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

is this wildly fascinating man. He was the socialist in 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 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 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 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.

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 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. 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 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 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

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 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, 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 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

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 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 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, 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 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, 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. 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 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 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, 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

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 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 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, 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 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 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 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,

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, 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 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, 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.

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 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, 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 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 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 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, 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, 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

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. 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 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

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 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 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, 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 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 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, 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 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 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 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 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. 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

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 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, 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. 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 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 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 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

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 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 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, 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,

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, 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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

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 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

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 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 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 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 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 need to dot com slash sources. Thanks for listening.