Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE SWAN-WOMAN; A LEGEND OF THE TYROL, by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE SWAN-WOMAN; A LEGEND OF THE TYROL, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: I told this story once to kaiser max
Last Line: And in her bosom white a cross-bow bolt.
Subject(s): Comedy; Courtship; Knights & Knighthood; Love - Unrequited


A LEGEND OF THE TYROL

I TOLD this story once to Kaiser Max.
If he believed it, that can no man say.
Within the Alte Kirche they have placed
His statue, kneeling, sword in hand, at prayer;
And though the cunning carver in his skill
Hath on that face a hundred battles set,
And dooms of men, and many a laden year
Of swift decisions, not those lips in life
Told more they would not than this face of bronze.

Hast been at Innspruck? When the evening glooms,
Go see him girt about with lord and dame,
Arthur of England, Alaric, and the Duke.

In those days every great man had his fool,
And some men were their own, which saved some fools
Their share of fools' pay, cuffs; but so it was.
And now it chanced our ancient fool was dead
And gone to heaven, to be an angel-fool.
Thus, fool-craft prospering, they came by scores
To that bleak castle in the Tyrol hills,
And, while my lady and the knight above
Looked from the balcony, made sport below,
And jeered the men-at-arms, or mocked the page.
But most had wits like bludgeons, till my lord,
A smileless man save when in shock of arms
He struck a blow that ever after quenched
The human laughter of some gentler soul,
Tired of their jesting, drove them roughly forth.
So, out they went, until, one summer eve,
Came gaily singing up the castle hill
A man—scarce more than man, with cap and bells,
Head up, chin out, just a fool's carriage all;
And strutted gravely round the court, and smiled,
And kissed white fingers to my lady's maid,
Whereon, at last, the burly cook cried out,
"A silent fool; God send us many such!"
But he, "Your Greasy Grace will pardon me, for I
Am but a lady's fool." Quoth Hans the Squire,
"Ho then, 't will suit my lord, a lady's fool!"
And so they giggling pushed him up the stairs,
And through the great hall where my lord at meat
Sat with my lady and a score of guests,
Pilgrim and merchant, and, above the salt,
A knight or two, and kinsfolk of my lord.
"What jest is this?"

"We've found a lady's fool!
A silent fool, who can but grunt a joke
Like our old boar;" but as he spake I saw
My fool's right hand twitch at his belt to left,
As one through habit seeking for his sword
When stung by insult; flushing deep, he bowed,
Said, "By your leave, my lady," turned and fetched
Big Hans so rude a buffet on the ear,
The big squire tumbled half across the hall.
"Saint Margaret!" cried my lord, "the jest is good.
And this is what you call a lady's fool?
Canst gossip, mock, tell tales, sing songs at need?"
"Ay, noble sir, sing, jest, crack jokes or heads;
But that's a serious business, and spoils fools,
The cracker and the cracked. Perchance my lord
Would try my folly for a month or two,
When, if it reach the level of my lord,
If I crack jokes as well as he cracks heads,
My lord shall set my wage."

"So be it, fool.
Give him the dead fool's tower; and look you, fool,
Leave to your betters the rough sport of blows,
Lest to your grief I take to fools' trade too."
Low bent the fool to hide his troubled face,
Then meekly said, "King Folly's fool were I
To doubt my lord's success." But while the Count,
Perplexed and grim, rose angrily, the dame,
Pleased with the tilting at her heavy lord,
Laughed a sweet girl-laugh outright, and for hint
Plucked at her dull lord's sleeve, while level-eyed
To meet whatever gaze might question his,
Our fool said carelessly, "I jest for dames.
A woman's fool am I, as who is not
Some woman's fool?"—then lightly, wrist on hip,
With something of too easy grace fell back
Smiling and gay. And so we got our fool.
But I, that had been bred to be a priest,
And shut in convent walls had learned perforce
To read men's eyes for comment on their lips,
Saw some quick change in this man's as he turned,
Some lifting of the lids. Orbs garnet-hued
In wide white margins set, and tender, too,
Methought a strange face for a fool, indeed.
Yet somehow from his coming all the house
Grew gay. And never gentler jester was.
For when he laughed 't was like a baby's laugh,
Less at than with you; but he won them all,
Cook, page, and men-at-arms; and surly Hans
He charmed by teaching him the buffet's trick
And bought him a new dagger, and had gold
For them that wanted; yet my lord he shunned,
Or, meeting, puzzled him with jest on jest,
Some savage truth in wordy masquerade.
But above all he was my lady's fool;
Sang for her,—ay, sang to her, I should say;
Told tales of Arthur in the chapel yon,—
Stories of ancient magic and quaint jests
Of masque and tourney and the Kaiser's court,
So that my lady, who was young and fair,
And yearning for some heart-hold upon life,
Like the loosed tendril of a wind-blown vine
That seeks and knows not why, smiled once again,
And blossomed like a bud surprised by June;
Then took to hawking, to my lord's delight,
With me, a page, for company, and the fool
To call the hawks, or tie their jesses on.
So, many a day I followed them, as home
They rode, he talking strange things of the stars,
Or calling bird and beast with cries they knew.
Cursed goblin-tricks, not priest-taught, be you sure;
Could read you, too, the thing that was to be
By peering at your palm, until my lord
Bade one day tell him what would come about
When he, the Count, should issue forth to take
His turn at beating back the island lords.
I judged the fool reluctant, but he took
That square brown hand on his, and lightly traced
With fingers lithe and white its mazy lines,
Then paused, grew pale, and said, "What God doth hide
Leave thou to time's wise answer;" but the Count
Swore roundly that the fool was half a priest,
Yet started up in haste, and asked no more.

