CZM Book Club: "Svend and His Brethren" by William Morris, Part One

Margaret reads you even more William Morris, but this story has swords in it

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:01):
Cool Zone Media. It's the cools On Media book Club,
which has always been our jingle. I'm your host, Margaret
Kiljoy and this week, Uncles On Media book Club, I'm
going to read you a story. How was that different
from other weeks? It's not. That's the great thing about

(00:23):
podcasts is that they do a thing and then they
keep doing that thing forever wherever. Anyway, Okay, so last
week I brought you a story by William Morris, who
was the in case anyone missed that one, William Morris
is this wildly fascinating man. He was the socialist in

(00:47):
nineteenth century England who was from a upper middle class background,
who became the primary one of the primary interior designers
and like textile designers of Victorian England, and like set
so many of the aesthetic ideas. When you imagine Victorian wallpaper,
you were imagining something that William Morris either designed or

(01:11):
was designing very similar things. But he was also kind
of the inventor of the fantasy genre. There's other people
who argue about other books that will have done this prior,
but in a lot of ways, the modern fantasy genre
can be tracked to William Morris. Writing a bunch of
novels about secondary worlds with magic, and he's one of

(01:35):
the primary inspirations for JR. Tolkien. And why am I
talking so much about him when we read him last week?
Because we're going to read him again. I'm going to
read a slightly longer story and it's going to be
this week and next week. And the reason I want
to read you all this story is because not only
did William Morris inspire JR. Tolkien, I suspeact inspired Ursula

(02:02):
Lagwin and Ursula Gwinn. For those who are not familiar,
which is probably very few of you, but I don't know.
Everyone starts somewhere. Ursulo Gwin is one of the most
important feminist science fiction writers of all time. I consider
her personally to be the greatest English language anarchist fiction writer.

(02:23):
And I care about her work a lot, and a
lot of my friends do too. And she wrote this
one story that I won't read to you because I
don't I'd have to get in touch with her estate
in order to make that happen. But she and also
it's like not long enough for this podcast. She wrote
the story called The Ones Who Walked Away from Omelas

(02:45):
and this story, I'm gonna spoil it for you because
it's just a little thought experiment. And in that story,
there's like a perfect, happy, utopian society where the children
are playing and the banners are flying and everything is
good and lovely. And the way that they make that
happen is that one child is locked up and tortured.

(03:06):
And how looking at this perfect society but based on
this fundamentally evil thing, some people walk away, some people leave.
Omelas LeGuin was an anarchist pacifist, and that idea comes,
you know, I think that that is that story is
maybe the most perfect encapsulation of anarchist pacifism as a

(03:29):
as a parable, and it's a very important story in
the sort of science fiction canon. A lot of authors
have sort of written responses or follow ups or sequels
or you know, other things that tie into it. Personally,
nothing I've read quite touches the original and sort of
a like perfectness. And it's so you can only write

(03:49):
perfect stuff if you write really short, you know, you
can do a little perfect, little parable. And I've never
before run across anything that made me think, oh this
might have inspired Legwin with o Malas. And then also
Legwin wrote a book called The Eye of the Heron
that is in some ways a more book length exploration

(04:12):
of that idea of pacifism and walking away. But then
I was reading a lot of William Morris stories and
I read a story called Svend and his Brethren from
eighteen fifty six. And that's the story I'm going to
read to you today because I think it's related. And

(04:35):
I could be wrong, but I would suspect that this book,
the story inspired Legwin to some level. Now, this story
was written in eighteen fifty six. Like the last story
I wrote, William Morris wrote a bunch of romances, as
they were called, which meant like thet of fantasy fables, right,

(04:56):
not like more like romantic the art movement, not like
romance novels, although I would read the Shit out of
a Wayamore's romance novel based on that last story we
read where he's talking about how beautiful this man is.
But he wrote all these stories I think while he
was in college. I think while he was in college,
while he was at Oxford, and they were published in
the Literary Journal there, and that's like more or less

(05:20):
his short story output. And after that he wrote epic
poetry for a long time, and then later in his
life he wrote all of the novels, which are much
more influential overall. And this story, like the last one,
it's a little bit I'm gonna use this word imprecisely.
It's a little bit baroque. It's a little bit the

