Lest I be found as faithless in the quest
As yon proud Prince who left the quest to me.
Sweet father, I behold him in my dreams
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself,
760 Death-pale, for lack of gentle maiden’s aid.
The gentler-born the maiden, the more bound,
My father, to be sweet and serviceable
To noble knights in sickness, as ye know
When these have worn their tokens: let me hence
765 I pray you.’ Then her father nodding said,
‘Ay, ay, the diamond: wit ye well, my child,
Right fain were I to learn this knight were whole,
Being our greatest: yea, and you must give it –
And sure I think this fruit is hung too high
770 For any mouth to gape for save a queen’s –
Nay, I mean nothing: so then, get you gone,
Being so very wilful you must go.’
Lightly, her suit allow’d, she slipt away,
And while she made her ready for her ride,
775 Her father’s latest word humm’d in her ear,
‘Being so very wilful you must go,’
And changed itself and echo’d in her heart,
‘Being so very wilful you must die.’
But she was happy enough and shook it off,
780 As we shake off the bee that buzzes at us;
And in her heart she answer’d it and said,
‘What matter, so I help him back to life?’
Then far away with good Sir Torre for guide
Rode o’er the long backs of the bushless downs
785 To Camelot, and before the city-gates
Came on her brother with a happy face
Making a roan horse caper and curvet
For pleasure all about a field of flowers:
Whom when she saw, ‘Lavaine,’ she cried, ‘Lavaine,
790 How fares my lord Sir Lancelot?’ He amazed,
‘Torre and Elaine! why here? Sir Lancelot!
How know ye my lord’s name is Lancelot?’
But when the maid had told him all her tale,
Then turn’d Sir Torre, and being in his moods
795 Left them, and under the strange-statued gate,
Where Arthur’s wars were render’d mystically,
Past up the still rich city to his kin,
His own far blood, which dwelt at Camelot;
And her, Lavaine across the poplar grove
800 Led to the caves: there first she saw the casque
Of Lancelot on the wall: her scarlet sleeve,
Tho’ carved and cut, and half the pearls away,
Stream’d from it still; and in her heart she laugh’d,
Because he had not loosed it from his helm,
805 But meant once more perchance to tourney in it.
And when they gain’d the cell wherein he slept,
His battle-writhen arms and mighty hands
Lay naked on the wolfskin, and a dream
Of dragging down his enemy made them move.
810 Then she that saw him lying unsleek, unshorn,
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself,
Utter’d a little tender dolorous cry.
The sound not wonted in a place so still
Woke the sick knight, and while he roll’d his eyes
815 Yet blank from sleep, she started to him, saying,
‘Your prize the diamond sent you by the King:’
His eyes glisten’d: she fancied ‘Is it for me?’
And when the maid had told him all the tale
Of King and Prince, the diamond sent, the quest
820 Assign’d to her not worthy of it, she knelt
Full lowly by the corners of his bed,
And laid the diamond in his open hand.
Her face was near, and as we kiss the child
That does the task assign’d, he kiss’d her face.
825 At once she slipt like water to the floor.
‘Alas,’ he said, ‘your ride hath wearied you.
Rest must you have.’ ’No rest for me,’ she said;
‘Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest.’
What might she mean by that? his large black eyes,
830 Yet larger thro’ his leanness, dwelt upon her,
Till all her heart’s sad secret blazed itself
In the heart’s colours on her simple face;
And Lancelot look’d and was perplext in mind,
And being weak in body said no more;
835 But did not love the colour; woman’s love,
Save one, he not regarded, and so turn’d
Sighing, and feign’d a sleep until he slept.
Then rose Elaine and glided thro’ the fields,
And past beneath the weirdly-sculptured gates
840 Far up the dim rich city to her kin;
There bode the night: but woke with dawn, and past
Down thro’ the dim rich city to the fields,
Thence to the cave: so day by day she past
In either twilight ghost-like to and fro
845 Gliding, and every day she tended him,
And likewise many a night: and Lancelot
Would, tho’ he call’d his wound a little hurt
Whereof he should be quickly whole, at times
Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, seem
850 Uncourteous, even he: but the meek maid
Sweetly forbore him ever, being to him
Meeker than any child to a rough nurse,
Milder than any mother to a sick child,
And never woman yet, since man’s first fall,
855 Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love
Upbore her; till the hermit, skill’d in all
The simples and the science of that time,
Told him that her fine care had saved his life.