And so the fool, because men named him so,
Had leave to go and come; or at her feet
To lie, and wing with laughter some sweet words,
Or with fierce emphasis of ardent eyes
To look the thought he dared not put in speech.
So, love, now bold, now put to timid flight,
Grew none the less for seeming-shy retreats,
Like the slow, certain tides that are made up
Of myriad wave-deaths.

Yet she knew it not.
Then came the war. To north the Margrave rose;
To south the great sea-lords broke out anew.
So, late in May our broad, bull-headed lord
Put on his armor, growling, since each year
He could not have it like a crab's case grow,
But guessed some exercise in cracking skulls
Might slack his belt, if helped by scant camp-fare.
And scant it was, for some few marches thence
A robber horde fell on him from a wood,
Slew half his train, and plucked him from his horse,
And bore him with them as they fled away.
But Hans they loosed, sore hurt, and bade him take
His way across the hills, and tell the dame
What fate her lord should have if three days gone
No ransom bond came back to bring release.
But two days later fell the wounded squire,
Dust-grayed and bleeding, at the lady's feet,
And failing fast cried out, "My lord, my lord!
Ransom—thy lord—a castle in the hills—
Three days—and two are gone—the third he dies."
Then rose upon his elbow, said some words
None heard except the fool, and so fell back,
And ended honestly an honest life.
But as he spoke, in haste my lady turned,
Some masterful set purpose in her face;
Bade double guards, called in more men for aid,
The castle put in siege-shape, knowing not
What ill might follow next. Then stood in doubt,
Till on the fool's stirred face her large eyes fell.
"And this must end!" she cried. "Sir, follow me!"
And led him out upon the eastern tower,
Where many an eve they two had stayed to watch
Tofana's shadow cross Ampezza's vale.
Then of a sudden facing him, in wrath,
"Sir, was it knightly, this that you have done?
What crime or folly bade you refuge here?"
"Madam, a poor fool's fancy." "Nay, 't was you,
'T was you who in the jousts at Ims, last year,
O'erthrew my lord, and won the tourney's prize,
Then round the lists with lifted visor rode,
Cast in my lap the jewel as you passed,
And known to none, unquestioned, rode away.
Nay, sir, the truth, the truth." This once again
He set his face for company with a lie,
But looking, saw her red lips droop in scorn,
Nor dared to meet the judgment in her eyes,
So, backward fell a pace, and murmured low:
"I came because I loved you, and I stayed
For like good reason; yea, my life had been
This and no more if I could but have lived
Beside you, near you. For content were I
To leave my peers their strife for gold or land,
And in the quiet convent of my love
To let sweet hours grow to days as sweet,
And these to months of ever-ripening joy."
"Alas!" she moaned, "God help me in my need!"
Because the tender blazonry of joy
Lit face and neck with wandering isles of red.
"Ah, love!" he cried, seeing all her sweet dismay,
"The day is ours. Fly with me—love is ours."
But then some angel memory came at call.
"Not so," she said. "Pray sit you there awhile.
We both are young—too young to stain with sin
Of evil loves the weary years to come.
That bitter day the margrave stormed St. Jean,
There in the breach all that God gave to love,
Father and brothers, died. None left, not one.
And then a hell of rapine and of blood
Swept all the town; and I—well, this is all:
The man that is my husband now, he saved,
Alas! he saved me. Yet I love him not."
Then like to one who, stranded on strange shores,
Awaking sees a color in the sky,
And knows not yet if it be dawn or dusk,
Agaze, he saw the rose-light leave her face,
And, being noble, knew the nobler soul.
"I go," he said,—"the thing I did was ill."
But on his motley sleeve a hand she laid.
"Now that I know how, loving me, love guides
To honor, not to baseness, I dare ask
The man's clear counsel, for my soul is set
To quit me of the debt of given life;
Since then, perchance, I may myself forgive
For that I love him not, and shall not love;
And if I ask of thee, because I must,
To do the thing is hateful to thy soul,
It will be only then to bid thee go,
Because I may not love thee, and I shall."
Then he paused, pondering, urged here and there,
Like some strong swimmer whom the waves at will
Hurl landward and take back; till, in strange haste,
As one who fears delay, he spake quick words:
"Now if thy soul be certain of itself,
If thou canst say, Thus will I, death or life!
I hold a charm which, to strong purpose wed,
Shall free thy heart from bondage to this debt.
Once on a forest verge, I, but a lad,
Set free a Jew some robber lord left bound,
And for remembrance got this little ring:
A face in gold, you see, and o'er its eyes
Twin hands clasped tight. But if at midnight one
Shall turn it, and shall dare with purpose sure
To will that she shall be some living thing,
Or bird or other creature of the woods,
Three days the charm will hold, the fourth will break.
The winged wood-pigeon knows to find its mate,
And if thou wilt but give thine instinct wings
Thou too shalt find thy mate; but I, if I
Should crown my follies with a larger jest,
And set my master free, the deed were thine,
Because thine own heart is not more thine own
Than I who love thee." Then in dread he stood,
Fearing the devil in himself; but she,
"Not so! the debt is mine. If death befall,
Death is an honest debtor, and God pays,"
Seized quick the ring, and of a sudden fled,
While slow the fool went down the turret stair.
"Alas!" he said, "can heaven be bought with hell
As hell with heaven thereafter?" Then alone
Swift from the castle-gate he fled, and came
To where, long miles away, within the wood,
Three knights stood waiting, and a steed that neighed
To greet his master. But he would not arm,
And saying merely "Yea, a fool I am,"
Leapt on his horse, and swiftly through the wood
Rode, while they whispered, "Surely he is dazed."

