Sixth to eighth century, growth of myth about an Arthur, real, or
supposed to be real.
Tenth century, the Duchies of Normandy and Brittany are in close
relations; by the eleventh century Normans know Celtic Arthurian
stories.
After, 1066, Normans in contact with the Celtic peoples of this island
are in touch with the Arthur tales.
1130–1145, works on Arthurian matter by Geoffrey of Monmouth.
1155, Wace’s French translation of Geoffrey.
1150–1182, Chrétien de Troyes writes poems on Arthurian topics.
French prose romances on Arthur, from, say, 1180 to 1250. Those
romances reach Wales, and modify, in translations, the original Welsh
legends, or, in part, supplant them.
Amplifications and recastings are numerous. In 1485 Caxton publishes
Malory’s selections from French and English sources, the whole being
Tennyson’s main source, _Le Mort d’Arthur_. {113}
Thus the Arthur stories, originally Celtic, originally a mass of
semi-pagan legend, myth, and _märchen_, have been retold and rehandled by
Norman, Englishman, and Frenchman, taking on new hues, expressing new
ideals—religious, chivalrous, and moral. Any poet may work his will on
them, and Tennyson’s will was to retain the chivalrous courtesy,
generosity, love, and asceticism, while dimly or brightly veiling or
illuminating them with his own ideals. After so many processes, from
folk-tale to modern idyll, the Arthurian world could not be real, and
real it is not. Camelot lies “out of space, out of time,” though the
colouring is mainly that of the later chivalry, and “the gleam” on the
hues is partly derived from Celtic fancy of various dates, and is partly
Tennysonian.
As the Idylls were finally arranged, the first, _The Coming of Arthur_,
is a remarkable proof of Tennyson’s ingenuity in construction. Tales
about the birth of Arthur varied. In Malory, Uther Pendragon, the
Bretwalda (in later phrase) of Britain, besieges the Duke of Tintagil,
who has a fair wife, Ygerne, in another castle. Merlin magically puts on
Uther the shape of Ygerne’s husband, and as her husband she receives him.
On that night Arthur is begotten by Uther, and the Duke of Tintagil, his
mother’s husband, is slain in a sortie. Uther weds Ygerne; both
recognise Arthur as their child. However, by the Celtic custom of
fosterage the infant is intrusted to Sir Ector as his _dalt_, or
foster-child, and Uther falls in battle. Arthur is later approven king
by the adventure of drawing from the stone the magic sword that no other
king could move. This adventure answers to Sigmund’s drawing the sword
from the Branstock, in the Volsunga Saga, “Now men stand up, and none
would fain be the last to lay hand to the sword,” apparently stricken
into the pillar by Woden. “But none who came thereto might avail to pull
it out, for in nowise would it come away howsoever they tugged at it, but
now up comes Sigmund, King Volsung’s son, and sets hand to the sword, and
pulls it from the stock, even as if it lay loose before him.” The
incident in the Arthurian as in the Volsunga legend is on a par with the
Golden Bough, in the sixth book of the _Æneid_. Only the predestined
champion, such as Æneas, can pluck, or break, or cut the bough—
“Ipse volens facilisque sequetu
Si te fata vocant.”
All this ancient popular element in the Arthur story is disregarded by
Tennyson. He does not make Uther approach Ygerne in the semblance of her
lord, as Zeus approached Alcmena in the semblance of her husband,
Amphitryon. He neglects the other ancient test of the proving of Arthur
by his success in drawing the sword. The poet’s object is to enfold the
origin and birth of Arthur in a spiritual mystery. This is deftly
accomplished by aid of the various versions of the tale that reach King
Leodogran when Arthur seeks the hand of his daughter Guinevere, for
Arthur’s title to the crown is still disputed, so Leodogran makes
inquiries. The answers first leave it dubious whether Arthur is son of
Gorloïs, husband of Ygerne, or of Uther, who slew Gorloïs and married
her:—
“Enforced she was to wed him in her tears.”
The Celtic custom of fosterage is overlooked, and Merlin gives the child
to Anton, not as the customary _dalt_, but to preserve the babe from
danger. Queen Bellicent then tells Leodogran, from the evidence of
Bleys, Merlin’s master in necromancy, the story of Arthur’s miraculous
advent.
“And down the wave and in the flame was borne
A naked babe, and rode to Merlin’s feet,
Who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried ‘The King!
Here is an heir for Uther!’”
But Merlin, when asked by Bellicent to corroborate the statement of
Bleys, merely
“Answer’d in riddling triplets of old time.”
Finally, Leodogran’s faith is confirmed by a vision. Thus doubtfully,
amidst rumour and portent, cloud and spiritual light, comes Arthur: “from
the great deep” he comes, and in as strange fashion, at the end, “to the
great deep he goes”—a king to be accepted in faith or rejected by doubt.
Arthur and his ideal are objects of belief. All goes well while the
knights hold that
“The King will follow Christ, and we the King,
In whom high God hath breathed a secret thing.”