The Once and Future King (#1-4)

by T. H. White

  For Guenever the dread of Elaine’s arrival was not unconscious. She had known from the first moment that Elaine was bound to come. For her, however, as for all women, the dreads were in advance of the male horizon. Men often accuse women of driving them to unfaithfulness by senseless jealousy, before there has been any thought of unfaithfulness on their own part. Yet the thought was probably there, unconscious and undetectable except to women. The great Anna Karenina, for instance, forced Vronsky into a certain position by the causeless jealousy of a maniac – yet that position was the only real solution to their problem, and it was the inevitable solution. Seeing so much further into the future than he did, she pressed towards it with passionate tread, wrecking the present because the future was bound to be a wreck.

  So with Guenever. Probably she was not over—strained by Elaine’s immediate problem. Probably she had no real suspicion against that side of Lancelot. Yet, with her prescience, she was aware of dooms and sorrows outside her lover’s purview. It would not be accurate to say that she was aware of them in a logical sense, but they were present in her deeper mind. It is a pity that language is such a clumsy weapon that we cannot say that a mother was ‘unconscious’ of her baby crying in the next room – with the meaning that the mother somehow, unconsciously, knew that it was crying. Facts of which Guenever was subconscious, in this sense, included the whole of the Arthur—Lancelot situation, most of the future tragedy at court, and the grievous fact of her own childlessness – which was never to be remedied.

  She said to herself that Lancelot had betrayed her, that she was the victim of Elaine’s cunning, that her lover was sure to betray her again. She tormented herself with a thousand words of the same sort. But what she felt to herself, in the uncharted regions of her heart, was a different matter. Perhaps she was actually jealous, not of Elaine, but of the baby. Perhaps it was Lancelot’s love for Arthur that she feared. Or it may have been a fear of the whole position, of its instability and the nemesis inherent in it. Women know, far better than men, that God’s laws are not mocked. They have more cause to know it.

  Whatever the explanation of Guenever’s attitude, the fruits of it were pain for her lover. She became as restless as he was, more unreasonable, and much more cruel.

  Arthur’s feelings completed the misery of the court. He, unfortunately for himself, had been beautifully brought up. His teacher had educated him as the child is educated in the womb, where it lives the history of man from fish to mammal – and, like the child in the womb, he had been protected with love meanwhile. The effect of such an education was that he had grown up without any of the useful accomplishments for living – without malice, vanity, suspicion, cruelty, and the commoner forms of selfishness. Jealousy seemed to him the most ignoble of vices. He was sadly unfitted for hating his best friend or for torturing his wife. He had been given too much love and trust to be good at these things.

  Arthur was not one of those interesting characters whose subtle motives can be dissected. He was only a simple and affectionate man, because Merlyn had believed that love and simplicity were worth having.

  Now, with a situation developing before his eyes which has always been notoriously difficult of solution – so difficult that it has been given a label and called the Eternal Triangle, as if it were a geometrical problem like the Pons Asinorum in Euclid – Arthur was only able to retreat. It is generally the trustful and optimistic people who can afford to retreat. The loveless and faithless ones are compelled by their pessimism to attack. Arthur was strong and gentle enough to hope that, if he trusted Lancelot and Guenever, things would come right in the end. It seemed to him that this was better than trying to bring them right at once by such courses as, for instance, by cutting off the lovers’ heads for treason.

  Arthur did not know that Lancelot and Guenever were lovers. He had never actually found them together or unearthed proofs of their guilt. It was in the nature of his bold mind to hope, in these circumstances, that he would not find them together – rather than to lay a trap by which to wreck the situation. This is not to say that he was a conniving husband. It is simply that he was hoping to weather the trouble by refusing to become conscious of it. Unconsciously, of course, he knew perfectly well that they were sleeping together – knew too, unconsciously, that if he were to ask his wife, she would admit it. Her three great virtues were courage, generosity and honesty. So he could not ask her.

  Such an attitude to the position did not make it easier for the King to be happy. He became, not excitable like Guenever nor restless like Lancelot, but reserved. He moved about his own palace like a mouse. Yet he made one effort to grasp the nettle.

  ‘Lancelot,’ said the King, finding him one afternoon in the rose garden, ‘you have been looking wretched lately. Is there anything the matter?’

  Lancelot had snapped off one of the roses, and was pinching the sepals. These ancient roses, it has lately been asserted, were so constructed that the five sepals did actually stick out beyond the petals – just as they are represented to do in the heraldic rose.

  ‘Is it anything,’ asked the King, hoping against hope, ‘about this girl who is said to have had your baby?’

  If Arthur had left him alone with the first question, and a silence to answer it in, perhaps they would have had the matter out. But Arthur was afraid of what might come in the silence, and, once he had given the lead of the second question, the chance was gone.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lancelot.

  ‘You could not bring yourself to marry her, I suppose?’

  ‘I don’t love her.’

  ‘Well, you know your own business best.’