At noon of night our gentle lady tied
A silken-threaded letter round her neck,
And on the turret stood and turned the ring,
And looked, and saw—for now the moon was full—
Strange sunsets glowing in the changeful gem,
And mists of color floating from its depths;
And crying, "Once he praised my swan-bowed neck!"
Put all her soul in one fierce wish, and felt
Such change as death may bring or life, and then
Half fear, half wonder, like a soul reborn,
Rose on white wings, that trembled as they rose,
And flared vast shadows o'er the old gray keep;
Till in the joyous freedom of her flight
Strong with delight of easy strength she soared,
And caught the warm gold of the unrisen sun
As souls unprisoned win new hopes and joys;
Saw with strange thrills the white wedge of her mates,
And falling gently through the morning light
Lit where the sedgy margins green and brown
Stirred, as with tawny webs they beat the wave.
Some bird-born pleasure luring, long she stayed
To bathe her bosom's silver in the lake,
Till all the summer day went by, and night
With sleep wave-rocked by cool wood-scented winds.
But when another morning brake, and glad
On eager wings she rose to greet the morn,
Too late she knew no tender instincts led.
Wing-weary, helpless, hopeless, sore beset,
Her gold eyes fell upon a train of knights,
And strong with joy that half was shame or fear,
Weak-winged she fluttered down, and saw below
The fool beside her lord, and knew, alas,
What gentle longings drew her to the earth.
There, sullen with the anger of the dull,
Her grim lord rode, or with wild oaths complained
Because with prison fare his arms were weak,
His eyes grown dim: then of a sudden spied
The wild white-winged thing over him, and snatched
A cross-bow from his saddle, set a bolt,
And loosed the string, and heard a human cry
So terrible that none who rode with him
Lived to forget it, or the thin red rain
That flecked the fool's white cloak, while slowly down
Light feathers flitted. Then the fool turned short,
Caught the knight's saddle-axe, and cried aloud,
"Hast thou, O beast set free, no kindly sense?"
And smote the great brute knight so fierce a blow
That man and steed rolled helpless; but the fool
Struck swiftly here and there, rode down a squire,
Cast wide his axe, and spurring wild his horse,
With eyes in air, grim-staring like a dog
His master calls, fled where the wounded swan
Fast faded in the yellow sunset's glow.
Homeward in wonderment the knight they bore,
Hurt, not to death, and ever as we went,
Cursing himself, and us, and most the fool,
And marvelling much why came not forth his dame.
None dared to tell him that three days had gone
Since any saw her face. So, all the house
Ran to and fro like to an ant-heap stirred,
While he, that loved her in his stolid way,
And blindly craved some sweetness never won,
Sought here and there in anger, like low souls
That turn to wrath all passions, and at last
Brake wildly out upon the turret-top,
'Midst man and squire and groom and wildered maids;
For there they found the lady, cold and still,
The sweetest dead thing that a man could see,
And in her bosom white a cross-bow bolt.





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