Idylls of the King · Lancelot and Elaine (3/5)

Gawain the while through all the region round

Rode with his diamond, wearied of the quest,

Touched at all points, except the poplar grove,

And came at last, though late, to Astolat:

Whom glittering in enamelled arms the maid

Glanced at, and cried, “What news from Camelot, lord?

What of the knight with the red sleeve?” “He won.”

“I knew it,” she said. “But parted from the jousts

Hurt in the side,” whereat she caught her breath;

Through her own side she felt the sharp lance go;

Thereon she smote her hand: wellnigh she swooned:

And, while he gazed wonderingly at her, came

The Lord of Astolat out, to whom the Prince

Reported who he was, and on what quest

Sent, that he bore the prize and could not find

The victor, but had ridden a random round

To seek him, and had wearied of the search.

To whom the Lord of Astolat, “Bide with us,

And ride no more at random, noble Prince!

Here was the knight, and here he left a shield;

This will he send or come for: furthermore

Our son is with him; we shall hear anon,

Needs must hear.” To this the courteous Prince

Accorded with his wonted courtesy,

Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it,

And stayed; and cast his eyes on fair Elaine:

Where could be found face daintier? then her shape

From forehead down to foot, perfect⁠—again

From foot to forehead exquisitely turned:

“Well⁠—if I bide, lo! this wild flower for me!”

And oft they met among the garden yews,

And there he set himself to play upon her

With sallying wit, free flashes from a height

Above her, graces of the court, and songs,

Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden eloquence

And amorous adulation, till the maid

Rebelled against it, saying to him, “Prince,

O loyal nephew of our noble King,

Why ask you not to see the shield he left,

Whence you might learn his name? Why slight your King,

And lose the quest he sent you on, and prove

No surer than our falcon yesterday,

Who lost the hern we slipt her at, and went

To all the winds?” “Nay, by mine head,” said he,

“I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven,

O damsel, in the light of your blue eyes;

But an ye will it let me see the shield.”

And when the shield was brought, and Gawain saw

Sir Lancelot’s azure lions, crowned with gold,

Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh, and mocked:

“Right was the King! our Lancelot! that true man!”

“And right was I,” she answered merrily, “I,

Who dreamed my knight the greatest knight of all.”

“And if I dreamed,” said Gawain, “that you love

This greatest knight, your pardon! lo, ye know it!

Speak therefore: shall I waste myself in vain?”

Full simple was her answer, “What know I?

My brethren have been all my fellowship;

And I, when often they have talked of love,

Wished it had been my mother, for they talked,

Meseemed, of what they knew not; so myself⁠—

I know not if I know what true love is,

But if I know, then, if I love not him,

I know there is none other I can love.”

“Yea, by God’s death,” said he, “ye love him well,

But would not, knew ye what all others know,

And whom he loves.” “So be it,” cried Elaine,

And lifted her fair face and moved away:

But he pursued her, calling, “Stay a little!

One golden minute’s grace! he wore your sleeve:

Would he break faith with one I may not name?

Must our true man change like a leaf at last?

Nay⁠—like enow: why then, far be it from me

To cross our mighty Lancelot in his loves!

And, damsel, for I deem you know full well

Where your great knight is hidden, let me leave

My quest with you; the diamond also: here!

For if you love, it will be sweet to give it;

And if he love, it will be sweet to have it

From your own hand; and whether he love or not,

A diamond is a diamond. Fare you well

A thousand times!⁠—a thousand times farewell!

Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we two

May meet at court hereafter: there, I think,

So ye will learn the courtesies of the court,

We two shall know each other.”

Then he gave,

And slightly kissed the hand to which he gave,

The diamond, and all wearied of the quest

Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he went

A true-love ballad, lightly rode away.

Thence to the court he past; there told the King

What the King knew, “Sir Lancelot is the knight.”

And added, “Sire, my liege, so much I learnt;

But failed to find him, though I rode all round

The region: but I lighted on the maid

Whose sleeve he wore; she loves him; and to her,

Deeming our courtesy is the truest law,

I gave the diamond: she will render it;

For by mine head she knows his hiding-place.”