  Lancelot, with an uncontrollable desire to get some of his misery off his chest by telling about it – and yet unable to tell the true story to this particular listener – began a long rigmarole about Elaine. He began telling Arthur half the truth: how he was ashamed and had lost his miracles. But he was forced to make Elaine the central figure of this confession, and, after half an hour, he had unwittingly presented the King with a story to believe in – a story with which Arthur could content himself if he did not want to be conscious of the true tale. This half—truth was of great use to the poor fellow, who learned to substitute it for the real trouble in later years. We civilized people, who would immediately fly to divorce courts and alimony and other forms of attrition in such circumstances, can afford to look with proper contempt upon the spineless cuckold. But Arthur was only a medieval savage. He did not understand our civilization, and knew no better than to try to be too decent for the degradation of jealousy.

  Guenever was the next person to find Lancelot in the rose garden. She was all sweetness and reason.

  ‘Lance, have you heard the news? A messenger has just arrived to say that this girl who is persecuting you is on her way to court, bringing the baby. She will be here this evening.’

  ‘I knew she would come.’

  ‘We shall have to do our best for her, of course. Poor child. I expect she is unhappy.’

  ‘It is not my fault if she is unhappy.’

  ‘No, of course it isn’t. But people get made unhappy by the world, and we must help them when we can.’

  ‘Jenny, it is sweet of you to be kind about it.’

  He turned towards her, and made a movement to catch her hand. Her words had made him hope that all would be well. But Jenny took her hand away.

  ‘No, dear,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you to make love to me until she has gone. I want you to be quite free.’

  ‘Free?’

  ‘She is the mother of your baby, and she is unmarried. We two can’t ever be married. I want you to be able to marry her if you would like it, because that is the only thing which can be done.’

  ‘But, Jenny –’

  ‘No, Lance. We must be sensible. I want you to keep away from me while she is here, and to find out whether you could love her after all. It is the least that I can do for you.’

  Chapter XVII

  Elaine arrived at
the yawning barbican, and Guenever kissed her coolly. ‘You are welcome to Camelot,’ she said. ‘Five thousand welcomes.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Elaine.

  They looked at each other with hostile, smiling faces.

  ‘Lancelot will be delighted to see you.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Everybody knows about the baby, dear. There is nothing to be shy about. The King and I are quite excited to see whether he will be like his father.’

  ‘It is kind of you,’ said Elaine uncomfortably.

  ‘You must let me be the first to see him. You have called him Galahad, have you not? Is he strong? Does he notice things?’

  ‘He weighs fifteen pounds,’ the girl announced with pride. ‘You can see him now if you like.’

  Guenever took hold of herself with an effort which was hardly noticeable, and began fussing with Elaine’s wraps.

  ‘No, dear,’ she said. ‘I must not be so selfish as that. You must rest after your long journey, and probably Baby will have to be settled down. I can come to see him this evening, when he has had a sleep. There will be plenty of time.’

  But she had to see the baby in the end.

  When Lancelot next met the Queen, her sweetness and reason were gone. She was cold and proud, and spoke as if she were addressing a meeting.

  ‘Lancelot,’ she said, ‘I think you ought to go to your son. Elaine is grieving because you have not been to see him.’

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he ugly?’

  ‘He takes after Elaine.’

  ‘Thank God. I will go at once.’

  The Queen called him back.

  ‘Lancelot,’ she said, taking a breath through her nose, ‘I am trusting you not to make love to Elaine under my roof. If you and I are to keep apart until it is settled, it is only fair that you should keep away from her.’

  ‘I don’t want to make love to Elaine.’

  ‘You must say that, of course. And I will believe you. But if you break your word this time, it will be finished between us. Absolutely finished.’

  ‘I have said all I can say.’

  ‘Lancelot, you have deceived me once, so how can I be sure? I have put Elaine in the next room to mine, and I shall see if you go to it. I want you to keep in your own room.’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘I shall send for you some time tonight, if I can get away from Arthur. I will not tell you when. If you are not in your room when I send for you, I shall know that you are with Elaine.’

  The girl was weeping in her chamber, while Dame Brisen arranged the cradle for the little boy.

  ‘I saw him in the archery butts, and he saw me too. But he looked away. He made an excuse and went out. He has not even seen our baby.’

  ‘There, there,’ said Dame Brisen. ‘Lawks a mussy.’

  ‘I ought not to have come. It has only made me more miserable, and him too.’

  ‘’Tis that there Queen.’

  ‘She is beautiful, isn’t she?’

  The Dame said darkly: ‘Handsome is as handsome does.’

  Elaine began to sob helplessly. She looked repulsive, with her red nose, as people do when they abdicate their dignity.

  ‘I wanted him to be pleased.’

  There was a knock on the door, and Lancelot came in – which made her quickly dry the eyes. They greeted each other with constraint.

  ‘I am glad you have come to Camelot,’ he said. ‘I hope you are well?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘How is – the baby?’

  ‘Your lordship’s son,’ said Dame Brisen with emphasis.

  She turned the cradle towards him, and moved back so that he could see.

  ‘My son.’

  They stood looking down at the fresh thing, helpless and only half alive. They were strong, as the poet sings, and it was weak – one day they would be weak, and it strong.

