The Dedalus Book of British Fantasy

by Brian Stableford

  “Thou wouldst leave me, then, Erotion,” Alcinous cried, passionately, “but it shall not be so. I will follow thee wherever thou goest, whether thou lovest me or not - through life, unto death.”

  “Be it so, Alcinous,” replied the young priestess in her own low tones. She took his hand, pressed it softly in hers, and then turned again to her father.

  Hour after hour the three floated over the ocean, which lay sleeping in the moonlight, nor suffered one angry wave to rise on its bosom, to bring fear or danger to the fugitives. Erotion half reclined in her father’s arms, while Alcinous lay crouched at her feet, never turning his eyes from her, except to look anxiously and mournfully at Tisamenes of Crete. Erotion spoke little; was it only the moonlight that made her countenance appear at times so deadly pale? Alcinous thought so, but the expression it wore was so divine that a feeling of awe crept over him, stilling even the passionate emotions of his love. At times he fancied the cold sea-breeze made her whole frame tremble; now and then he saw her lips quiver; she would clasp her father’s hand with an agonized movement, and be calm again.

  The moon sank, and the night grew dark. A heavy sleep, which Alcinous thought was the forerunner of death, fell upon Tisamenes. The youth hardly dared to breathe, lest he should bring anguish to her he loved so well. Anxiously did he watch for the first streak of dawn, and, as it appeared, a cold wandering hand touched his lips, thrilling his inmost frame.

  It was too dark to see Erotion’s face; but her voice sounded faint and quivering.

  “Alcinous, my father sleeps; tell him all is well with me. It was I who drank of the doomed cup: I have fulfilled my destiny; he is saved!”

  A light sigh, a faint movement, were all that Alcinous distinguished: the little cold hand still lay on his cheek - sealing up all horror and anguish in an awful peace. Ere long the broad sunbeam glided over the water, and rested on the sleepers; one wrapped in the calm slumber of weariness after toil; the other - ay, she lay sleeping also, but it was eternal rest.

  As Alcinous looked, he saw what seemed a white dove rise in the air. Whence it came he knew not; it hovered awhile over the vessel, then spread its dazzling wings to the sun, and departed. The youth watched it as it flew over the brightening sea, over the lovely shore to which they were safely drifting, over the blue mountains higher and higher, until he saw it no more. Then Alcinous knew that it was the spirit of the beautiful, the self-devoted one whom the gods had loved and taken away - that it was the soul of Erotion.

  ALFRED TENNYSON (1809-1892) was the third writer included in these pages to be elevated to the peerage. He was one of the leading poets of the Victorian era, and in 1850 he succeeded Wordsworth as poet laureate. The poems in his early collections of 1830 and 1833 were replete with classical and folkloristic imagery; the latter included “The Lady of Shallott” and “The Lotus-Eaters”. In 1842 he issued a selection of these older works together with some previously unpublished items, including “Morte d’Arthur”.

  “Morte D’Arthur” ultimately became the seed of the Idylls of the King, which was first issued in segments between 1859 and 1885; the whole sequence was published in its final form in 1891. Though not as wide-ranging as Malory’s Morte D’Arthur, the Idylls present the entire life-story of Arthur and the history of Lancelot, as well as a wealth of detail concerning minor characters. Tennyson’s became the definitive nineteenth century version of the group of legends, and it embodies a thoroughly Victorian attitude to the adultery of Guenevere (who is made to grovel on the floor while Arthur denounces her at length, before eventually offering his forgiveness).

  Some of Tennyson’s contemporaries disliked the Idylls intensely and thought them inferior work (although they sold very well indeed), but some modern critics have found in them a daringly original symbolic vision of impending apocalypse. However they are evaluated, though, the Idylls remain one of the most significant lenses through which modern eyes perceive the substance of Arthurian legend, and Tennyson’s work in this vein consequently has a highly significant place in the evolution of British fantasy.

  MORTE D’ARTHUR

  by Alfred Lord Tennyson

  So all day long the noise of battle roll’d

  Among the mountains by the winter sea;

  Until King Arthur’s table, man by man,

  Had fall’n in Lyonnesse about their Lord,

  King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep,

  The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,

  Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,

  And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,

  A broken chancel with a broken cross,

  That stood on a dark strait of barren land.

  On one side lay the Ocean, and on one

  Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

  Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:

  “The sequel of to-day unsolders all

  The goodliest fellowship of famous knights

  Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep

  They sleep - the men I loved. I think that we

  Shall never more, at any future time,

  Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,

  Walking about the gardens and the halls

  Of Camelot, as in the days that were.

  I perish by this people which I made, -

  Tho’ Merlin sware that I should come again

  To rule once more - but let what will be, be,

  I am so deeply smitten thro’ the helm

  That without help I cannot last till morn.

  Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,

  Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how

  In those old days, one summer noon, an arm

  Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,

  Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,

  Holding the sword - and how I row’d across

  And took it, and have worn it, like a king

  And, wheresoever I am sung or told

  In aftertime, this also shall be known:

  But now delay not: take Excalibur,

  And fling him far into the middle mere:

  Watch what thou seeëst, and lightly bring me word.”

  To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:

  “It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,

  Aidless, alone, and smitten thro’ the helm.

  A little thing may harm a wounded man.

  Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,

  Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.”

  So saying, from the ruin’d shrine he stept.

  And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,

  Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,

  Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang

  Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down

  By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock,

  Came on the shining levels of the lake.

  There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,

  And o’er him, drawing it, the winter moon,

  Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth

  And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:

  For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,

  Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work

  Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long

  That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood,

  This way and that dividing the swift mind.

