Idylls of the King · Lancelot and Elaine (2/5)

While he uttered this,

Low to her own heart said the lily maid,

“Save your own great self, fair lord;” and when he fell

From talk of war to traits of pleasantry⁠—

Being mirthful he, but in a stately kind⁠—

She still took note that when the living smile

Died from his lips, across him came a cloud

Of melancholy severe, from which again,

Whenever in her hovering to and fro

The lily maid had striven to make him cheer,

There brake a sudden-beaming tenderness

Of manners and of nature: and she thought

That all was nature, all, perchance, for her.

And all night long his face before her lived,

As when a painter, poring on a face,

Divinely through all hindrance finds the man

Behind it, and so paints him that his face,

The shape and colour of a mind and life,

Lives for his children, ever at its best

And fullest; so the face before her lived,

Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, full

Of noble things, and held her from her sleep.

Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the thought

She needs must bid farewell to sweet Lavaine.

First in fear, step after step, she stole

Down the long tower-stairs, hesitating:

Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in the court,

“This shield, my friend, where is it?” and Lavaine

Past inward, as she came from out the tower.

There to his proud horse Lancelot turned, and smoothed

The glossy shoulder, humming to himself.

Half-envious of the flattering hand, she drew

Nearer and stood. He looked, and more amazed

Than if seven men had set upon him, saw

The maiden standing in the dewy light.

He had not dreamed she was so beautiful.

Then came on him a sort of sacred fear,

For silent, though he greeted her, she stood

Rapt on his face as if it were a God’s.

Suddenly flashed on her a wild desire,

That he should wear her favour at the tilt.

She braved a riotous heart in asking for it.

“Fair lord, whose name I know not⁠—noble it is,

I well believe, the noblest⁠—will you wear

My favour at this tourney?” “Nay,” said he,

“Fair lady, since I never yet have worn

Favour of any lady in the lists.

Such is my wont, as those, who know me, know.”

“Yea, so,” she answered; “then in wearing mine

Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord,

That those who know should know you.” And he turned

Her counsel up and down within his mind,

And found it true, and answered, “True, my child.

Well, I will wear it: fetch it out to me:

What is it?” and she told him “A red sleeve

Broidered with pearls,” and brought it: then he bound

Her token on his helmet, with a smile

Saying, “I never yet have done so much

For any maiden living,” and the blood

Sprang to her face and filled her with delight;

But left her all the paler, when Lavaine

Returning brought the yet-unblazoned shield,

His brother’s; which he gave to Lancelot,

Who parted with his own to fair Elaine:

“Do me this grace, my child, to have my shield

In keeping till I come.” “A grace to me,”

She answered, “twice today. I am your squire!”

Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, “Lily maid,

For fear our people call you lily maid

In earnest, let me bring your colour back;

Once, twice, and thrice: now get you hence to bed:”

So kissed her, and Sir Lancelot his own hand,

And thus they moved away: she stayed a minute,

Then made a sudden step to the gate, and there⁠—

Her bright hair blown about the serious face

Yet rosy-kindled with her brother’s kiss⁠—

Paused by the gateway, standing near the shield

In silence, while she watched their arms far-off

Sparkle, until they dipt below the downs.

Then to her tower she climbed, and took the shield,

There kept it, and so lived in fantasy.

Meanwhile the new companions past away

Far o’er the long backs of the bushless downs,

To where Sir Lancelot knew there lived a knight

Not far from Camelot, now for forty years

A hermit, who had prayed, laboured and prayed,

And ever labouring had scooped himself

In the white rock a chapel and a hall

On massive columns, like a shore-cliff cave,

And cells and chambers: all were fair and dry;

The green light from the meadows underneath

Struck up and lived along the milky roofs;

And in the meadows tremulous aspen-trees

And poplars made a noise of falling showers.

And thither wending there that night they bode.

But when the next day broke from underground,

And shot red fire and shadows through the cave,

They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and rode away:

Then Lancelot saying, “Hear, but hold my name

Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the Lake,”

Abashed young Lavaine, whose instant reverence,

Dearer to true young hearts than their own praise,

But left him leave to stammer, “Is it indeed?”

