“Listen, suppose your time were come to die,
And you were quite alone and very weak;
Yea, laid a dying while very mightily

The wind was ruffling up the narrow streak
Of river through your broad lands running well:
Suppose a hush should come, then some one speak:

‘One of these cloths is heaven, and one is hell,
Now choose one cloth for ever; which they be,
I will not tell you, you must somehow tell

Of your own strength and mightiness; here, see!’
Yea, yea, my lord, and you to ope your eyes,
At foot of your familiar bed to see

A great God’s angel standing, with such dyes,
Not known on earth, on his great wings, and hands,
Held out two ways, light from the inner skies

Showing him well, and making his commands
Seem to be God’s commands, moreover, too,
Holding within his hands the cloths on wands;

And one of these strange choosing cloths was blue,
Wavy and long, and one cut short and red;
No man could tell the better of the two.

After a shivering half-hour you said:
‘God help! heaven’s colour, the blue;’ and he said, ‘hell.’
Perhaps you then would roll upon your bed,

And cry to all good men that loved you well,
‘Ah Christ! if only I had known, known, known;’
The Defence of William Morris

Arthur’s Tomb: Sir Launcelot Parting From Guenevere, 1854
Rossetti, Dante Gabriel
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We read this poem for my British Literature class today, and I was struck by Guenevere’s imaginary scenario in which she tries to excuse her dalliance with Launcelot.

“It’s not fair!” she says.

She’s wrecked a kingdom, set brother against brother, dishonored her marriage vows, and made the noble ideals of chivalry into a laughingstock, and all she can think of to say is, “It’s not fair. If only I had known!”

She chose to become friend, if not lover, to Launcelot, to allow him to come into her bedchamber, to spend time alone with him, to deny any wrong-doing when confronted. Then, she says that it was just like choosing between a blue cloth and a red cloth. How could she possibly have known that such an “innocent” choice would have such terrible and momentous consequences?

My students (and I) agreed that Guenevere’s defence, as presented in Morris’ poem, is really lame. Of course, she could have known. Anyone with half a brain could see the possible consequences of Guenevere’s and Launcelot’s friendship. The Bible says “flee immorality” for a reason; not only is adultery displeasing to God, you might get burned–and take a few others into the flames with you.

Yet, I find that I am not so very different from Guenevere. I make my own excuses for sin. “I didn’t know.” “I wasn’t thinking.” I couldn’t help myself.” And most insidious of all, “It won’t affect anyone else. No one else will even know.” All these are echoes of Guenevere’s Defence. In fact, that’s what I’m going to remind myself next time I choose wrongly and try to justify myself: “You’re only repeating Guenevere’s Defence. Time to own up.” 

I can try to cover myself with lame excuses, or I can admit that I knew all along which cloth to choose, knew which was the better of the two. I just wanted to choose otherwise. There is no real defence–only a cry for mercy.

Note: (Morris spells the word “defence,” so I did, too, ignoring the red underlined reminder from my spell-checker. British spelling?)