In Cornwall and Across the Sea :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ysolde.
Sir Tristram back? O wherefore art thou here?
The King will slay thee, and an outlawed man
Breaking his ten years' parol, as thou dost,
The Barons dare not shield thee.

Tristram.
But, O Queen,
The King himself released me, holding me
Hard-fastened by the hand. With him I came.

Ysolde.
The King?

Tristram.
The King, for haled to Arthur's Court,
A yielded recreant, by Launcelot
And there appeached of treason on a Knight,
Sir Bersules, cleaving him unawares,
And for no cause but that he would not aid
In compassing my treasonable death,
Arthur, as penance, bade him join accord
And pass with me to ride into his realm.

Ysolde.
Sir Tristram, trust him not! He is my lord,
God knows to my dishonour and sore pain—
And well I know that in his shrewd black heart,
Full of foul treason, hate and subtle guile,
With thee he never truly will accord.
He hates thee first for thy well-favouredness,
Being himself ill-favoured—more than that
For good which thou hast wrought him, winning him
His crown of Cornwall and deliverance

From tribute to my father, and for praise
The people give thee, calling thee the grace
And mirrour of all knighthood in the west,
Here and in Lyonesse and most of all—
Ah me that I confess it—for my love
Which thou hast won from him—nay thou hast held
From the beginning thine in his despite.
Oh! Tristram, he will slay thee, when thy limbs
Are fast in bands laid treacherously on,
Or smite thee through the back, or set on thee
One man unarmed with half a score of Knights.

Tristram.
Fear not, great heart, I fear not!

Ysolde.

Tristram, heed!
Behold this rock we stand on how immense,
Towering aloft, joined to the Cornish hills
With rocky wall so thick that chariots
Might pass upon its brow, and yet leave space

For rows of other chariots to stand
On either side where the two chariots passed.
See you black pool beneath us, 'tis not great
And it is far below, and yet that pool
Little by little in the course of time
Our rock will sever (rock) from the friendly shore,
And maybe afterwards o'erwhelm the rock,
Or strip it of the fabric fair, which crowns
Its stately head.—Mayhap, where we two stand,
In after days, but a low ruinous wall
Or crumbling bank shall show the royal hill
From any desert tor upon the moors.
Mark is the pool tireless and deep and black,
And far below thee as it lies below.
Thou art the stately promontory joined
To the whole land of Cornwall in men's hearts.
But as beneath this—even now—are caves
Sapped by the sea, through which on stormy nights
The breakers with low ominous thunder roar,
So there are signs.

See Tristram, here is samphire,
Which grows not but on sheer sea-beaten cliffs.
This samphire with its golden flowers and leaves,
So gentle to soft touch, but being bruised,
So pungent is for thee and Launcelot
To wear upon your casques, you two who stand
Like island-cliffs for wind and wave to lash.
O Tristram, thou and Launcelot: but nay,
I must not talk of Launcelot and thee;
For folk will think of me and Guinevere,
Twin Queens disloyal—yet we had our loves
Before our Lords. Did I not give my love,
Tristram, to thee for ever? It was lent,
But for a while, to Mark at thy behest;
And being thine, thou mayest call it back
At thy good pleasure. Tristram, mindest thou,
When we were yet in Ireland and unwed?
And how I healed thee of thy grievous hurt?
And how I hated Sir Palamides,
And gave thee the white armour, which thou worest

When thou so greatly overthrewest him—
White armour from a maid to maiden Knight?
Our hearts were white then, white had they been now
Had we but kept them true unto themselves,—
Nay! they are white; for a great love, once given
And never faltered from, must needs be white;
And we have never faltered in our love,
Although obedience and circumstance
Have crossed the hands, which should have only met.

Oh Tristram, I should bid thee hold thine arm
From round my body, and forbear my lips.
What would men say who saw the imperious Queen,
Ysolde the proud, Ysolde the stern and high,
The dark repellant Ysolde, yielding her,
To love's caresses like a budding girl
Who hath not lost the lesson of the child
Though she hath learned the lore of womanhood?
And yet I cannot bid thee. Child I am
With thee: for hast thou not the countersign
To take thee past each line of my defence

