The Lady of Shallot  Alfred, Lord Tennyson

    Dig, if you will, this picture:  A young home-schooled woman’s parents tell her that she is doomed if she goes out into the “real world.” So, she watches television, and writes stories about life as she imagines it from the distorted images on the boob tube.  She sees all the beaming celebrity couples holding hands and cuddling for the cameras, and all the wild fun of “reality”  get togethers and scandalous nights on the town, and wishes she had a boy and a circle of crazy friends. But, she is a good girl and stays home, fearing the fate her parents have preached about.


    Then she sees some famous heartthrob, let’s say he’s an athlete for a local team, flirting with the woman who’s interviewing him, and just falls for him.  She yell’s, “I’m sick of all this make believe,” tears up her book of stories and rushes out the door.


    Who knows what happens to her in the next few weeks, what parties she haunts, what bars and clubs she is taken to, what predatory people take advantage of her? Regardless, she is found dead.  When the pictures of her are flashed on the news, the heartthrob athlete,  for whose sake she left her home and died but who never actually met her, turns to his latest lover and says, “Wow! She had a pretty face ,whoever she was..”


    Now read Tennyson’s version of “The Lady of Shallot” and see how closely my story parallels it.   To me, this poem, among plenty other things,  is a parable about the dangers of admiring celebrity.

PART I

  On either side the river lie


  Long fields of barley and of rye,


  That clothe the wold and meet the sky;


  And thro' the field the road runs by


  To many-tower'd Camelot;

And up and down the people go,

  Gazing where the lilies blow

  Round an island there below,

  The island of Shalott.

 Willows whiten, aspens quiver,


    Little breezes dusk and shiver

    Thro' the wave that runs for ever

    By the island in the river

    Flowing down to Camelot.

  Four gray walls, and four gray towers,


  Overlook a space of flowers,


  And the silent isle imbowers


  The Lady of Shalott.

  By the margin, willow-veil'd


  Slide the heavy barges trail'd


  By slow horses; and unhail'd


  The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd


  Skimming down to Camelot:


  But who hath seen her wave her hand?


  Or at the casement seen her stand?


  Or is she known in all the land,


  The Lady of Shalott?

  Only reapers, reaping early


  In among the bearded barley,


  Hear a song that echoes cheerly


  From the river winding clearly,


  Down to tower'd Camelot:


  And by the moon the reaper weary,


  Piling sheaves in uplands airy,


  Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy


  Lady of Shalott".

PART II

  There she weaves by night and day


  A magic web with colours gay.


  She has heard a whisper say,


  A curse is on her if she stay


  To look down to Camelot.


  She knows not what the 'curse' may be,


  And so  she weaveth steadily,


  And little other care hath she,


  The Lady of Shalott.

  And moving thro' a mirror clear


  That hangs before her all the year,


  Shadows of the world appear.


  There she sees the highway near


  Winding down to Camelot:


  There the river eddy whirls,


  And there the surly village-churls,


  And the red cloaks of market girls,


  Pass onward from Shalott.

  Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,


  An abbot on an ambling pad,


  Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,


  Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,


  Goes by to tower'd Camelot;


  And sometimes thro' the mirror blue


  The knights come riding two and two:


  She hath no loyal knight and true,


  The Lady of Shalott.

  But in her web she still delights


  To weave the mirror's magic sights,


  For often thro' the silent nights


  A funeral, with plumes and lights,


  And music, went to Camelot:


  Or when the moon was overhead,


  Came two young lovers lately wed;


  "I am half-sick of shadows," said


  The Lady of Shalott.

PART III

  A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,


  He rode between the barley sheaves,


  The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,


  And flamed upon the brazen greaves


  Of bold Sir Lancelot.


  A redcross knight for ever kneel'd


  To a lady in his shield,


  That sparkled on the yellow field,


  Beside remote Shalott.

  The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,


  Like to some branch of stars we see


  Hung in the golden Galaxy.


  The bridle bells rang merrily


  As he rode down to Camelot:


  And from his blazon'd baldric slung


  A mighty silver bugle hung,


  And as he rode his armour rung,


  Beside remote Shalott.

  All in the blue unclouded weather


  Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,


  The helmet and the helmet-feather


  Burn'd like one burning flame together,


  As he rode down to Camelot.


  As often thro' the purple night,


  Below the starry clusters bright,


  Some bearded meteor, trailing light,


  Moves over still Shalott.

  His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;


  On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;


  From underneath his helmet flow'd


  His coal-black curls as on he rode,


  As he rode down to Camelot.


  From the bank and from the river


  He flashed into the crystal mirror,


  "Tirra lirra," by the river


  Sang Sir Lancelot.

  She left the web, she left the loom;


  She made three paces thro' the room,


  She saw the water-lily [16] bloom,


  She saw the helmet and the plume,


  She look'd down to Camelot.


  Out flew the web and floated wide;


  The mirror crack'd from side to side;


  "The curse is come upon me," cried


  The Lady of Shalott.

PART IV

  In the stormy east-wind straining,


  The pale yellow woods were waning,


  The broad stream in his banks complaining,


  Heavily the low sky raining


  Over tower'd Camelot;


  Down she came and found a boat


  Beneath a willow left afloat,


  And round about the prow she wrote


  'The Lady of Shalott.'

  And down the river's dim expanse--


  Like some bold seër in a trance,


  Seeing all his own mischance--


  With a glassy countenance


  Did she look to Camelot.


  And at the closing of the day


  She loosed the chain, and down she lay;


  The broad stream bore her far away,


  The Lady of Shalott.

