Your story from the book of what has been,
Your phantom happiness were a ghost indeed,
And I the least of weasels among men, — 1740
Too false to manhood and your sacrifice
To merit a niche in hell. If that were so,
I’d swear there was no light for me to follow,
Save your eyes to the grave; and to the last
I might not know that all hours have an end; 1745
I might be one of those who feed themselves
By grace of God, on hopes dryer than hay,
Enjoying not what they eat, yet always eating.
The Vision shattered, a man’s love of living
Becomes at last a trap and a sad habit, 1750
More like an ailing dotard’s love of liquor
That ails him, than a man’s right love of woman,
Or of his God. There are men enough like that,
And I might come to that. Though I see far
Before me now, could I see, looking back, 1755
A life that you could wish had not been lived,
I might be such a man. Could I believe
Our love was nothing mightier then than we were,
I might be such a man — a living dead man,
One of these days.” 1760
Guinevere looked at him,
And all that any woman has not said
Was in one look: “Why do you stab me now
With such a needless ‘then’? If I am going —
And I suppose I am — are the words all lost 1765
That men have said before to dogs and children
To make them go away? Why use a knife,
When there are words enough without your ‘then’
To cut as deep as need be? What I ask you
Is never more to ask me if my life 1770
Be one that I could wish had not been lived —
And that you never torture it again,
To make it bleed and ache as you do now,
Past all indulgence or necessity.
Were you to give a lonely child who loved you 1775
One living thing to keep — a bird, may be —
Before you went away from her forever,
Would you, for surety not to be forgotten,
Maim it and leave it bleeding on her fingers?
And would you leave the child alone with it — 1780
Alone, and too bewildered even to cry,
Till you were out of sight? Are you men never
To know what words are? Do you doubt sometimes
A Vision that lets you see so far away
That you forget so lightly who it was 1785
You must have cared for once to be so kind —
Or seem so kind — when she, and for that only,
Had that been all, would throw down crowns and glories
To share with you the last part of the world?
And even the queen in me would hardly go 1790
So far off as to vanish. If I were patched
And scrapped in what the sorriest fisher-wife
In Orkney might give mumbling to a beggar,
I doubt if oafs and yokels would annoy me
More than I willed they should. Am I so old 1795
And dull, so lean and waning, or what not,
That you must hurry away to grasp and hoard
The small effect of time I might have stolen
From you and from a Light that where it lives
Must live for ever? Where does history tell you 1800
The Lord himself would seem in so great haste
As you for your perfection? If our world —
Your world and mine and Arthur’s as you say —
Is going out now to make way for another,
Why not before it goes, and I go with it, 1805
Have yet one morsel more of life together,
Before death sweeps the table and our few crumbs
Of love are a few last ashes on a fire
That cannot hurt your Vision, or burn long?
You cannot warm your lonely fingers at it 1810
For a great waste of time when I am dead:
When I am dead you will be on your way,
With maybe not so much as one remembrance
Of all I was, to follow you and torment you.
Some word of Bors may once have given color 1815
To some few that I said, but they were true —
Whether Bors told them first to me, or whether
I told them first to Bors. The Light you saw
Was not the Light of Rome; the word you had
Of Rome was not the word of God — though Rome 1820
Has refuge for the weary and heavy-laden.
Were I to live too long I might seek Rome
Myself, and be the happier when I found it.
Meanwhile, am I to be no more to you
Than a moon-shadow of a lonely stranger 1825
Somewhere in Camelot? And is there no region
In this poor fading world of Arthur’s now
Where I may be again what I was once —
Before I die? Should I live to be old,
I shall have been long since too far away 1830
For you to hate me then; and I shall know
How old I am by seeing it in your eyes.”
Her misery told itself in a sad laugh,
And in a rueful twisting of her face
That only beauty’s perilous privilege 1835
Of injury would have yielded or suborned
As hope’s infirm accessory while she prayed
Through Lancelot to heaven for Lancelot.
She looked away: “If I were God,” she said,
“I should say, ‘Let them be as they have been. 1840
A few more years will heap no vast account
Against eternity, and all their love
Was what I gave them. They brought on the end
Of Arthur’s empire, which I wrought through Merlin
For the world’s knowing of what kings and queens 1845
Are made for; but they knew not what they did —
Save as a price, and as a fear that love
Might end in fear. It need not end that way,
And they need fear no more for what I gave them;
For it was I who gave them to each other.’ 1850
If I were God, I should say that to you.”