(05:41):
writing is a little bit flowery. Some certain things you're
not entirely certain what's happening. And because one hundred and
seventy years have passed since this story came out, I'll
just kind of go ahead and tell you a little
bit about the plots of an easier time following it,
because I would have done me some good. This is
a story about out one country conquering another, And at

(06:05):
the start of it, it is about one country conquering another.
And how is someone, a woman from that conquered country,
in order to stop the war, marries the king of
the other country and is not happy about it. But
then it's a story about their children and the decisions
that they choose to make. And that's the part where

(06:26):
it starts getting well, what's all interesting. I hope you
like it. I hope you like it as much as
I do, because I'll be reading it this week and
next week, and it's called Svend and his Brethren from
eighteen fifty six by William Morris. A king in the
olden time ruled over a mighty nation. A proud man,

(06:48):
he must have been any man who was king of
that nation. Hundreds of lords each, a prince over many people,
sat about him in the council chamber under the dim
vault that was blue like the vault of heaven, and
shone with innumerable glistenings of golden stars. North, south, east
and west. Spread that land of his. The sea did

(07:10):
not stop it. His empire clomb the high mountains and
spread abroad its arms over the valleys of them. All
along the sea lined shore cities set with their crowns
of towers in the midst of broad bays, each fit.
It seemed to be a harbor for the navies of
all the world. Inland, the pastures and cornlands lay checkered,

(07:34):
much with climbing over tumbling grape vines under the sun
that crumbled their clods and drew up the young wheat
in the springtime, under the rain that made the long
grass soft and fine. Under all fair fertilizing influences. The
streams leapt down from the mountain tops or cleft their
way through the ridged ravines. They grew great rivers like seas.

(07:57):
Each one. The mountains were cloven and gave forth from
their scarred sides wealth of ore and splendor of marble.
All things this people that King Valdemar ruled over could do.
They leveled mountains that over the smooth roads the wains
might go laden with silks and spices. From the sea.
They drained lakes that the land might yield more and

(08:20):
more As year by year the serfs, driven like cattle,
but worse fed, worse housed, died slowly scarce. Knowing they
had souls, They builded them huge ships, and said they
were masters of the sea too. Only I trow the
sea was an unruly subject, and often sent them back

(08:41):
their ships cut into more pieces than the pines of
them were when the ads first fell upon them. They
raised towers and bridges, and marble palaces with endless corridors,
rose scented and cooled with welling fountains. They sent great
armies and fleets to all points of heaven that the
winds blow from. Who took and burned many happy cities, wasted,

(09:05):
many fields and valleys blotted out from the memory of men.
The names of nations made their men's lives a hopeless
shame and misery to them, their women's lives disgrace, And
then came home to have flowers thrown on them in showers,
to be feasted and called heroes. Should not then their

(09:26):
king be proud of them? Moreover, they could fashion stone
and brass into the shapes of men. They could write books.
They knew the names of the stars and their number.
They knew what moved the passions of men in the
hearts of them, and could draw you up cunningly catalogs
of virtues and vices. Their wise men could prove to

(09:47):
you that any lie was true, that any truth was false,
till your head grew dizzy and your heart sick, and
you almost doubted if there were a god. Should not
then their king be proud of them? Their men were
strong in body and moved about gracefully like dancers, and
the purple, black scented hair of their gold clothed knights

(10:10):
seemed to shoot out rays under the blaze of light
that shone like many suns in the king's halls. Their
women's faces were very fair in red and white, their
skins fair and half transparent like the marble of their mountains,
and their voices sounded like the rising of soft music
from step to step of their own white palaces. Should not,

(10:34):
then their king be proud of such a people who
seemed to help so in carrying on the world to
its consummate perfection, which they even hoped their grandchildren would see.
Alas alas they were slaves, king and priest, noble and burgher,
just as much as the meanest task surf, perhaps more

(10:56):
even than he, for they were so willingly and he
unwillingly enough they could do everything but justice and truth
and mercy. Therefore God's judgments hung over their heads, not
fallen yet, but surely to fall one time or other.
For ages past they had warred against one people only

(11:18):
whom they could not utterly subdue, a feeble people in
numbers dwelling in the very midst of them among the mountains.
Yet now they were pressing them close, acre after acre,
with seas of blood to purchase. Each acre had been
wrested from the free people, and their end seeming drawing
near and this time the king Valdemar had marched to