Right to the keep? I have no gate for thee,
No watch, no ward. Nay! Kiss me not again!
Thy kisses are thy Queen's—the fair Ysolde's,
The lily-fingered Ysolde's. O my love
Why didst thou wed this beautiful Ysolde,
This chaste, this sweet unquestioning Ysolde,
This noble Ysolde, asking thee for nought
But giving thee her all, thy children's mother,
Upbraiding not for absence, nor for love
Pre-mortgaged to another, and forespent,
And me thereby upbraiding ten times more
Than if she heaped ten thousand curses on me?
Thinkest thou if I loved Mark—impossible!—
But if I could, that I would have his love,
His time, his thoughts, his presence, everything
Wasted upon an old discarded love?
Nay, Tristram, by “discarded” I mean nought,
No querulousness; but, when I think on her,
I can but sigh for that which might have been
If thou hadst not obeyed thine uncle-king

So loyally, when he demanded me,
Nor I fulfilled my word so loyally,
Which unto thee I sware that I would wed
Whomso thou wishedst, deeming if not thee
'Twere somewhat to have wed thy chosen friend.
Had we not been so childish-loyal then,
We had been loyaller now. Oh! 'tis a sin
To bind oneself to fealty, which leaves
No choice but wrong or disobedience.
And as with me so with Queen Guinevere:
I cannot but compare myself with her,
A king's wife, as I am, so royally loved
And honoured and dishonoured by that love.

Tristram.
Nay, Ysolde, I am liker her than thou,
For she hath wed the gentlest Knight alive
And I the gentlest maid. And Launcelot,
He never had a lover but the Queen,
Or thou but me. For Mark was not thy love

But my behest. I am like Guinevere
And Launcelot the truest Knight alive,
Who ever bears his great love for the Queen
Between him and all maids.—What greater love
Can any cherish than to stay unwed,
Because the woman of his love is wed,
And wait upon the lady of his love,
By day and night, when be it that he may,
To do her what true service he may chance?

Ysolde.
And thou, O Tristram, what dost thou but this?

Tristram.
Nay, sweet, I did not so as Launcelot
But wedded me.

Ysolde.

O Tristram, blame to me
That ever I was wed. Why did not I,
Failing thy choice of me to be thy wife,

Go out to be a handmaid to thy wife,
I the proud Ysolde, I the stern and high
Whom men, for my unbending spirit dread
As more than woman, shun as one possessed?
Oh! how I would that I were with thy wife
As chamber-woman, menial—what not,—
To be about thee alway, and to smooth
Thy life with faithful service vigilant,
And yet not take thee from her. She hath won
Upon me with her gentleness so well
That I could spare her any grace but one—
Thy presence. Were I by, she might be Queen.

Oh! how I hate Tintagel! Its huge cliffs,
Black pools and wrathful waves are ominous
Of wild, precipitous, storm-beaten lives.
The place is fraught with magic and with storm;
Merlin bewitched it—here another Queen
Was loved by one—not her own Lord—too well;
And here was found a little naked babe—
Her babe say some and some say Gothlois—

Which brought by the enchanter and bred up,
Hath grown to be the source of many battles,
Albeit it grew to be the blameless king.
Nor do I think this rock will e'er be blest
Or any castle long will stand thereon
Though many there be built.

Tristram.
Nay, fear not, sweet!
We shall spend many golden days herein,
On velvet turf reposing with the breeze
Fresh blowing from the west to feed our lungs,
With the rich Cornish sun to mellow us,
And league-long cliffs to gaze at, and blue seas
Surf-crested by the reefs with fringe of foam,
And sough or roar of waves to lull our ears,
And ferns for me to gather from sea-caves
To deck thy glossy hair. The king-seal's fur
Shall wrap thy slim form from the winter's blast,
For am I not renowned the hunter-knight?

And I will hear thee harp with that same touch
I taught thee when thou satest on my knee,
In Ireland as thou healed'st me of my hurt,
Rewarding thee with kisses, little one,
For thou wast little then in years, though grown
Into a budding wealth of womanhood.
And we will ride and hawk upon the hills
And chase the swift red stag upon the moors
And—

Ysolde.
Nay, my love, but, Mark!

Tristram.
I fear not Mark.

Ysolde.
Nor I, in field; but Mark is treacherous
And full of wiles, face-friendly, unrelaxed,
Relentless, unforgetting.

Tristram.
He hath sworn.

Ysolde.
A thousand times, but when kept he an oath
Longer than he had need to save his skin
From present peril. Mark will not forgive.

Tristram.
But—

Ysolde.
But what?

Tristram.
But Mark will not forget,
And Launcelot hath sworn upon his head
To visit treason done in my despite
On Mark's own head, though heaven and earth shall fall.