Idylls of the King, Alfred Lord Tennyson [the reading strategies book TXT] 📗

climbed

That eastern tower, and entering barred her door,

Stript off the case, and read the naked shield,

Now guessed a hidden meaning in his arms,

Now made a pretty history to herself

Of every dint a sword had beaten in it,

And every scratch a lance had made upon it,

Conjecturing when and where: this cut is fresh;

That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle;

That at Caerleon; this at Camelot:

And ah God’s mercy, what a stroke was there!

And here a thrust that might have killed, but God

Broke the strong lance, and rolled his enemy down,

And saved him: so she lived in fantasy.

 

How came the lily maid by that good shield

Of Lancelot, she that knew not even his name?

He left it with her, when he rode to tilt

For the great diamond in the diamond jousts,

Which Arthur had ordained, and by that name

Had named them, since a diamond was the prize.

 

For Arthur, long before they crowned him King,

Roving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse,

Had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn.

A horror lived about the tarn, and clave

Like its own mists to all the mountain side:

For here two brothers, one a king, had met

And fought together; but their names were lost;

And each had slain his brother at a blow;

And down they fell and made the glen abhorred:

And there they lay till all their bones were bleached,

And lichened into colour with the crags:

And he, that once was king, had on a crown

Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside.

And Arthur came, and labouring up the pass,

All in a misty moonshine, unawares

Had trodden that crowned skeleton, and the skull

Brake from the nape, and from the skull the crown

Rolled into light, and turning on its rims

Fled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn:

And down the shingly scaur he plunged, and caught,

And set it on his head, and in his heart

Heard murmurs, ‘Lo, thou likewise shalt be King.’

 

Thereafter, when a King, he had the gems

Plucked from the crown, and showed them to his knights,

Saying, ‘These jewels, whereupon I chanced

Divinely, are the kingdom’s, not the King’s—

For public use: henceforward let there be,

Once every year, a joust for one of these:

For so by nine years’ proof we needs must learn

Which is our mightiest, and ourselves shall grow

In use of arms and manhood, till we drive

The heathen, who, some say, shall rule the land

Hereafter, which God hinder.’ Thus he spoke:

And eight years past, eight jousts had been, and still

Had Lancelot won the diamond of the year,

With purpose to present them to the Queen,

When all were won; but meaning all at once

To snare her royal fancy with a boon

Worth half her realm, had never spoken word.

 

Now for the central diamond and the last

And largest, Arthur, holding then his court

Hard on the river nigh the place which now

Is this world’s hugest, let proclaim a joust

At Camelot, and when the time drew nigh

Spake (for she had been sick) to Guinevere,

‘Are you so sick, my Queen, you cannot move

To these fair jousts?’ ‘Yea, lord,’ she said, ‘ye know it.’

‘Then will ye miss,’ he answered, ‘the great deeds

Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the lists,

A sight ye love to look on.’ And the Queen

Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt languidly

On Lancelot, where he stood beside the King.

He thinking that he read her meaning there,

‘Stay with me, I am sick; my love is more

Than many diamonds,’ yielded; and a heart

Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen

(However much he yearned to make complete

The tale of diamonds for his destined boon)

Urged him to speak against the truth, and say,

‘Sir King, mine ancient wound is hardly whole,

And lets me from the saddle;’ and the King

Glanced first at him, then her, and went his way.

No sooner gone than suddenly she began:

 

‘To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, much to blame!

Why go ye not to these fair jousts? the knights

Are half of them our enemies, and the crowd

Will murmur, “Lo the shameless ones, who take

Their pastime now the trustful King is gone!”’

Then Lancelot vext at having lied in vain:

‘Are ye so wise? ye were not once so wise,

My Queen, that summer, when ye loved me first.

Then of the crowd ye took no more account

Than of the myriad cricket of the mead,

When its own voice clings to each blade of grass,

And every voice is nothing. As to knights,

Them surely can I silence with all ease.

But now my loyal worship is allowed

Of all men: many a bard, without offence,

Has linked our names together in his lay,

Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guinevere,

The pearl of beauty: and our knights at feast

Have pledged us in this union, while the King

Would listen smiling. How then? is there more?

Has Arthur spoken aught? or would yourself,

Now weary of my service and devoir,

Henceforth be truer to your faultless lord?’

 

She broke into a little scornful laugh:

‘Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless King,

That passionate perfection, my good lord—

But who can gaze upon the Sun in heaven?

He never spake word of reproach to me,

He never had a glimpse of mine untruth,

He cares not for me: only here today

There gleamed a vague suspicion in his eyes:

Some meddling rogue has tampered with him—else

Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round,

And swearing men to vows impossible,

To make them like himself: but, friend, to me

He is all fault who hath no fault at all:

For who loves me must have a touch of earth;

The low sun makes the colour: I am yours,

Not Arthur’s, as ye know, save by the bond.