(11:40):
their land with a great army to make war on them.
He boasted to himself, almost for the last time, a
walled town in the free land. In that town a
house built of rough, splintery stones, and in a great,
low browed room of that house a gray haired man
paid seen to and fro impatiently. Will she never come,

(12:03):
he says, it is two hours since the sunset. News
too of the enemy's being in the land. How dreadful
if she is taken. His great broad face is marked
with many furrows, made by the fierce, restless energy of
the man. But there is a wearied look on it,
the look of a man who, having done his best,

(12:23):
is yet beaten. He seemed to long to be gone
and be at peace. He, the fighter in many battles,
who often had seemed with his single arm to roll
back the whole tide of fight, felt despairing enough. Now,
this last invasion, he thought, must surely quite settle the matter.
Wave after wave, wave after wave had broken on that

(12:46):
dear land and been rolled back from it, and yet
the hungry sea pressed on. They must be finally drowned
in that sea how fearfully they had been tried for
their sins. Back again to his anxiety concerning Cecilla, his daughter,
go his thoughts, and he still paces up and down, wearily,

(13:07):
stopping now and then to gaze intently on things which
he has seen a hundred times. And the night has
altogether come on. But what you have probably seen a
hundred times is me make cynical ad transitions in the
middle of podcasts like this one. And we're back at last.

(13:41):
The blast of a horn from outside, a challenge and
counter challenge, and the wicket to the courtyard is swung open.
For this house, being in a part of the city
where the walls are somewhat weak, is a little fortress
in itself, and is very carefully guarded. The old man's
face brightened at the sound of the newcomer, and he
went toward the entrance of the house, where he was

(14:02):
met by two young knights fully armed, and a maiden.
Thank god you are come, he says, but stops when
he sees her face, which is quite pale, almost wild,
with some sorrow. The Saint Cecilia, what is it, he says,
Father Eric will tell you. Then suddenly a clang for
Eric has thrown on the ground a richly jeweled sword sheathed,

(14:27):
and sets his foot on it, crunching the pearls on
the sheath, then says, flinging up his head. There, father,
the enemy is in the land. May that happen to
every one of them. But for my part, I've accounted
for two already, son, Eric, Son, Eric, you talk forever
about yourself. Quick, tell me about Cecilia instead. If you

(14:49):
go on boasting and talking always about yourself, you will
come to no good end. Son after all, But as
he says this, he smiles nevertheless, and his eyes glistens. Well, father, listen,
such a strange thing she tells us. Not to be
believed if she did not tell us herself. The enemy

(15:10):
has suddenly got generous, one of them at least, which
is something of a disappointment to me. Ah, pardon about
myself again, And that is about myself too. Well, Father,
what am I to do? But Cecila, she has wandered
some way from her maidens. When Ah, but I never
could tell a story properly. Let her tell it herself
here Cecilla. Well, well, I see she is better employed

(15:33):
talking namely, How should I know what with sure in
the window seat yonder. But she has told us that
as she wandered, almost by herself, she presently heard shouts
and saw many of the enemy's knights riding quickly towards her.
Whereat she knelt only and prayed to God, who was
very gracious to her, For when as she thought something
dreadful was about to happen, the chief of the knights,

(15:55):
a very noble looking man, she said, rescued her, and,
after he had gave earnestly into her face, told her
she might go back again to her own home and
her maids with her, if only she would tell him
where she dwelt in her name, and withal. He sent
three knights to escort her some way toward the city.
Then he turned and rode away with all his knights,

(16:17):
but those three, who, when they knew that he had
quite gone, she says, began to talk horribly, saying things
whereof in her terror, she understood the import Only then,
before worse came to pass, came I and slew too,
as I said, And the other ran away lustily with
a good courage. And that is the sword of one
of the slain knights, or as one might rather call

(16:39):
them rascally katiffs. The old man's thoughts seemed to have
gone wandering after his son had finished, for he said
nothing for some time, but at last spoke dejectedly, Eric,
brave son. When I was your age, I too hoped,
and my hopes are to come to this at last.

