Idylls of the King Part 17

Here was the knight, and here he left a s.h.i.+eld; 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 n.o.ble King, Why ask you not to see the s.h.i.+eld 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 s.h.i.+eld.'

And when the s.h.i.+eld 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 fellows.h.i.+p; 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 G.o.d'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 p.r.i.c.ked 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 pa.s.sion 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 n.o.ble 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 a.s.signed 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 a.s.signed, 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 l.u.s.tier 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 pa.s.sage of few notes, Will sing the simple pa.s.sage 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.'

But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt was whole, To Astolat returning rode the three.

There morn by morn, arraying her sweet self In that wherein she deemed she looked her best, She came before Sir Lancelot, for she thought 'If I be loved, these are my festal robes, 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; 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.

And Lancelot saw that she withheld her wish, And bode among them yet a little s.p.a.ce 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, Seeing I go today:' 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 pa.s.sionately she spoke: 'I have gone mad. I love you: let me die.'

'Ah, sister,' answered Lancelot, 'what is this?'

And innocently extending her white arms, 'Your love,' she said, 'your love--to be your wife.'

And Lancelot answered, 'Had I chosen to wed, 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 through the world.'

And Lancelot answered, '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, 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, n.o.ble maid,' he answered, 'ten times nay!

This is not love: but love's first flash in youth, 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 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, Even to the death, as though ye were my blood, In all your quarrels will I be your knight.

This I will do, dear damsel, for your sake, And more than this I cannot.'

While he spoke She neither blushed nor shook, but deathly-pale 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 through those black walls of yew Their talk had pierced, her father: 'Ay, a flash, 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 pa.s.sion.'

Lancelot said, 'That were against me: what I can I will;'

And there that day remained, and toward even Sent for his s.h.i.+eld: full meekly rose the maid, Stript off the case, and gave the naked s.h.i.+eld; Then, when she heard his horse upon the stones, Unclasping flung the cas.e.m.e.nt back, and looked 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, 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 s.h.i.+eld was gone; only the case, Her own poor work, her empty labour, left.

But still she heard him, still his picture formed 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, Sweet sister,' whom she answered with all calm.

But when they left her to herself again, Death, like a friend's voice from a distant field Approaching through the darkness, called; the owls Wailing had power upon her, and she mixt Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms Of evening, and the moanings of the wind.