And they,sweet soul,that most impute a crime Are pronest to it,and impute themselves,Wanting the mental range;or low desire Not to feel lowest makes them level all;Yea,they would pare the mountain to the plain,To leave an equal baseness;and in this Are harlots like the crowd,that if they find Some stain or blemish in a name of note,Not grieving that their greatest are so small,Inflate themselves with some insane delight,And judge all nature from her feet of clay,Without the will to lift their eyes,and see Her godlike head crowned with spiritual fire,And touching other worlds.I am weary of her.'
He spoke in words part heard,in whispers part,Half-suffocated in the hoary fell And many-wintered fleece of throat and chin.
But Vivien,gathering somewhat of his mood,And hearing 'harlot'muttered twice or thrice,Leapt from her session on his lap,and stood Stiff as a viper frozen;loathsome sight,How from the rosy lips of life and love,Flashed the bare-grinning skeleton of death!
White was her cheek;sharp breaths of anger puffed Her fairy nostril out;her hand half-clenched Went faltering sideways downward to her belt,And feeling;had she found a dagger there (For in a wink the false love turns to hate)She would have stabbed him;but she found it not:
His eye was calm,and suddenly she took To bitter weeping like a beaten child,A long,long weeping,not consolable.
Then her false voice made way,broken with sobs:
'O crueller than was ever told in tale,Or sung in song!O vainly lavished love!
O cruel,there was nothing wild or strange,Or seeming shameful--for what shame in love,So love be true,and not as yours is--nothing Poor Vivien had not done to win his trust Who called her what he called her--all her crime,All--all--the wish to prove him wholly hers.'
She mused a little,and then clapt her hands Together with a wailing shriek,and said:
'Stabbed through the heart's affections to the heart!
Seethed like the kid in its own mother's milk!
Killed with a word worse than a life of blows!
I thought that he was gentle,being great:
O God,that I had loved a smaller man!
I should have found in him a greater heart.
O,I,that flattering my true passion,saw The knights,the court,the King,dark in your light,Who loved to make men darker than they are,Because of that high pleasure which I had To seat you sole upon my pedestal Of worship--I am answered,and henceforth The course of life that seemed so flowery to me With you for guide and master,only you,Becomes the sea-cliff pathway broken short,And ending in a ruin--nothing left,But into some low cave to crawl,and there,If the wolf spare me,weep my life away,Killed with inutterable unkindliness.'
She paused,she turned away,she hung her head,The snake of gold slid from her hair,the braid Slipt and uncoiled itself,she wept afresh,And the dark wood grew darker toward the storm In silence,while his anger slowly died Within him,till he let his wisdom go For ease of heart,and half believed her true:
Called her to shelter in the hollow oak,'Come from the storm,'and having no reply,Gazed at the heaving shoulder,and the face Hand-hidden,as for utmost grief or shame;Then thrice essayed,by tenderest-touching terms,To sleek her ruffled peace of mind,in vain.
At last she let herself be conquered by him,And as the cageling newly flown returns,The seeming-injured ******-hearted thing Came to her old perch back,and settled there.
There while she sat,half-falling from his knees,Half-nestled at his heart,and since he saw The slow tear creep from her closed eyelid yet,About her,more in kindness than in love,The gentle wizard cast a shielding arm.
But she dislinked herself at once and rose,Her arms upon her breast across,and stood,A virtuous gentlewoman deeply wronged,Upright and flushed before him:then she said:
'There must now be no passages of love Betwixt us twain henceforward evermore;Since,if I be what I am grossly called,What should be granted which your own gross heart Would reckon worth the taking?I will go.
In truth,but one thing now--better have died Thrice than have asked it once--could make me stay--That proof of trust--so often asked in vain!
How justly,after that vile term of yours,I find with grief!I might believe you then,Who knows?once more.Lo!what was once to me Mere matter of the fancy,now hath grown The vast necessity of heart and life.
Farewell;think gently of me,for I fear My fate or folly,passing gayer youth For one so old,must be to love thee still.
But ere I leave thee let me swear once more That if I schemed against thy peace in this,May yon just heaven,that darkens o'er me,send One flash,that,missing all things else,may make My scheming brain a cinder,if I lie.'
Scarce had she ceased,when out of heaven a bolt (For now the storm was close above them)struck,Furrowing a giant oak,and javelining With darted spikes and splinters of the wood The dark earth round.He raised his eyes and saw The tree that shone white-listed through the gloom.
But Vivien,fearing heaven had heard her oath,And dazzled by the livid-flickering fork,And deafened with the stammering cracks and claps That followed,flying back and crying out,'O Merlin,though you do not love me,save,Yet save me!'clung to him and hugged him close;And called him dear protector in her fright,Nor yet forgot her practice in her fright,But wrought upon his mood and hugged him close.
The pale blood of the wizard at her touch Took gayer colours,like an opal warmed.
She blamed herself for telling hearsay tales:
She shook from fear,and for her fault she wept Of petulancy;she called him lord and liege,Her seer,her bard,her silver star of eve,Her God,her Merlin,the one passionate love Of her whole life;and ever overhead Bellowed the tempest,and the rotten branch Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain Above them;and in change of glare and gloom Her eyes and neck glittering went and came;Till now the storm,its burst of passion spent,Moaning and calling out of other lands,Had left the ravaged woodland yet once more To peace;and what should not have been had been,For Merlin,overtalked and overworn,Had yielded,told her all the charm,and slept.
Then,in one moment,she put forth the charm Of woven paces and of waving hands,And in the hollow oak he lay as dead,And lost to life and use and name and fame.
Then crying 'I have made his glory mine,'
And shrieking out 'O fool!'the harlot leapt Adown the forest,and the thicket closed Behind her,and the forest echoed 'fool.'