(17:01):
You are blind in your hopeful, youth, Eric, And do
not see that this king, for the king it certainly was,
will crush us, and not the less surely, because he
is plainly not ungenerous, but rather a good, courteous knight.
Alas poor old gunner, broken down now and ready to die,
as your country is. How often in the olden time

(17:23):
thou used to say to thyself, as thou didst ride
at the head of our glorious house, this charge may
finish this matter, this battle must They passed away, those
gallant fights, and still the foe pressed on, and hope
too slowly ebbed away, as the boundaries of our land
grew less and less. Behold, this is the last wave,
but one or two, and then for a sad farewell

(17:45):
to name and freedom. Yet surely the end of the
world must come, when we are swept off the face
of the earth. God waits long, they say, before he
avenges his own. As he was speaking, shure and Cecilia
came nearer to him, and Sellah, all traces of her
late terror gone from her face. Now, raising her lips
to his bended forehead, kissed him fondly and said, with

(18:07):
glowing face, Father, how can I help our people? Do
they want deaths? I will die? Do they want happiness?
I will live miserably through years and years, Nor ever
pray for death. Some hope or other seemed growing up
his heart and showing through his face when he spoke again,
putting back the hair from off her face and clasping

(18:29):
it about with both his hands while he stooped to
kiss her, much like I have stooped to selling ads
for a living. Here's the ads, and we're back. God,

(18:58):
remember your mother, Cissela. Then it was no dream after all,
but true, perhaps as indeed it seemed at the time.
But it must come quickly, that woman's deliverance, or not
at all? When was it that I heard that old
tale that sounded even then true to my ears? For
we have not been punished for naught, my son. That
is not God's way. It comes across my memory, somehow
mingled in a wonderful manner with the purple of the

(19:21):
pines on the hillside, with the fragrance of them born
from far towards me. For know, my children, that in
times passed long long past, now we did an evil
deed for our forefathers, who have been dead now and
forgiven so long ago. Once, mad with rage at some
defeat from their enemies, fired a church and burned therein
many women who had fled thither for refuge. And from

(19:44):
that time a curse cleaves to us. Only they say
that at last we may be saved from utter destruction
by a woman. I know not, God grant it may
be so. Then she said, father, brother, and you sure
come with with me to the chapel. I wish you
to witness me make an oath. Her face was pale,

(20:05):
her lips were pale. Her golden hail was pale, but
not pale. It seemed from any sinking of blood, but
from gathering of intensest light from somewhere her eyes perhaps,
for they appeared to burn Inwardly. They followed the sweeping
of her purple robe in silence through the low, heavy
beamed passages they entered the little chapel, dimly lighted by

(20:28):
the moon that night as it shone through one of
the three arrow slits of windows at the east end.
There was little wealth of marble there I trow little
time had those fighting men for stone smoothing, albeit one
noted many semblances of flowers even in the dim half light.
And here and there the faces of brave men, roughly

(20:49):
cut enough, but grand because the hand of the carver
had followed his loving heart. Neither was their gold. Wanting
to the altar and its canopy. Above the low pillars
of the knave hung banners taken from the foe by
the men of that house. Gallant with gold and jewels,
she walked up to the altar and took the Blessed

(21:11):
Book of the Gospels from the left side of it,
then knelt in prayer for a moment or two while
the three men stood behind her reverently. When she rose,
she made a sign to them, and from their scabbards
gleamed three swords in the moonlight. Then, while they held
them aloft and pointed toward the altar, she opened the
book at the page whereon was painted Christ, the Lord

(21:33):
dying on the cross, pale against the gleaming gold, She said,
in a firm voice, Christ, God, who dietist for all men,
so help me, as I refuse not life, happiness, even
honor for this people whom I love. Then she kissed
the face so pale against the gold, and knelt again.