And after muttering “The great Lancelot,”

At last he got his breath and answered, “One,

One have I seen⁠—that other, our liege lord,

The dread Pendragon, Britain’s King of kings,

Of whom the people talk mysteriously,

He will be there⁠—then were I stricken blind

That minute, I might say that I had seen.”

So spake Lavaine, and when they reached the lists

By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes

Run through the peopled gallery which half round

Lay like a rainbow fallen upon the grass,

Until they found the clear-faced King, who sat

Robed in red samite, easily to be known,

Since to his crown the golden dragon clung,

And down his robe the dragon writhed in gold,

And from the carven-work behind him crept

Two dragons gilded, sloping down to make

Arms for his chair, while all the rest of them

Through knots and loops and folds innumerable

Fled ever through the woodwork, till they found

The new design wherein they lost themselves,

Yet with all ease, so tender was the work:

And, in the costly canopy o’er him set,

Blazed the last diamond of the nameless king.

Then Lancelot answered young Lavaine and said,

“Me you call great: mine is the firmer seat,

The truer lance: but there is many a youth

Now crescent, who will come to all I am

And overcome it; and in me there dwells

No greatness, save it be some far-off touch

Of greatness to know well I am not great:

There is the man.” And Lavaine gaped upon him

As on a thing miraculous, and anon

The trumpets blew; and then did either side,

They that assailed, and they that held the lists,

Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly move,

Meet in the midst, and there so furiously

Shock, that a man far-off might well perceive,

If any man that day were left afield,

The hard earth shake, and a low thunder of arms.

And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw

Which were the weaker; then he hurled into it

Against the stronger: little need to speak

Of Lancelot in his glory! King, duke, earl,

Count, baron⁠—whom he smote, he overthrew.

But in the field were Lancelot’s kith and kin,

Ranged with the Table Round that held the lists,

Strong men, and wrathful that a stranger knight

Should do and almost overdo the deeds

Of Lancelot; and one said to the other, “Lo!

What is he? I do not mean the force alone⁠—

The grace and versatility of the man!

Is it not Lancelot?” “When has Lancelot worn

Favour of any lady in the lists?

Not such his wont, as we, that know him, know.”

“How then? who then?” a fury seized them all,

A fiery family passion for the name

Of Lancelot, and a glory one with theirs.

They couched their spears and pricked their steeds, and thus,

Their plumes driven backward by the wind they made

In moving, all together down upon him

Bare, as a wild wave in the wide North-sea,

Green-glimmering toward the summit, bears, with all

Its stormy crests that smoke against the skies,

Down on a bark, and overbears the bark,

And him that helms it, so they overbore

Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a spear

Down-glancing lamed the charger, and a spear

Pricked sharply his own cuirass, and the head

Pierced through his side, and there snapt, and remained.

Then Sir Lavaine did well and worshipfully;

He bore a knight of old repute to the earth,

And brought his horse to Lancelot where he lay.

He up the side, sweating with agony, got,

But thought to do while he might yet endure,

And being lustily holpen by the rest,

His party⁠—though it seemed half-miracle

To those he fought with⁠—drave his kith and kin,

And all the Table Round that held the lists,

Back to the barrier; then the trumpets blew

Proclaiming his the prize, who wore the sleeve

Of scarlet, and the pearls; and all the knights,

His party, cried “Advance and take thy prize

The diamond;” but he answered, “Diamond me

No diamonds! for God’s love, a little air!

Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death!

Hence will I, and I charge you, follow me not.”

He spoke, and vanished suddenly from the field

With young Lavaine into the poplar grove.

There from his charger down he slid, and sat,

Gasping to Sir Lavaine, “Draw the lance-head:”

“Ah my sweet lord Sir Lancelot,” said Lavaine,

“I dread me, if I draw it, you will die.”

But he, “I die already with it: draw⁠—

Draw,”⁠—and Lavaine drew, and Sir Lancelot gave

A marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan,

And half his blood burst forth, and down he sank

For the pure pain, and wholly swooned away.

