LA DAME DE SHALOTT

John Willliam Watherhouse "The Lady of Shalott" 1886 huile sur toile Tate Gallery -Londres

Cette œuvre est la représentation d'une scène tirée du poème "The Lady of Shalott" de Lord Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892), écrit en 1832. Le poète y raconte le destin d'une jeune femme (librement inspiré de celui d'Élaine d'Astolat), enfermée pour une raison secrète dans une tour voisine de Camelot, le château du roi Arthur, la Dame de Shalott languissait d'un amour non partagé pour Lancelot. John William Waterhouse réalisa trois oeuvres sur cette légende, en 1888, 1894 et 1916. Tout au long de sa carrière, Waterhouse se passionna pour les poèmes d'Alfred Tennyson et de John Keats. Première version de la Dame de Shalott de Waterhouse. Ce tableau est le plus Pré-Raphaelite de son oeuvre, dans un paysage typiquement anglais, sous la lumière du soir, un temps d'automne, un bord de rivière et mille détails médiévaux... Mélancolie...

The Lady of Shalott - détail

Cette héroïne tragique et rêveuse est beaucoup plus jeune que la femme Edwardienne de la peinture de 1916. Cette scène montre la Dame de Shalott en son dernier voyage le long de la rivière près de Camelot. L'atmosphère est onirique mais tragique, une scène de conte de fées, sans la fée ni le "happy end"... Les détails foisonnent : à l'approche du crépuscule, dans une brume ambiante, roseaux et reflets sur l'eau au premier plan, une tapisserie aux couleurs passées, drapée sur le bord du bateau, tissée par la dame elle-même dans sa tour près de Camelot. Innocente dans sa robe blanche, les cheveux libres, de sa main droite la Lady détache la chaîne amarrant l'embarcation. Sa bouche est légèrement ouverte, elle chante "sa dernière chanson". Son regard fixe un crucifix couché devant elle sur la proue du bateau. Trois bougies symbolisaient autrefois la vie. Deux se sont éteintes. La vie de la Dame de Shalott va s'arrêter. Allégorie de la femme déchue, une dame a changé sa route pour rencontrer un destin terrible. La Dame de Shalott meurt en chantant sa chanson de quête d'amour. L'Art n'était plus suffisant pour elle, la loi qu'on lui avait imposée lui interdisait de vivre à son gré. Condamnée à observer plutôt que d'être maitresse de sa propre vie était également le lot d'une femme dans la société de Tennyson. Il n'y a pas à s'interroger sur les raisons de la popularité intemporelle de ce poème et de ses représentations visuelles, même depuis si longtemps.

Waterhouse "The Lady of Shalott" 1894

Waterhouse "The Lady of Shalott" 1816
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. Tennyson

Blancheur des saules, tremblement de trembles, Frisson de brises sous le crépuscule A travers la vague qui court pour toujours A travers l'île sur la rivière Courant vers Camelot. Quatre murs gris et quatre tours grises, Dominent un parterre de fleurs, Et l'île silencieuse cache La Dame de Shalott. Tennyson

Très prisés des poètes et peintres préraphaélites, les vers de Tennyson furent illustrés par de nombreux artistes dont Dante Gabriel Rossetti, William Maw Egley et William Holman Hunt

Vidéo très réussie accompagnée par la musique et la voix de Loreena Mac Kennit :



The Lady of Shalott”

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
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey 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.”

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 through 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 through 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 through 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.

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 red-cross 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 armor 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, burning bright,
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 through the room,
She saw the water-lily 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.

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 around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river’s dim expanse
Like some bold seer 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 darkened wholly,
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 around 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 crossed 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.”

Lord Alfred Tennyson