Chapter 2

Down in a casement sat, A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the Queen. And when she heard the feet of Tristram grind The spiring stone that scaled about her tower, Flush'd, started, met him at the doors, and there Belted his body with her white embrace, Crying aloud, "Not Mark--not Mark, my soul! The footstep flutter'd me at first: not he: Catlike thro' his own castle steals my Mark, But warrior-wise thou stridest through his halls Who hates thee, as I him--ev'n to the death. My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark Quicken within me, and knew that thou wert nigh." To whom Sir Tristram smiling, "I am here. Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine."

And drawing somewhat backward she replied, "Can he be wrong'd who is not ev'n his own, But save for dread of thee had beaten me, Scratch'd, bitten, blinded, marr'd me somehow--Mark? What rights are his that dare not strike for them? Not lift a hand--not, tho' he found me thus! But hearken, have ye met him? hence he went To-day for three days' hunting--as he said-- And so returns belike within an hour. Mark's way, my soul!--but eat not thou with him, Because he hates thee even more than fears; Nor drink: and when thou passest any wood Close visor, lest an arrow from the bush Should leave me all alone with Mark and hell. My God, the measure of my hate for Mark Is as the measure of my love for thee."

So, pluck'd one way by hate and one by love, Drain'd of her force, again she sat, and spake To Tristram, as he knelt before her, saying, "O hunter, and O blower of the horn, Harper, and thou hast been a rover too, For, ere I mated with my shambling king, Ye twain had fallen out about the bride Of one--his name is out of me--the prize, If prize she were--(what marvel--she could see)-- Thine, friend; and ever since my craven seeks To wreck thee villanously: but, O Sir Knight, What dame or damsel have ye kneeled to last?"

And Tristram, "Last to my Queen Paramount, Here now to my Queen Paramount of love, And loveliness, ay, lovelier than when first Her light feet fell on our rough Lyonesse, Sailing from Ireland."

Softly laugh'd Isolt, "Flatter me not, for hath not our great Queen My dole of beauty trebled?" and he said, "Her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine, And thine is more to me--soft, gracious, kind-- Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips Most gracious; but she, haughty, ev'n to him, Lancelot; for I have seen him wan enow To make one doubt if ever the great Queen Have yielded him her love."

To whom Isolt, "Ah then, false hunter and false harper, thou Who brakest thro' the scruple of my bond, Calling me thy white hind, and saying to me That Guinevere had sinned against the highest, And I--misyoked with such a want of man-- That I could hardly sin against the lowest."

He answer'd, "O my soul, be comforted! If this be sweet, to sin in leading-strings, If here be comfort, and if ours be sin, Crown'd warrant had we for the crowning sin That made us happy: but how ye greet me--fear And fault and doubt--no word of that fond tale-- Thy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet memories Of Tristram in that year he was away."

And, saddening on the sudden, spake Isolt, "I had forgotten all in my strong joy To see thee--yearnings?--ay! for, hour by hour, Here in the never-ended afternoon, O sweeter than all memories of thee, Deeper than any yearnings after thee Seem'd those far-rolling, westward-smiling seas, Watched from this tower. Isolt of Britain dash'd Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand, Would that have chill'd her bride-kiss? Wedded her? Fought in her father's battles? wounded there? The King was all fulfill'd with gratefulness, And she, my namesake of the hands, that heal'd Thy hurt and heart with unguent and caress-- Well--can I wish her any huger wrong Than having known thee? her too hast thou left To pine and waste in those sweet memories? O were I not my Mark's, by whom all men Are noble, I should hate thee more than love."

And Tristram, fondling her light hands, replied, "Grace, Queen, for being loved: she loved me well. Did I love her? the name at least I loved. Isolt?--I fought his battles, for Isolt! The night was dark; the true star set. Isolt! The name was ruler of the dark----Isolt? Care not for her! patient, and prayerful, meek, Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to God." And Isolt answer'd, "Yea, and why not I? Mine is the larger need, who am not meek, Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell thee now. Here one black, mute midsummer night I sat Lonely, but musing on thee, wondering where, Murmuring a light song I had heard thee sing, And once or twice I spake thy name aloud. Then flash'd a levin-brand; and near me stood, In fuming sulphur blue and green, a fiend-- Mark's way to steal behind one in the dark-- For there was Mark: 'He has wedded her,' he said, Not said, but hiss'd it: then this crown of towers So shook to such a roar of all the sky, That here in utter dark I swoon'd away, And woke again in utter dark, and cried, 'I will flee hence and give myself to God'-- And thou wert lying in thy new leman's arms."