And the sick man forgot her simple blush,
860 Would call her friend and sister, sweet Elaine,
Would listen for her coming and regret
Her parting step, and held her tenderly,
And loved her with all love except the love
Of man and woman when they love their best,
865 Closest and sweetest, and had died the death
In any knightly fashion for her sake.
And peradventure had he seen her first
She might have made this and that other world
Another world for the sick man; but now
870 The shackles of an old love straiten’d him,
His honour rooted in dishonour stood,
And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.
Yet the great knight in his mid-sickness made
Full many a holy vow and pure resolve.
875 These, as but born of sickness, could not live:
For when the blood ran lustier in him again,
Full often the bright image of one face,
Making a treacherous quiet in his heart,
Dispersed his resolution like a cloud.
880 Then if the maiden, while that ghostly grace
Beam’d on his fancy, spoke, he answer’d not,
Or short and coldly, and she knew right well
What the rough sickness meant, but what this meant
She knew not, and the sorrow dimm’d her sight,
885 And drave her ere her time across the fields
Far into the rich city, where alone
She murmur’d, ‘Vain, in vain: it cannot be.
He will not love me: how then? must I die?’
Then as a little helpless innocent bird,
890 That has but one plain passage of few notes,
Will sing the simple passage o’er and o’er
For all an April morning, till the ear
Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid
Went half the night repeating, ‘Must I die?’
895 And now to right she turn�
�d, and now to left,
And found no ease in turning or in rest;
And ‘Him or death,’ she mutter’d, ‘death or him,’
Again and like a burthen, ‘Him or death.’
But when Sir Lancelot’s deadly hurt was whole,
900 To Astolat returning rode the three.
There morn by morn, arraying her sweet self
In that wherein she deem’d she look’d her best,
She came before Sir Lancelot, for she thought
‘If I be loved, these are my festal robes,
905 If not, the victim’s flowers before he fall.’
And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid
That she should ask some goodly gift of him
For her own self or hers; ‘and do not shun
To speak the wish most near to your true heart;
910 Such service have ye done me, that I make
My will of yours, and Prince and Lord am I
In mine own land, and what I will I can.’
Then like a ghost she lifted up her face,
But like a ghost without the power to speak.
915 And Lancelot saw that she withheld her wish,
And bode among them yet a little space
Till he should learn it; and one morn it chanced
He found her in among the garden yews,
And said, ‘Delay no longer, speak your wish,
920 Seeing I go to-day:’ then out she brake:
‘Going? and we shall never see you more.
And I must die for want of one bold word.’
‘Speak: that I live to hear,’ he said, ‘is yours.’
Then suddenly and passionately she spoke:
925 ’I have gone mad. I love you: let me die.’
‘Ah, sister,’ answer’d Lancelot, ‘what is this?’
And innocently extending her white arms,
‘Your love,’ she said, ‘your love – to be your wife.’
And Lancelot answer’d, ‘Had I chosen to wed,
930 I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine:
But now there never will be wife of mine.’
‘No, no,’ she cried, ‘I care not to be wife,
But to be with you still, to see your face,
To serve you, and to follow you thro’ the world.’
935 And Lancelot answer’d, ‘Nay, the world, the world,
All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart
To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue
To blare its own interpretation – nay,
Full ill then should I quit your brother’s love,
940 And your good father’s kindness.’ And she said,
‘Not to be with you, not to see your face –
Alas for me then, my good days are done.’
‘Nay, noble maid,’ he answer’d, ‘ten times nay!
This is not love: but love’s first flash in youth,
945 Most common: yea, I know it of mine own self:
And you yourself will smile at your own self
Hereafter, when you yield your flower of life
To one more fitly yours, not thrice your age:
And then will I, for true you are and sweet
950 Beyond mine old belief in womanhood,
More specially should your good knight be poor,
Endow you with broad land and territory
Even to the half my realm beyond the seas,
So that would make you happy: furthermore,
955 Ev’n to the death, as tho’ ye were my blood,
In all your quarrels will I be your knight.
This will I do, dear damsel, for your sake,
And more than this I cannot.’
While he spoke
She neither blush’d nor shook, but deathly-pale
960 Stood grasping what was nearest, then replied:
‘Of all this will I nothing;’ and so fell,
And thus they bore her swooning to her tower.
Then spake, to whom thro’ those black walls of yew
Their talk had pierced, her father: ‘Ay, a flash,
965 I fear me, that will strike my blossom dead.
Too courteous are ye, fair Lord Lancelot.
I pray you, use some rough discourtesy
To blunt or break her passidn.’