  ‘Galahad,’ said Elaine, and she leaned over the wrappings, making the foolish gestures and meaningless sounds which mothers delight to use when their babies are beginning to pay attention. Galahad clenched his fist and hit himself in the eye with it, an achievement which seemed to give pleasure to the women. Lancelot watched them in amazement. ‘My son,’ he thought. ‘It is part of me, yet it is fair. It does not seem to be ugly. How can you tell with babies?’ He held out his right finger to Galahad, putting it inside the fat palm of his hand, which clutched it. The hand looked as if it had been fitted to the arm by a cunning doll maker. There was a deep crease round the wrist.

  ‘Oh, Lancelot!’ cried Elaine.

  She tried to throw herself into his arms, but he pushed her off. He looked at Brisen over her shoulder with fear and exasperation. He made a wild, senseless sound – and rushed out of the room. Elaine, unsupported, sank down beside the bed and began to sob more than ever. Brisen, standing rigid, as she had stood to bear Sir Lancelot’s glare, looked at the closed door with an inscrutable expression.

  Chapter XVIII

  In the morning he and Elaine were summoned to the Queen’s chamber. He, for his part, went with a kind of happiness. He was remembering how Guenever must have pleaded illness on the previous evening, so as to leave the King’s room. Her lover had been sent for in the darkness. The usual conniving hand had led him by the finger on tiptoe to the chosen bed. In the silence forced on them by being next to Arthur’s chamber, but in passionate tenderness, they had done their best to make it up. Lancelot was happier today than he had been since the story of Elaine started. He felt that if he could only persuade his Guenever to make a clean break with the King, so that everything was in the open, there might still be a possibility of honour.

  Guenever was stiff, as if she were in a rigor, and her face was drained white – except that there was a red spot on either side of her nostrils. She looked as if she had been seasick. She was alone.

  ‘So,’ said the Queen.

  Elaine looked straight in her blue eyes, but Lancelot stopped as if he had been shot.

  ‘So.’

  They stood, waiting for Guenever to speak or die.

  ‘Where did you go last night?’

  ‘I –’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ shouted the Queen, moving her hand so that they could see a ball of handkerchief in it, which she had torn to pieces. ‘Traitor! Traitor! Get out of my castle with your strumpet.’

  ‘Last night –’ said Lancelot. His head was whirling with a desperation which neither of the women noticed.

  ‘Don’t speak to me. Don’t lie to me. Go!’

  Elaine said calmly: ‘Sir Lancelot was in my room last night. My woman Brisen brought him in the dark.’

  The Queen began pointing at the door. She made stabbing movements at it with her finger, and, in her trembling, her hair began to come down. She looked hideous.

  ‘Get out! Get out! And you go too, you animal! How dare you speak so in my castle? How dare you admit it to me? Take your fancy man and go!’

  Lancelot was breathing heavily and looking upon the Queen with a fixed stare. He might have been unconscious.

  ‘He thought he was coming to you,’ said Elaine. She had her hands folded together, and watched the Queen passively.

  ‘The old lie!’

  ‘It is not a lie,’ said Elaine. ‘I could not live without him. Brisen helped me to pretend.’

  Guenever ran up to her with tottering steps. She wanted to hit Elaine in the mouth, but the girl did not move. It was as if she was hoping that Guenever would hit her.

  ‘Liar!’ screamed the Queen.

  She ran back to Lancelot, where he had sat down on a chest and was staring blankly at the floor, with his head between his hands. She caught hold of his mantle and began pushing or heaving him toward the door, but he would not move.

  ‘So you taught her the story! Why couldn’t you think of a new one? You might have given me something interesting. I suppose you thought the old, stale stuff would do?’

  ‘Jenny –�
�� he said, without looking up.

  The Queen tried to spit on him, but she had never practised spitting.

  ‘How dare you call me Jenny? You are reeking of her still. I am the Queen, the Queen of England! I am not your trull!’

  ‘Jenny –’

  ‘Get out of my castle,’ screamed the Queen at the top of her voice, ‘Never show your face in it again. Your evil, ugly, beast—like face.’

  Lancelot suddenly said to the floor, in a loud voice: ‘Galahad!’

  Then he took down his hands from his head and looked up, so that they could see the face she spoke of. It had a surprised look, and one of the eyes had begun to squint.

  He said, more quietly: ‘Jenny.’ But he looked like a blind man.

  The Queen opened her mouth to say something, though nothing came out.

  ‘Arthur,’ he said. Then he gave a loud shriek, and jumped straight out of the window, which was on the first floor. They could hear him crash into some bushes, with a crump and crackle of boughs, and then he was running off through the trees and shrubbery with a loud sort of warbling cry, like hounds hunting. The hullabaloo faded into the distance, and there was silence in the chamber with the women.

  Elaine, who was now as white as the Queen had been but still held herself proud and upright, said: ‘You have driven him mad. His wits must have been weak.’

  Guenever said nothing.

  ‘Why have you driven him mad?’ asked Elaine. ‘You have a fine husband of your own, the greatest in the land. You are a Queen, with honour and happiness and a home. I had no home, and no husband, and my honour was gone too. Why would you not let me have him?’