He saw tears quivering in her pleading eyes,
But through them she could see, with a wild hope,
That he was fighting. When he spoke, he smiled —
Much as he might have smiled at her, she thought, 1855
Had she been Gawaine, Gawaine having given
To Lancelot, who yet would have him live,
An obscure wound that would not heal or kill.
“My life was living backward for the moment,”
He said, still burying in the coals and ashes 1860
Thoughts that he would not think. His tongue was dry,
And each dry word he said was choking him
As he said on: “I cannot ask of you
That you be kind to me, but there’s a kindness
That is your proper debt. Would you cajole 1865
Your reason with a weary picturing
On walls or on vain air of what your fancy,
Like firelight, makes of nothing but itself?
Do you not see that I go from you only
Because you go from me? — because our path 1870
Led where at last it had an end in havoc,
As long we knew it must — as Arthur too,
And Merlin knew it must? — as God knew it must?
A power that I should not have said was mine —
That was not mine, and is not mine — avails me 1875
Strangely tonight, although you are here with me;
And I see much in what has come to pass
That is to be. The Light t
hat I have seen,
As you say true, is not the light of Rome,
Albeit the word of Rome that set you free 1880
Was more than mine or the King’s. To flout that word
Would sound the preparation of a terror
To which a late small war on our account
Were a king’s pastime and a queen’s annoyance;
And that, for the good fortune of a world 1885
As yet not over-fortuned, may not be.
There may be war to come when you are gone,
For I doubt yet Gawaine; but Rome will hold you,
Hold you in Camelot. If there be more war,
No fire of mine shall feed it, nor shall you 1890
Be with me to endure it. You are free;
And free, you are going home to Camelot.
There is no other way than one for you,
Nor is there more than one for me. We have lived,
And we shall die. I thank you for my life. 1895
Forgive me if I say no more tonight.”
He rose, half blind with pity that was no longer
The servant of his purpose or his will,
To grope away somewhere among the shadows
For wine to drench his throat and his dry tongue, 1900
That had been saying he knew not what to her
For whom his life-devouring love was now
A scourge of mercy.
Like a blue-eyed Medea
Of white and gold, broken with grief and fear 1905
And fury that shook her speechless while she waited,
Yet left her calm enough for Lancelot
To see her without seeing, she stood up
To breathe and suffer. Fury could not live long,
With grief and fear like hers and love like hers, 1910
When speech came back: “No other way now than one?
Free? Do you call me free? Do you mean by that
There was never woman alive freer to live
Than I am free to die? Do you call me free
Because you are driven so near to death yourself 1915
With weariness of me, and the sight of me,
That you must use a crueller knife than ever,
And this time at my heart, for me to watch
Before you drive it home? For God’s sake, drive it!
Drive it as often as you have the others, 1920
And let the picture of each wound it makes
On me be shown to women and men for ever;
And the good few that know — let them reward you.
I hear them, in such low and pitying words
As only those who know, and are not many, 1925
Are used to say: ‘The good knight Lancelot
It was who drove the knife home to her heart,
Rather than drive her home to Camelot.’
Home! Free! Would you let me go there again —
To be at home? — be free? To be his wife? 1930
To live in his arms always, and so hate him
That I could heap around him the same faggots
That you put out with blood? Go home, you say?
Home? — where I saw the black post waiting for me
That morning? — saw those good men die for me — 1935
Gareth and Gaheris, Lamorak’s brother Tor,
And all the rest? Are men to die for me
For ever? Is there water enough, do you think.
Between this place and that for me to drown in?”
“There is time enough, I think, between this hour 1940
And some wise hour tomorrow, for you to sleep in.
When you are safe again in Camelot,
The King will not molest you or pursue you;
The King will be a suave and chastened man.
In Camelot you shall have no more to dread 1945
Than you shall hear then of this rain that roars
Tonight as if it would be roaring always.
I do not ask you to forgive the faggots,
Though I would have you do so for your peace.
Only the wise who know may do so much, 1950
And they, as you say truly, are not many.
And I would say no more of this tonight.”
“Then do not ask me for the one last thing
That I shall give to God! I thought I died
That morning. Why am I alive again, 1955
To die again? Are you all done with me?