And therefore hear my words: go to the jousts:

The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break our dream

When sweetest; and the vermin voices here

May buzz so loud—we scorn them, but they sting.’

 

Then answered Lancelot, the chief of knights:

‘And with what face, after my pretext made,

Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I

Before a King who honours his own word,

As if it were his God’s?’

 

‘Yea,’ said the Queen,

‘A moral child without the craft to rule,

Else had he not lost me: but listen to me,

If I must find you wit: we hear it said

That men go down before your spear at a touch,

But knowing you are Lancelot; your great name,

This conquers: hide it therefore; go unknown:

Win! by this kiss you will: and our true King

Will then allow your pretext, O my knight,

As all for glory; for to speak him true,

Ye know right well, how meek soe’er he seem,

No keener hunter after glory breathes.

He loves it in his knights more than himself:

They prove to him his work: win and return.’

 

Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse,

Wroth at himself. Not willing to be known,

He left the barren-beaten thoroughfare,

Chose the green path that showed the rarer foot,

And there among the solitary downs,

Full often lost in fancy, lost his way;

Till as he traced a faintly-shadowed track,

That all in loops and links among the dales

Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw

Fired from the west, far on a hill, the towers.

Thither he made, and blew the gateway horn.

Then came an old, dumb, myriad-wrinkled man,

Who let him into lodging and disarmed.

And Lancelot marvelled at the wordless man;

And issuing found the Lord of Astolat

With two strong sons, Sir Torre and Sir Lavaine,

Moving to meet him in the castle court;

And close behind them stept the lily maid

Elaine, his daughter: mother of the house

There was not: some light jest among them rose

With laughter dying down as the great knight

Approached them: then the Lord of Astolat:

‘Whence comes thou, my guest, and by what name

Livest thou between the lips? for by thy state

And presence I might guess thee chief of those,

After the King, who eat in Arthur’s halls.

Him have I seen: the rest, his Table Round,

Known as they are, to me they are unknown.’

 

Then answered Sir Lancelot, the chief of knights:

‘Known am I, and of Arthur’s hall, and known,

What I by mere mischance have brought, my shield.

But since I go to joust as one unknown

At Camelot for the diamond, ask me not,

Hereafter ye shall know me—and the shield—

I pray you lend me one, if such you have,

Blank, or at least with some device not mine.’

 

Then said the Lord of Astolat, ‘Here is Torre’s:

Hurt in his first tilt was my son, Sir Torre.

And so, God wot, his shield is blank enough.

His ye can have.’ Then added plain Sir Torre,

‘Yea, since I cannot use it, ye may have it.’

Here laughed the father saying, ‘Fie, Sir Churl,

Is that answer for a noble knight?

Allow him! but Lavaine, my younger here,

He is so full of lustihood, he will ride,

Joust for it, and win, and bring it in an hour,

And set it in this damsel’s golden hair,

To make her thrice as wilful as before.’

 

‘Nay, father, nay good father, shame me not

Before this noble knight,’ said young Lavaine,

‘For nothing. Surely I but played on Torre:

He seemed so sullen, vext he could not go:

A jest, no more! for, knight, the maiden dreamt

That some one put this diamond in her hand,

And that it was too slippery to be held,

And slipt and fell into some pool or stream,

The castle-well, belike; and then I said

That if I went and if I fought and won it

(But all was jest and joke among ourselves)

Then must she keep it safelier. All was jest.

But, father, give me leave, an if he will,

To ride to Camelot with this noble knight:

Win shall I not, but do my best to win:

Young as I am, yet would I do my best.’

 

‘So will ye grace me,’ answered Lancelot,

Smiling a moment, ‘with your fellowship

O’er these waste downs whereon I lost myself,

Then were I glad of you as guide and friend:

And you shall win this diamond,—as I hear

It is a fair large diamond,—if ye may,

And yield it to this maiden, if ye will.’

‘A fair large diamond,’ added plain Sir Torre,

‘Such be for queens, and not for simple maids.’

Then she, who held her eyes upon the ground,

Elaine, and heard her name so tost about,

Flushed slightly at the slight disparagement

Before the stranger knight, who, looking at her,

Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus returned:

‘If what is fair be but for what is fair,

And only queens are to be counted so,

Rash were my judgment then, who deem this maid

Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth,

Not violating the bond of like to like.’

 

He spoke and ceased: the lily maid Elaine,

Won by the mellow voice before she looked,

Lifted her eyes, and read his lineaments.

The great and guilty love he bare the Queen,

In battle with the love he bare his lord,

Had marred his face, and marked it ere his time.

Another sinning on such heights with one,

The flower of all the west and all the world,

Had been the sleeker for it: but in him

His mood was often like a fiend, and rose

And drove him into wastes and solitudes

For agony, who was yet a