Lancelot said,
‘That were against me: what I can I will;’
970 And there that day remain’d, and toward even
Sent for his shield: full meekly rose the maid,
Stript off the case, and gave the naked shield;
Then, when she heard his horse upon the stones,
Unclasping flung the casement back, and look’d
975 Down on his helm, from which her sleeve had gone.
And Lancelot knew the little clinking sound;
And she by tact of love was well aware
That Lancelot knew that she was looking at him.
And yet he glanced not up, nor waved his hand,
980 Nor bad farewell, but sadly rode away.
This was the one discourtesy that he used.
So in her tower alone the maiden sat:
His very shield was gone; only the case,
Her own poor work, her empty labour, left.
985 But still she heard him, still his picture form’d
And grew between her and the pictured wall.
Then came her father, saying in low tones,
‘Have comfort,’ whom she greeted quietly.
Then came her brethren saying, ‘Peace to thee,
990 Sweet sister,’ whom she answer’d with all calm.
But when they left her to herself again,
Death, like a friend’s voice from a distant field
Approaching thro’ the darkness, call’d; the owls
Wailing had power upon her, and she mixt
995 Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms
Of evening, and the moanings of the wind.
And in those days she made a little song,
And call’d her song ‘The Song of Love and Death,’
And sang it: sweetly could she make and sing.
1000 ‘Sweet is true love tho’ given in vain, in vain;
And sweet is death who puts an end to pain:
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.
‘Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be:
1005 Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me.
O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die.
‘Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away,
Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay,
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.
‘I fain would follow love, if that could be;
1010 I needs must follow death, who calls for me;
Call and I follow, I follow! let me die.’
High with the last line scaled her voice, and this,
All in a fiery dawning wild with wind
That shook her tower, the brothers heard, and thought
1015 With shuddering, ‘Hark the Phantom of the house
That ever shrieks before a death,’ and call’d
The father, and all three in hurry and fear
Ran to her, and lo! the blood-red light of dawn
Flared on her face, she shrilling, ‘Let me die!’
1020 As when we dwell upon a word we know,
Repeating, till the word we know so well
Becomes a wonder, and we know not why,
So dwelt the father on her face, and thought
‘Is this Elaine?’ till back the maiden fell,
1025 Then gave a languid hand to each, and lay,
Speaking a still good-morrow with her eyes.
At last she said, ‘Sweet brothers, yesternight
I seem’d a curious little maid again,
As happy as when we dwelt among the woods,
1030 And when ye used to take me with the flood
Up the great river in t
he boatman’s boat.
Only ye would not pass beyond the cape
That has the poplar on it: there ye fixt
Your limit, oft returning with the tide.
1035 And yet I cried because ye would not pass
Beyond it, and far up the shining flood
Until we found the palace of the King.
And yet ye would not; but this night I dream’d
That I was all alone upon the flood,
1040 And then I said, “Now shall I have my will:
And there I woke, but still the wish remain’d.
So let me hence that I may pass at last
Beyond the poplar and far up the flood,
Until I find the palace of the King.
1045 There will I enter in among them all,
And no man there will dare to mock at me;
But there the fine Gawain will wonder at me,
And there the great Sir Lancelot muse at me;
Gawain, who bad a thousand farewells to me,
1050 Lancelot, who coldly went, nor bad me one:
And there the King will know me and my love,
And there the Queen herself will pity me,
And all the gentle court will welcome me,
And after my long voyage I shall rest!’
1055 ‘Peace,’ said her father, ‘O my child, ye seem
Light-headed, for what force is yours to go
So far, being sick? and wherefore would ye look
On this proud fellow again, who scorns us all?’
Then the rough Torre began to heave and move,
1060 And bluster into stormy sobs and say,
‘I never loved him: an I meet with him,
I care not howsoever great he be,
Then will I strike at him and strike him down,
Give me good fortune, I will strike him dead,
1065 For this discomfort he hath done the house.’
To whom the gentle sister made reply,
‘Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor be wroth,
Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot’s fault
Not to love me, than it is mine to love
1070 Him of all men who seems to me the highest.’
‘Highest?’ the father answer’d, echoing ‘highest?’
(He meant to break the passion in her) ‘nay,
Daughter, I know not what you call the highest;
But this I know, for all the people know it,
1075 He loves the Queen, and in an open shame:
And she returns his love in open shame;
If this be high, what is it to be low?’
Then spake the lily maid of Astolat:
‘Sweet father, all too faint and sick am I
1080 For anger: these are slanders: never yet
Idylls of the King Page 21