Then Tristram, ever dallying with her hand, "May God be with thee, sweet, when old and gray, And past desire!" a saying that anger'd her. "'May God be with thee, sweet, when thou art old, And sweet no more to me!' I need Him now. For when had Lancelot utter'd aught so gross Ev'n to the swineherd's malkin in the mast? The greater man, the greater courtesy. But thou, thro' ever harrying thy wild beasts-- Save that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance Becomes thee well--art grown wild beast thyself. How darest thou, if lover, push me even In fancy from thy side, and set me far In the gray distance, half a life away, Her to be loved no more? Unsay it, unswear! Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak, Broken with Mark and hate and solitude, Thy marriage and mine own, that I should suck Lies like sweet wines: lie to me: I believe. Will ye not lie? not swear, as there ye kneel, And solemnly as when ye sware to him, The man of men, our King--My God, the power Was once in vows when men believed the King! They lied not then, who sware, and thro' their vows The King prevailing made his realm:--I say, Swear to me thou wilt love me ev'n when old, Gray-haired, and past desire, and in despair."

Then Tristram, pacing moodily up and down, "Vows! did ye keep the vow ye made to Mark More than I mine? Lied, say ye? Nay, but learnt, The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself-- My knighthood taught me this--ay, being snapt-- We run more counter to the soul thereof Than had we never sworn. I swear no more. I swore to the great King, and am forsworn. For once--ev'n to the height--I honor'd him. 'Man, is he man at all?' methought, when first I rode from our rough Lyonesse, and beheld That victor of the Pagan throned in hall-- His hair, a sun that ray'd from off a brow Like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel-blue eyes, The golden beard that clothed his lips with light-- Moreover, that weird legend of his birth, With Merlin's mystic babble about his end, Amazed me; then, his foot was on a stool Shaped as a dragon; he seem'd to me no man, But Michael trampling Satan; so I sware, Being amazed: but this went by--the vows! O ay--the wholesome madness of an hour-- They served their use, their time; for every knight Believed himself a greater than himself, And every follower eyed him as a God; Till he, being lifted up beyond himself, Did mightier deeds than elsewise he had done, And so the realm was made; but then their vows-- First mainly thro' that sullying of our Queen-- Began to gall the knighthood, asking whence Had Arthur right to bind them to himself? Dropt down from heaven? wash'd up from out the deep? They fail'd to trace him thro' the flesh and blood Of our old Kings: whence then? a doubtful lord To bind them by inviolable vows, Which flesh and blood perforce would violate: For feel this arm of mine--the tide within Red with free chase and heather-scented air, Pulsing full man; can Arthur make me pure As any maiden child? lock up my tongue From uttering freely what I freely hear? Bind me to one? The great world laughs at it. And worldling of the world am I, and know The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour Wooes his own end; we are not angels here Nor shall be: vows--I am woodman of the woods, And hear the garnet-headed yaffingale Mock them: my soul, we love but while we may; And therefore is my love so large for thee, Seeing it is not bounded save by love."

Here ending, he moved toward her, and she said, "Good: an I turn'd away my love for thee To some one thrice as courteous as thyself-- For courtesy wins woman all as well As valor may--but he that closes both Is perfect, he is Lancelot--taller indeed, Rosier, and comelier, thou--but say I loved This knightliest of all knights, and cast thee back Thine own small saw 'We love but while we may,' Well then, what answer?"

He that while she spake, Mindful of what he brought to adorn her with, The jewels, had let one finger lightly touch The warm white apple of her throat, replied, "Press this a little closer, sweet, until-- Come, I am hunger'd and half-anger'd--meat, Wine, wine--and I will love thee to the death, And out beyond into the dream to come."

So then, when both were brought to full accord, She rose, and set before him all he will'd; And after these had comforted the blood With meats and wines, and satiated their hearts-- Now talking of their woodland paradise, The deer, the dews, the fern, the founts, the lawns; Now mocking at the much ungainliness, And craven shifts, and long crane legs of Mark-- Then Tristram laughing caught the harp, and sang:

"Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that bend the brier! A star in heaven, a star within the mere! Ay, ay, O ay--a star was my desire, And one was far apart, and one was near: Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that bow the grass! And one was water and one star was fire, And one will ever shine and one will pass. Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that move the mere."

Then in the light's last glimmer Tristram show'd And swung the ruby carcanet. She cried, "The collar of some order, which our King Hath newly founded, all for thee, my soul, For thee, to yield thee grace beyond thy peers." "Not so, my Queen," he said, "but the red fruit Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven, And won by Tristram as a tourney-prize, And hither brought by Tristram for his last Love-offering and peace-offering unto thee."

He rose, he turn'd, and flinging round her neck, Claspt it; but while he bow'd himself to lay Warm kisses in the hollow of her throat, Out of the dark, just as the lips had touch'd, Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek-- "Mark's way," said Mark, and clove him thro' the brain.

That night came Arthur home, and while he climb'd, All in a death-dumb autumn-dripping gloom, The stairway to the hall, and look'd and saw The great Queen's bower was dark,--about his feet A voice clung sobbing till he question'd it, "What art thou?" and the voice about his feet Sent up an answer, sobbing, "I am thy fool, And I shall never make thee smile again."

End of Project Gutenberg's The Last Tournament, by Alfred Lord Tennyson