  In act to throw: but at the last it seem’d

  Better to leave Excalibur conceal’d

  There in the many-knotted waterflags,

  That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.

  So strode he back slow to the wounded King.

  Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:

  “Hast thou perform’d my mission which I gave?

  What is it thou has seen? or what has heard?”

  And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:

  “I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,
r />   And the wild water lapping on the crag.”

  To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:

  “Thou hast betray’d thy nature and thy name,

  Not rendering true answer, as beseem’d

  Thy fëalty, nor like a noble knight:

  For surer sign had follow’d, either hand,

  Or voice, or else a motion of the mere,

  This is a shameful thing for men to lie.

  Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again

  As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing

  I bad thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.”

  Then went Sir Bedivere the second time

  Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,

  Counting the dewy pebbles, fix’d in thought;

  But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,

  How curiously and strangely chased, he smote

  His palms together, and he cried aloud,

  “And if indeed I cast the brand away,

  Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,

  Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,

  Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.

  What good should follow this, if this were done?

  What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey,

  Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.

  Were it well to obey then, if a king demand

  An act unprofitable, against himself?

  The King is sick, and knows not what he does.

  What record, or what relic of my lord

  Should be to aftertime, but empty breath

  And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept,

  Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,

  Some one might show it at a joust of arms,

  Saying, “King Arthur’s sword, Excalibur,

  Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.

  Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps

  Upon the hidden bases of the hills.”

  So might some old man speak in the aftertime

  So all the people, winning reverence.

  But now much honour and much fame were lost.”

  So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,

  And hid Excalibur the second time,

  And so strode back slow to the wounded King.

  Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:

  “What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?”

  And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:

  “I heard the water lapping on the crag,

  And the long ripple washing in the reeds.”

  To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:

  “Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue.

  Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!

  Authority forgets a dying king,

  Laid widow’d of the power in his eye

  That bow’d the will. I see thee what thou art,

  For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,

  In whom should meet the offices of all,

  Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;

  Either from lust of gold, or like a girl

  Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.

  Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,

  And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:

  But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,

  I will arise and slay thee with my hands.”

  Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,

  And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged

  Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch’d the sword,

  And strongly wheel’d and threw it. The great brand

  Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon,

  And flashing round and round, and whirl’d in an arch,

  Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,

  Seen where the moving isles of winter shock

  By night, with noises of the northern sea.

  So flash’d and fell the brand Excalibur:

  But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm

  Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,

  And caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him

  Three times, and drew him under in the mere.

  And lightly went the other to the King.

  Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:

  “Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.

  Speak out: what is it thou has heard, or seen?”

  And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:

  “Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems

  Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,

  Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,

  Not tho’ I live three lives of mortal men,

  So great a miracle as yonder hilt.

  Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;

  But when I look’d again, behold an arm,

  Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,

  That caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him

  Three times, and drew him under in the mere.”

  And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:

  “My end draws nigh; ’tis time that I were gone.

  Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,

  And bear me to the margin; yet I fear

  My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.”

  So saying, from the pavement he half rose,

  Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,

  And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes

  As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere

  Remorsefully regarded thro’ his tears,

  And would have spoken, but he found not words,

  Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,

  O’er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,

  And rising bore him thro’ the place of tombs.

  But, as he walk’d, King Arthur panted hard,

  Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed

  When all the house is mute. So sigh’d the King,

  Muttering and murmuring at his ear, “Quick, quick!

  I fear it is too late, and I shall die.”

  But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,

  Clothed with his breath, and looking,as he walk’d,

  Larger than human on the frozen hills.

  He heard the deep behind him, and a cry

  Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.

  Dry clash’d his harness in the icy caves

  And barren chasms, and all to left and right

  The bare black cliff clang’d round him, as he based

  His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang

  Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels-

  And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,

  And the long glories of the winter moon.

  Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,

  Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,

  Beneath them; and descending they were ware

  That all the decks were dense with stately forms

  Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream - by these

  Three Queens with crowns of gold - and from them rose

  A cry that shiver’d to the tingling stars,

  And, as it were one voice, an agony

  Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills

  All night in a waste land, where no one comes,

  Or hath come, since the making of the world.

  Then murmur’d Arthur, “Place me in the barge,”

  And to the barge they came. There those three Queens

  Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.

  But she, that rose the tallest of them all

  And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,

  And loos’d the shattered casque, and chafed his hands,

  And call’d him by his name, complaining loud,

  And dropping bitter tears against his brow

  Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white
r />   And colourless, and like the wither’d moon

  Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;

  And all his greaves and cuisses dash’d with drops

  Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls -

  That made his forehead like a rising sun

  High from the dais-throne - were parch’d with dust;

  Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,

  Mix’d with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.

  So like a shatter’d column lay the King;

  Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,

  From spur to plume a star of tournament,

  Shot thro’ the lists at Camelot, and charged

  Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

  Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere,

  “Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?

  Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?

  For now I see the true old times are dead,

  When every morning brought a noble chance,

  And every chance brought out a noble knight.

  Such times have been not since the light that led

  The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.

  But now the whole ROUND TABLE is dissolved

  Which was an image of the mighty world;

  And I, the last, go forth companionless,

  And the days darken round me, and the years,

  Among new men, strange faces, other minds.”

  And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:

  “The old order changeth, yielding place to new,

  And God fulfils Himself in many ways,

  Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

  Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?

  I have lived my life, and that which I have done

  May He within Himself make pure! but thou

  If thou shouldst never see my face again,

  Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer

  Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice

  Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

  For what are men better than sheep or goats

  That nourish a blind life within the brain,