The seldom-frowning King frowned, and replied,

“Too courteous truly! ye shall go no more

On quest of mine, seeing that ye forget

Obedience is the courtesy due to kings.”

He spake and parted. Wroth, but all in awe,

For twenty strokes of the blood, without a word,

Lingered that other, staring after him;

Then shook his hair, strode off, and buzzed abroad

About the maid of Astolat, and her love.

All ears were pricked at once, all tongues were loosed:

“The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lancelot,

Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Astolat.”

Some read the King’s face, some the Queen’s, and all

Had marvel what the maid might be, but most

Predoomed her as unworthy. One old dame

Came suddenly on the Queen with the sharp news.

She, that had heard the noise of it before,

But sorrowing Lancelot should have stooped so low,

Marred her friend’s aim with pale tranquillity.

So ran the tale like fire about the court,

Fire in dry stubble a nine-days’ wonder flared:

Till even the knights at banquet twice or thrice

Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the Queen,

And pledging Lancelot and the lily maid

Smiled at each other, while the Queen, who sat

With lips severely placid, felt the knot

Climb in her throat, and with her feet unseen

Crushed the wild passion out against the floor

Beneath the banquet, where all the meats became

As wormwood, and she hated all who pledged.

But far away the maid in Astolat,

Her guiltless rival, she that ever kept

The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her heart,

Crept to her father, while he mused alone,

Sat on his knee, stroked his gray face and said,

“Father, you call me wilful, and the fault

Is yours who let me have my will, and now,

Sweet father, will you let me lose my wits?”

“Nay,” said he, “surely.” “Wherefore, let me hence,”

She answered, “and find out our dear Lavaine.”

“Ye will not lose your wits for dear Lavaine:

Bide,” answered he: “we needs must hear anon

Of him, and of that other.” “Ay,” she said,

“And of that other, for I needs must hence

And find that other, wheresoe’er he be,

And with mine own hand give his diamond to him,

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,

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

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

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 allowed, she slipt away,

And while she made her ready for her ride,

Her father’s latest word hummed in her ear,

“Being so very wilful you must go,”

And changed itself and echoed in her heart,

“Being so very wilful you must die.”

But she was happy enough and shook it off,

As we shake off the bee that buzzes at us;

And in her heart she answered 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

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,

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 turned Sir Torre, and being in his moods

Left them, and under the strange-statued gate,

Where Arthur’s wars were rendered 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

Led to the caves: there first she saw the casque

Of Lancelot on the wall: her scarlet sleeve,

Though carved and cut, and half the pearls away,

Streamed from it still; and in her heart she laughed,

Because he had not loosed it from his helm,

But meant once more perchance to tourney in it.

And when they gained 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.

Then she that saw him lying unsleek, unshorn,

Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself,

Uttered a little tender dolorous cry.

The sound not wonted in a place so still

Woke the sick knight, and while he rolled his eyes

Yet blank from sleep, she started to him, saying,

“Your prize the diamond sent you by the King:”

His eyes glistened: 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

Assigned 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 assigned, he kissed her face.

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,

Yet larger through 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 looked and was perplext in mind,

And being weak in body said no more;

But did not love the colour; woman’s love,

Save one, he not regarded, and so turned

Sighing, and feigned a sleep until he slept.

Then rose Elaine and glided through the fields,

And past beneath the weirdly-sculptured gates

Far up the dim rich city to her kin;

There bode the night: but woke with dawn, and past

Down through 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

Gliding, and every day she tended him,

And likewise many a night: and Lancelot

Would, though he called his wound a little hurt

Whereof he should be quickly whole, at times

Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, seem

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,

Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love

Upbore her; till the hermit, skilled 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,

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,

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

The shackles of an old love straitened 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.

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.

Then if the maiden, while that ghostly grace

Beamed on his fancy, spoke, he answered 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 dimmed her sight,

And drave her ere her time across the fields

Far into the rich city, where alone

She murmured, “Vain, in vain: it cannot be.

He will not love me: how then? must I die?”

Then as a little helpless innocent bird,

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?”

And now to right she turned, and now to left,

And found no ease in turning or in rest;

And “Him or death,” she muttered, “death or him,”

Again and like a burthen, “Him or death.”