(21:55):
But when she had risen, and before she could leave
the space by the altar, Shore had stepped up to
her and seized her hurriedly, folding both his arms about her.
She let herself be held there, her bosom against his.
Then he held her away from him a little space,
holding her by the arms near the shoulder. Then he
took her hands and laid them across his shoulders, so

(22:17):
that now she held him. And they said nothing. What
could they say? Do you know any word for what
they meant? And the father and brother stood by, looking
quite awe struck more so than they seemed by her
solemn oath. Till Shore, raising his head from where it lay,
cried out aloud, May God forgive me as I am

(22:39):
true to her. Hear you. Father and brother, then said Cecilia,
may God help me in my need, as I am
true to shure. And the others went, and the two
were left standing there alone, with no little awe over them,
strange and shy as they had never been yet to
each other. Cecilla shuddered and said, in a quick whisper,

(23:00):
sure on your knees and pray that these oaths may
never clash? Can they? Cecilia? He said, Oh love, she cried,
you have loosed my hand. Take it again, or I
shall die. Sure. He took both her hands and held
them fast to his lips and to his forehead. He said, no,
God does not allow such things. Truth does not lie.

(23:23):
You are truth. This need not be prayed for. She said, Oh,
forgive me yet Yet this old chapel is damp and cold,
even in the burning summer weather. Oh night, sure something
strikes through me. I pray, you kneel and pray. He
looked steadily at her for a long time without answering,
as if he were trying once and for all to

(23:45):
become indeed one with her. Then said, yes, it is possible.
In no other way could you give up everything. Then
he took off from his finger a thin golden ring
and broke it in two and gave her the one half, saying,
when will they come together? Then within a while they

(24:05):
left the chapel and walked as in a dream, between
the dazzling nights of the hall where the knight sat. Now,
and between those lights sat down together, dreaming still the
same dream, each of them, while all the knights shouted
for sure and Cecilla. Even if a man had spent
all his life looking for sorrowful things, even if he
had sought them with all his heart and soul, even

(24:25):
though he had grown gray in that quest, yet would
he have found nothing in all the world, or perhaps
in all the stars, either so sorrowful as Cecila. They
had accepted her sacrifice after long deliberation. They had arrayed
her in purple and scarlet. They had crowned her with gold,
wrought about with jewels. They had spread abroad the veil

(24:49):
of her golden hair. Yet now as they led her
forth in the midst of the band of knights, her
brother Eric holding fast her hand, each man felt like
a murderer when he beheld her face, whereon was no tear,
wherein was no writhing of muscle, twitching of nerve, wherein
was no sorrow mark of her own, but only the

(25:09):
sorrow mark which God sent her, and which she must
perforce whear. Yet they had not caught eagerly at her offer.
They had said, at first, almost to a man, nay,
this thing shall not be let us die altogether, rather
than this. Yet, as they sat and said this to
each man of the council, came floating dim memories of
that curse of the burned women and its remedy. To

(25:32):
many it ran rhythmically, an old song, better known by
the music than the words heard once and again long ago,
when the gusty wind overmastered the chestnut boughs and strewed
the smooth sward with their star leaves. With all came
thoughts to each man, partly selfishly, partly wise and just,

(25:53):
concerning his own wife and children, concerning children yet unborn,
thoughts too of the glory of the old name, all
that had and suffered and done, that the glorious free
land might yet be a nation. And the spirit of hope,
never dead but sleeping, only woke up within their hearts.
We may yet be a people, they said to themselves,

(26:14):
if we can but get breathing time. And as they
thought these things and doubted, shure rose up in the
midst of them, and said, you are right. In what
you think, countrymen, and she is right. She is altogether
good and noble. Sent her forth. Then, with one look
of utter despair at her, as she stood statue like,

(26:35):
he left the council, lest he should fall down and
die in the midst of them, he said. Yet he
died not then, but lived for many years afterwards. But
they rose from their seats, and when they were armed,
and she was royally arrayed, they went with her, leading
her through the dear streets, whence you always saw the
great pine shadowed mountains. She went away from all that

(26:56):
was dear to her, to go and sit a crowned
queen in the dreary Monde marble Palace, whose outer walls
rose up from the weary hearted sea. She could not
think she durst not. She feared if she did that
she would curse her beauty, almost curse the name of love.
Curse Sure. Though she knew he was right for not
slaying her, she feared she might curse God. So she

(27:21):
thought not at all, steeping her senses utterly, and forgetfulness
of the happy past, destroying all anticipation of the future. Yet,
as they left the city, amidst the tears of women
and fixed sorrowful gaze of men. She turned round once
and stretched her arms out involuntarily, like a dumb, senseless thing,
towards the place where she was born, and where her

