"T. H. White - The Once and Future King" - читать интересную книгу автора (White T.H)

The old man swung a mantle over his shoulder, as easily as if he were still in the pride of youth. He
lifted the latch and stood in the doorway, wondering what he had forgotten.
"If only I could stop you!" "Alas, you can't."
He stepped into the darkness of the passage, dismissing the subject from his mind, and disappeared.
What he had forgotten was his sword.


7
Guenever waited for Lancelot in the candle-light of her splendid bedroom, brushing her grey hair. She
looked singularly lovely, not like a film star, but like a woman who had grown a soul. She was singing
by herself. It was a hymnтАФof all thingsтАФthe beautiful Veni, Sancte Spiritus which is supposed to have
been written by a Pope.
The candle flames, rising up stilly on the night air, were reflected from the golden lioncels which
studded the deep blue canopy of the bed. The combs and brushes sparkled with ornaments in cat paste.
A large chest of polished latoun had saints and angels enamelled in the panels. The brocaded hangings
beamed on the walls in soft foldsтАФand, on the floor, a desperate and reprehensible luxury, there was a
genuine carpet. It made people shy when they walked on it, since carpets were not originally intended
for mere floors. Arthur used to walk round it.
Guenever was singing and brushing, her low voice fitting the stillness of the candles, when the door
opened softly. The commander-in-cbief dropped his black cloak on the chest and stepped across to stand
behind her. She saw him in the mirror without surprise.
"May I do it for you?" ' '
"If you like,"
He took the brush, and began sweeping it through the silver avalanche with fingers which were deft
from practice, while the Queen closed her eyes.

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After a time, he spoke.
"It is like... I don't know what. Not like silk. It is more like pouring water, only there is something
cloudy about it too. The clouds are made of water, aren't they? Is it a pale mist, or a winter sea, or a
waterfall, or a hayrick in the frost? Yes, it is a hayrick, deep and soft and full of scent."
"It is a nuisance," she said.
"It is the sea," he said solemnly, "in which I was born."
The Queen opened her eyes and asked: "Did you come safely?"
"Nobody saw."
"Arthur said he was coming back tomorrow."
"Did he? Here is a white hair."
"Pull it out."
"Poor hair," he said. "It is a thin one. Why is your hair so beautiful, Jenny? I should have to plait about
six of them together, to be as thick as one of mine. Shall I pull?"
"Yes, pull."
"Did it hurt?"
"No."
"Why didn't it? When I was small, I used to pull my sisters' hair, and they used to pull mine, and it hurt
like fury. Do we lose our faculties as we get older, so that we can't feel our pains and joys?"
"No," she explained. "It is because you only pulled one of them. When you pull a whole lock together,
then it hurts. Look."