Is there no longer something left of me
That made you need me? Have I lost myself
So fast that what a mirror says I am
Is not what is, but only what was once? 1960
Does half a year do that with us, I wonder,
Or do I still have something that was mine
That afternoon when I was in the sunset,
Under the oak, and you were looking at me?
Your look was not all sorrow for your going 1965
To find the Light and leave me in the dark —
But I am the daughter of Leodogran,
And you are Lancelot, — and have a tongue
To say what I may not…. Why must I go
To Camelot when your kinsmen hold all France? 1970
Why is there not some nook in some old house
Where I might hide myself — with you or not?
Is there no castle, or cabin, or cave in the woods?
Yes, I could love the bats and owls, in France,
A lifetime sooner than I could the King 1975
That I shall see in Camelot, waiting there
For me to cringe and beg of him again
The dust of mercy, calling it holy bread.
I wronged him, but he bought me with a name
Too large for my king-father to relinquish — 1980
Though I prayed him, and I prayed God aloud,
To spare that crown. I called it crown enough
To be my father’s child — until you came.
And then there were no crowns or kings or fathers
Under the sky. I saw nothing but you. 1985
And you would whip me back to bury myself
In Camelot, with a few slave maids and lackeys
To be my grovelling court; and even their faces
Would not hide half the story. Take me to France —
To France or Egypt, — anywhere else on earth 1990
Than Camelot! Is there not room in France
For two more dots of mortals? — or for one? —
For me alone? Let Lionel go with me —
Or Bors. Let Bors go with me into France,
And leave me there. And when you think of me, 1995
Say Guinevere is in France, where she is happy;
And you may say no more of her than that …
Why do you not say something to me now —
Before I go? Why do you look — and look?
Why do you frown as if you thought me mad? 2000
I am not mad — but I shall soon be mad,
If I go back to Camelot where the King is.
Lancelot!… Is there nothing left of me?
Nothing of what you called your white and gold,
And made so much of? Has it all gone by? 2005
He must have been a lonely God who made
Man in his image and then made only a woman!
Poor fool she was! Poor Queen! Poor Guinevere!
There were kings and bishops once, under her window
Like children, and all scrambling for a flower. 2010
Time was! — God help me, what am I saying now!
Does a Queen’s memory wither away to that?
Am I so dry as that? Am I a shell?
Have I become so cheap as this?… I wonder
Why the King cared!” She fell down on her knees 2015
Crying, and held his knees with hungry fear.
Over his folded arms, as over the ledge
Of a storm-shaken parapet, he could see,
The Queen’s hair with a crumpled foam of white 2020
Around it: “Do you ask, as a child would,
For France because it has a name? How long
Do you conceive the Queen of the Christian world
Would hide herself in France were she to go there?
How long should Rome require to find her there? 2025
And how long, Rome or not, would such a flower
As you survive the unrooting and transplanting
That you commend so ingenuously tonight?
And if we shared your cave together, how long,
And in the joy of what obscure seclusion, 2030
If I may say it, were Lancelot of the Lake
And Guinevere an unknown man and woman,
For no eye to see twice? There are ways to France,
But why pursue them for Rome’s interdict,
And for a longer war? Your path is now 2035
As open as mine is dark — or would be dark,
Without the Light that once had blinded me
To death, had I seen more. I shall see more,
And I shall not be blind. I pray, moreover,
That you be not so now. You are a Queen, 2040
And you may be no other. You are too brave
And kind and fair for men to cheer with lies.
We cannot make one world of two, nor may we
Count one life more than one. Could we go back
To the old garden, we should not stay long; 2045
The fruit that we should find would all be fallen,
And have the taste of earth.”
When she looked up,
A tear fell on her forehead. “Take me away!”
She cried. “Why do you do this? Why do you say this? 2050
If you are sorry for me, take me away
From Camelot! Send me away — drive me away —
Only away from there! The King is there —
And I may kill him if I see him there.
Take me away — take me away to France! 2055
And if I cannot hide myself in France,
Then let me die in France!”
He shook his head,
Slowly, and raised her slowly in his arms,
Holding her there; and they stood long together. 2060
And there was no sound then of anything,
Save a low moaning of a broken woman,
And the cold roaring down of that long rain.
All night the rain came down on Joyous Gard;
And all night, there before the crumbling embers 2065
That faded into feathery death-like dust,
Lancelot sat and heard it. He saw not
The fire that died, but he heard rain that fell
Works of Edwin Arlington Robinson Page 38