(27:42):
life grew happier day by day, and where his arms
first crept round about her. She turned away and thought,
but in a cold, speculative manner, how it was possible
that she was bearing this sorrow, as she often before
had wondered when slight things vexed her over much, how
people had such sorrow? Rosen lived, and almost doubted if

(28:02):
the pain was so much greater in great sorrows than
in small troubles, or whether the nobleness was only greater,
the pain not sharper, but more lingering. Half way towards
the camp, the king's people met her, and over trampled
ground where they had fought so fiercely, but a little
time before, they spread breadth of golden cloth that her

(28:26):
feet might not touch the arms of her dead countrymen
or their brave bodies. And so they came at last,
with many trumpet blasts, to the king's tent, who stood
at the door of it to welcome his bride that
was to be a noble man truly to look on
kindly and genialized. The red blood sprang up all over
his face when she came near, and she looked back

(28:48):
no more, but bowed before him, almost to the ground,
and would have knelt, but that he caught her in
his arms and kissed her. She was pale now no more,
and the king, as he gazed delightedly at her, did
not notice that sorrow mark, which was plain enough to
her own people. And so the trumpet sounded again, one

(29:10):
long peal that seemed to make all the air real
and quiver, and the soldiers and Lord shouted Hurrah for
the peace Queen Cecela. And that's where we're gonna leave
this story for this week. Cecilla has now sacrificed herself
and left her family to go marry the king. What's

(29:32):
gonna happen? Well, I'm not gonna tell you. You can either
look it up, I suppose, or you can wait a week.
Or maybe it's the future and you don't have to
wait a week and you just binge listen to podcasts
like a normal person. Anyway, I'll talk to you all
next week. Oh, I'm Margaret Kiljoy. I have a book out.
I'm on tour right now, Okay, well, right now I'm

(29:53):
at home because I drove home to see my dog
because my dog could only come on the first couldn't
come on the first leg of the tour. But he's
gonna be with me on the rest of the tour.
But I went to all this that my dog wouldn't
be really excited about on the first couple of days,
and so now I'm reunited. I know that's what you
all are most concerned about, But don't worry. I'm back
home with Rentroll. But I am on tour. I am
touring with a book called The Sapling Cage, and I
wrote a bunch of folklore said in the same world

(30:15):
as that book, and so I'm reading. If you want
to come hear me read stories, and notice that I
clearly read fables and old stories a lot. You can
come hear me. Do it. I will be traveling all
over the United States. If I don't come to your city,
it's because I personally have a problem with you, and
that is the reason I did not come. But I
will be. Let's see, I was in Baltimore yesterday at

(30:36):
the time. You listen to this, If you listen to it,
on time. I will be in Brooklyn today if you're
listening to this, and then I'll be in Boston the
weekend after followed by Portland, Maine, followed by Rockland, Maine,
and then after that, I'm going to go on a
huge ass tour. I'm going to go up to Pittsburgh
and Cleveland and maybe Buffalo. I'm not sure. Don't hold
me to that. I just started talking to someone about

(30:57):
that today. And I'm going to go ann Harbor and
I'm going to go to Madison, Wisconsin. I'm going to
go to Minneapolis. I'm going to go to Lincoln, Nebraska.
I'm going to go to Fort Collins, Colorado. I'm going
to go to Fruit of Colorado. I'm going to go
to Salt Lake City. I might go somewhere between Salt
Lake City and Quilseleine, Washington, but who's to know. I'm
going to be in quose to Washington. I'm going to
be in Portland, Oregon, where I'll be speaking with friend
of the pod, Robert Evans, friend of the pod. He's

(31:17):
on the pods. I think his name is in the
official title of the pod. November first, I'll be at
Powell's Books with Robert Evans and also be at other
places because then I have to get back home. But
I haven't booked that part of the tour yet, so
you're just going to have to listen to the future
or look at my substack where I'll be talking more
about being on tour and you should come. If I

(31:37):
talk fast enough then it sounds exciting. That's my theory.
I'll talk to you next week. It could Happen here
as a production of cool Zone Media. For more podcasts
from cool Zone Media, visit our website cool Zonemedia dot com,
or check us out on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts,
or wherever you listen to podcasts. You can find sources
for It Could Happen Here, updated monthly at cool Zone

(32:00):
need to dot com slash sources. Thanks for listening.