Then came the hermit out and bare him in,

There stanched his wound; and there, in daily doubt

Whether to live or die, for many a week

Hid from the wide world’s rumour by the grove

Of poplars with their noise of falling showers,

And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he lay.

But on that day when Lancelot fled the lists,

His party, knights of utmost North and West,

Lords of waste marches, kings of desolate isles,

Came round their great Pendragon, saying to him,

“Lo, Sire, our knight, through whom we won the day,

Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left his prize

Untaken, crying that his prize is death.”

“Heaven hinder,” said the King, “that such an one,

So great a knight as we have seen today⁠—

He seemed to me another Lancelot⁠—

Yea, twenty times I thought him Lancelot⁠—

He must not pass uncared for. Wherefore, rise,

O Gawain, and ride forth and find the knight.

Wounded and wearied needs must he be near.

I charge you that you get at once to horse.

And, knights and kings, there breathes not one of you

Will deem this prize of ours is rashly given:

His prowess was too wondrous. We will do him

No customary honour: since the knight

Came not to us, of us to claim the prize,

Ourselves will send it after. Rise and take

This diamond, and deliver it, and return,

And bring us where he is, and how he fares,

And cease not from your quest until ye find.”

So saying, from the carven flower above,

To which it made a restless heart, he took,

And gave, the diamond: then from where he sat

At Arthur’s right, with smiling face arose,

With smiling face and frowning heart, a Prince

In the mid might and flourish of his May,

Gawain, surnamed The Courteous, fair and strong,

And after Lancelot, Tristram, and Geraint

And Gareth, a good knight, but therewithal

Sir Modred’s brother, and the child of Lot,

Nor often loyal to his word, and now

Wroth that the King’s command to sally forth

In quest of whom he knew not, made him leave

The banquet, and concourse of knights and kings.

So all in wrath he got to horse and went;

While Arthur to the banquet, dark in mood,

Past, thinking “Is it Lancelot who hath come

Despite the wound he spake of, all for gain

Of glory, and hath added wound to wound,

And ridden away to die?” So feared the King,

And, after two days’ tarriance there, returned.

Then when he saw the Queen, embracing asked,

“Love, are you yet so sick?” “Nay, lord,” she said.

“And where is Lancelot?” Then the Queen amazed,

“Was he not with you? won he not your prize?”

“Nay, but one like him.” “Why that like was he.”

And when the King demanded how she knew,

Said, “Lord, no sooner had ye parted from us,

Than Lancelot told me of a common talk

That men went down before his spear at a touch,

But knowing he was Lancelot; his great name

Conquered; and therefore would he hide his name

From all men, even the King, and to this end

Had made a pretext of a hindering wound,

That he might joust unknown of all, and learn

If his old prowess were in aught decayed;

And added, ‘Our true Arthur, when he learns,

Will well allow me pretext, as for gain

Of purer glory.’ ”

Then replied the King:

“Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it been,

In lieu of idly dallying with the truth,

To have trusted me as he hath trusted thee.

Surely his King and most familiar friend

Might well have kept his secret. True, indeed,

Albeit I know my knights fantastical,

So fine a fear in our large Lancelot

Must needs have moved my laughter: now remains

But little cause for laughter: his own kin⁠—

Ill news, my Queen, for all who love him, this!⁠—

His kith and kin, not knowing, set upon him;

So that he went sore wounded from the field:

Yet good news too: for goodly hopes are mine

That Lancelot is no more a lonely heart.

He wore, against his wont, upon his helm

A sleeve of scarlet, broidered with great pearls,

Some gentle maiden’s gift.”

“Yea, lord,” she said,

“Thy hopes are mine,” and saying that, she choked,

And sharply turned about to hide her face,

Past to her chamber, and there flung herself

Down on the great King’s couch, and writhed upon it,

And clenched her fingers till they bit the palm,

And shrieked out “Traitor” to the unhearing wall,

Then flashed into wild tears, and rose again,

And moved about her palace, proud and pale.