  Lying, robed in snowy white


  That loosely flew to left and right--


  The leaves upon her falling light--


  Thro' the noises of the night


  She floated down to Camelot;


  And as the boat-head wound along


  The willowy hills and fields among,


  They heard her singing her last song,


  The Lady of Shalott.

  Heard a carol, mournful, holy,


  Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,


  Till her blood was frozen slowly,


  And her eyes were darken'd wholly, [19]


  Turn'd to tower'd Camelot;


  For ere she reach'd upon the tide


  The first house by the water-side,


  Singing in her song she died,


  The Lady of Shalott.

  Under tower and balcony,


  By garden-wall and gallery,


  A gleaming shape she floated by,


  Dead-pale between the houses high,


  Silent into Camelot.


  Out upon the wharfs they came,


  Knight and burgher, lord and dame,


  And round the prow they read her name,


  'The Lady of Shalott'

  Who is this? and what is here?


  And in the lighted palace near


  Died the sound of royal cheer;


  And they cross'd themselves for fear,


  All the knights at Camelot:


  But Lancelot  mused a little space;


  He said, "She has a lovely face;


  God in his mercy lend her grace,


  The Lady of Shalott".

Although a Victorian, Tennyson shared the romantic notion that nature is better than civilization. So, he starts out by describing a pastoral setting.  It’s complicated, though, because this beautiful place is the scene of the Lady’s personal tragedy.

She lives on an island, symbolic of her isolation from the world which flows by her.

These five lines are among the most gorgeous ever written in English. I tear up a little when I read them.

Note" she’s a trapped princess, like Rapunzel, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, Dierdre, Fiona, the Little Mermaid... If you read the real fairy tales, you’ll find that not all of these women end happily.

A shallop is a sailboat.

A casement is a window that, symbolically,  opens out.

The local boys have heard that a hot girl lives in the tower.  It’s like, when I was in eighth grade, we guys would walk past Cherie Steiner’s house on 52nd Street and hope that she would come out on the balcony.  She never did.

The fairy folk in Celtic myth weren’t little Tinker Bells; they were beautiful, magical people.

This is a complicated set up. She has been told she'll be cursed if she looks down to Camelot, so she has set up a mirro across from her window. She only sees reality by looking in the mirror. Then she weaves a tapestry that depicts what she has seen.

She's addicted to reality TV! Or at least reality mirror !

The next three stanzas don't need much explaining. She's watching the world go by and feeling like she's missing a lot. Note the red cloaks and crimson clothes. Red, of course symbolizes passion. It seems like everyone is leading a lusty life but her!

The knights were highly trained athletes in expensive outfits.  That’s what a girl wanted, especially a young, naive but hormonal girl.

Reality is scary.  She sees the funerals, just like we see the tragedies on the evening news.  So, although she’s lonely, she refuses to be seduced by the big city.

Still, a boyfriend might make it all worth while! (Don’t gag, girls.  Remember, she’s young and innocent.

In Arthurian legend, Lancelot was the toughest, handsomest, and most romantic of all the knights.  He had a long, torrid, tortured affair with Guinevere, the King’s own wife, which led to the destruction of the Round Table.

He doesn't have a red cross on his shield, which would mean he fights for Christendom.  He has a knight kneeling to a lady, meaning he fights for romantic love.

He has plenty of bling.

It's important to note that Tennyson changed the original story considerably.  In the old “Lady of Astolat,” Lancelot knew the girl, flirted with her, and even fought a tournament wearing her scarf. Tragically, he thought of her as just a kid whom he was playing at love with.  When she reveals that she is his for the taking, he leaves, explaining that he’s already got a lover, and wondering how she couldn’t have realized he’s an adult and she’s just a kid.  Then she goes anorectic and dies!

Remember this helmet feather. Although Tennyson couldn't have known about Freudian phallic symbols, it works perfectly as an emblem of Lancelot’s sexuality, especially later in the poem.


Oh my God, he can even sing! A girl has no defense.


This stanza is one of the most poignant examples of a tragic loss of innocence I know in literature.


The water lily blooming is symbolic of her buurgeoning female sexuality. I already told you about the plume! Her real life desire for this guy tears apart her little fantasy world (the web of tapestry) and distorts the way she sees everything (the mirror crack'd).

And he ends up trying to climb all over her in the back of her friend’s mom’s Dodge Caravan while he get’s Dorito dust all over her new shirt.  Then he lies to his friend’s about how far he got and mean girls gossip about her in the lunch line.

TRAGIC LOSS OF INNOCENCE!

A girl imagines love as being exciting, but only on her terms.  He’ll be strong and handsome and passionate and generous and understanding and he’ll want me, but he’ll also respect me and, and, and...


Note how the weather mirrors her bleak mood.


Willows, of course, are the saddest looking trees.


In the original story, the Lady’s father puts her dead body in a boat and floats it down to Camelot to shame Lancelot


Note: Her virginity, the snowy white robe, no longer enwraps her.


Note:  Her last song sounds religious, even though she’s dying for love.  In natural religions, physical love is holy.  (See, Since feeling is first.)


Her beautiful corpse gives all the beautiful people of Camelot pause, but we know they’ll get on with their lives.  That’s one of the tragedies of the personal griefs we endure.  Nobody gets it.  The Lady of Shallot lived and died alone, despite life teeming around her.


What’s interesting about Tennyson’s version is that Lancelot didn’t do anything, but he killed the Lady of Shallott anyhow. Just the mere existence of the hyper-attractive out there in the media world can make us feel inferior and unloved.  This gets dangerous when psychologically scarred people consume media.  Remember the guy who shot Ronald Reagan because he wanted Jodie Foster to marry him, even though she didn’t know he existed?  Remember the octo-mom, who wanted to be a plus size version of Angelina Jolie?