along the level shore;
And each was happy in his chosen way.”
 

But this was purely the city of vision. The faint light which history throws upon the dark period of the British occupation shows us that Caerleon was continually given over to warfare of the wildest character. It is associated also in the Fabliaux with the darkest event in Arthur’s personal history—an event in which Mordred eventually acted as Nemesis.

Were all the romances written which have Caerleon as their background of scenery, the long stories of the ill-fated brethren Balin and Balan, of Geraint and Enid, of many a knightly quest and adventure, and of many a great undertaking by the “fair beginners of a nobler time,” would have to be related anew. The half-historic, half-fabulous histories of Dubritius the archbishop, of Taliesin the chief of bards, of Talhairan, the father of poetry—all men of Caerleon—would likewise have to be recounted, but the complete narratives must be sought in the chronicles, the triads, and the “Mabinogion.” Yet some of the dust under which lies the golden-domed city, and some of the ruins beneath which sleeps slain romance, mingle with the dust and ruins of history; and a little of that history may be deciphered still in the Isca Silurum of the Romans, where Caractacus held his court, where the Præter deposited the eagles, where justice was dealt out in the name of Cæsar, where Saxons and Britons met in one of their last deadly struggles, and where the dragon of the Cymry ultimately prevailed, and Arthur Pendragon rose and had his name set “high on all the hills and in the signs of heaven.”