Books: Parfit Gentil Knyght

THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING (677 pp.)—7. H. White—Putnam ($4.95)..

When it comes to the King Arthur story, a myth is as good as a mile. Just about all anyone knows of the historical Arthur is that he lived in the 6th century. Nine hundred years later, when “Syr Thomas Maleore, knyght” put together Morte d’Arthur, he was already synthesizing a well-encrusted legend, the sources of which he “dyd take oute of certeyn bookes of frensshe and reduced it in to Englysshe.” Another 400 years and the parfit gentil knights in the pious allegories of Alfred Lord Tennyson startlingly resembled iron-padded Victorian cricketers, later followed by Mark Twain’s slapstick farce and the droll sophistications of John Erskine.

Since each age re-creates legend in its own image, it is tempting to see Author T. H. White’s King Arthur of the Round Table in the role of an idealized Secretary-General of the U.N. But The Once and Future King is considerably more fascinating than that, as it knits together the funny, the moving, the fanciful and the psychologically astute in a rich tapestry of the medieval age of chivalry.

Playing Fields of Camelot. In this work Author White has revised and rewritten the three previous books in his Arthurian cycle and combined them with an entirely new concluding section. The saga opens with sylvan innocence in an England that is roughshod yet full of rural graces. The only thing that troubles the towhead Wart (Arthur-to-be) is the commonly accepted notion that he is a bastardly blot on the escutcheon of a country squire named Sir Ector. whose proper son Kay is an unamiable toad. Sir Ector wants both lads to acquire a good “eddication.” An old “tilting blue,” he believes that “the battle of Crecy [was] won upon the playing fields of Camelot.” A tutor is engaged—a dotty old geezer with a pointed hat and hornrimmed glasses named Merlyn.

White’s Merlyn was born in the future, is getting younger as he lives backwards through time. Merlyn teaches through the magic of metamorphosis: he is continually changing the Wart into some animal or other. As a fish, the Wart learns self-preservation from a pike; as a hawk, he acquires courage. He gets a taste of the 20th century totalitarian state by spending time in an ant colony, whose anthem is Antland, Antland Over All. Almost by accident, he comes across Excalibur.

Nearly Eternal Triangle. Arthur wields the sword against rival kings and unruly barons and welds England into a nation. But the simple-souled, sweet-natured sovereign is troubled by feudal underlords who feel free to have their peasants basted over slow fires or sprinkled with molten lead. Merlyn plants a revolutionary idea in the King’s head, to enlist Might in the cause of Right, and Arthur begins to recruit the Round Table. This, of course, brings the peerless Sir Lancelot to court, to Queen Guenever and to the cuckoldry of poor, long-suffering Arthur. Author White tastefully tucks the 20-odd-year dalliance of “Lance” and “Jenny” between the lines rather than between the sheets. What with the lovers’ nagging consciences and Arthur’s endless tact, this is one triangle that could seem eternal if Author White did not unfold the entire panoply of medieval life to divert the reader. He ranges from the protocol of jousting and the niceties of falconry to the names of the “fiercer cocktails” of the period, e.g., Father Whoresonne, Stride Wide and Lift Leg.

One may learn from White that each baron owed the King an annual sniff of hot pie in payment of his feudal dues, that a certain bone from the body of a pure black cat that had been boiled alive was believed to make one invisible. Against these curiosa, the characters still manage to hold their own: Sir Galahad, who is so priggish a saint that lesser knights loathe him; Jenny, who cannot make her mind up whether to be a good woman or go on in her usual way; Lancelot, the ugly duckling who is loved by all save himself. Balancing his own sprightly colloquialisms with the archaic grandeur of the Malory text. Author White finally sweeps his characters to their tragic ends.

Whatever else it is or is not. this is a book of profound patriotic piety which glorifies Arthur as the father of his country, and finds in the childlike wonder and faith of medieval England the crucible of future English greatness.

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As strange as any medieval unicorn or griffin is the life and personality of Terence Hanbury (“Tim”) White. He lives on the pebble-sized English Channel isle of Alderney (pop. 1,600), famed for its low taxes, cheap liquor, puffins and stormy petrels. Stormy Petrel White arrived ten years ago announcing that he was a 17-time bigamist on the lam from Britain, and ever since, his pranks have been the pub chatter of the natives. A sun-cured, white-bearded bachelor of 52, White lives alone except for the hedgehogs, snakes and hawks that he favors as pets. His absentmindedness is legend. When he is writing—in green ink with a quill pen—friends have to remind White to eat.

White happens to believe that “my health is always better when I am drinking,” keeps gallons of medicine around.

In or out of his cups. Medievalist White has small use for the modern world, and bitterly resents Britain’s decline. He is likely to poke a horny forefinger into the nearest American chest and hiss dramatically, “You pinched my bloody empire from me.” A tormented man, by turns merry and melancholy, Tim White admits to a lifelong inferiority complex. Spurred by fear, he pushed himself into physical adventure. He has piloted a plane, learned to skindive with ill-fated Commander Crabb, stayed awake three days and nights to achieve mastery over a fierce, untamed hawk (The Goshawk).

An ex-public school teacher (Stowe), Tim White is still a hawk when it comes to learning, will shortly disgorge a bookful of myths and legends about Ireland. After that, he plans to return to the Arthurian cycle. It is no mere escapism that drives him back, but what a friend calls “his dedication to the cause of gentleness.” Facing 20th century life, Terence Hanbury White finds himself, more than ever, agreeing with Malory’s publisher Caxton on the virtues that might redeem the time: “Chyvalrye, curtoyse, humanyte, frendlynesse, hardynesse, love . . .”