 | King René's Daughter |  |
120
SCENE IV.
Tristan. Geoffrey. Iolanthe.(Notwithstanding Iolanthe's blindness, all her movements are unconstrained and decided. Only now and then a listening attitude, with a slight motion of the hand, as though she were feeling before her, betrays the want of sight. Her eyes are open, but frequently bent downwards, and with little motion in them.)
Io.
(at the door.)
Martha! Bertrand!
Tris.
Ha! 'tis she!
Io.
Sure, some one spoke? (Advances.)
Who's there?
Tris.
A stranger, who
Implores forgiveness, that he rudely broke
Yours and this place's sanctified repose.
Io.
Give me thy hand! Thou never hast been here!
Nor do I even know thy voice. Didst speak
With Bertrand or with Martha on the way?
Tris.
I spoke with no one. Accident alone
Hath led me hither.
Geof.
(aside to Tristan).
Ask about Bertrand!
Io.
(listening).
And whom hast thou brought with thee?
Tris.
'Tis my friend,
A troubadour and knight, who dwells hard by.
Io.
You both are truly welcome. Will you not
Go in with me? 'Tis cool and fresher there.
Geof.
(quickly).
Nay, so you please, we'll tarry where we are.
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'Tis safer so methinks!
Io.
(still holding Tristan's hand).
Thy hand is warm—
I feel the pulse's throb. Hath not the heat
Oppressed thee by the way? Art thou not thirsty?
Wait, and I'll bring thee forth a cup of wine.
(Goes into the house.)
Tris.
Oh! What a lovely being! What dignity,
What gracious gentleness in every feature:
And her sweet voice!
Geof.
A wondrous voice, indeed!
That fascinates the heart at unawares,
And binds it utterly in softest thrall!
Of noble birth she is, beyond all question;
Yet—some precaution cannot be amiss.
Drink not the wine, dear Tristan, when it comes.
Tris.
I would drink death, if from her hand, with joy!
(Iolanthe comes back with a flagon and cup.)
Io.
Here is the wine my father always drinks.
It is too strong for me: but will you taste it?
(Fills the cup and presents it to Tristan.)
Tris.
(as he drinks).
This to thy happiness, thou lovely maid!
Io.
Give now thy friend the cup, if he desire it.
I will go gather fruit for you—some dates
And grapes, or any other fruit you will.
(Plucks fruit, and places it in a basket, which she has taken from the table.)
Tris.
(giving Geoffrey the cup).
There, Geoffrey, drink!
Geof.
Have you felt nothing strange,
No lassitude—no—?
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Nothing. Never fear!
Geof.
It is wine, then? (Drinks.)
Right Malvoisie, by heavens!
No better drinks King René's self, I trow. (Drinks again.)
Ha, what a wine! Where we such nectar find,
In sooth, no demon can have mastery!
Io.
(rejoins them).
Here I have fruits, so please you taste of them.
I'll place them on the table.
Geof.
Beauteous lady,
Already you so truly have refreshed us,
And in this cup have ministered a wine
So rare, and so delicious, we might deem,
And with best cause, our entertainment came
From some most wealthy, ay, and noble house.
Beauty and wine the loadstars are of song.
Then lend a friendly ear unto my words,
Which, lightly woven into a lay, unfold
At once our homage and our gratitude.
(Sings, accompanying himself on his cithern.)
The eagle we tell
By his sweep full well,
As proudly afar in the clouds he soars,
And the nightingale,
By the trilling wail
Her throat in the dewy May-time pours.
By his sweep full well,
As proudly afar in the clouds he soars,
And the nightingale,
By the trilling wail
Her throat in the dewy May-time pours.
By valour and skill,
And a temperate will,
The knight approveth his worth to all;
And deftly to sing,
With sweet minstrelling,
Makes troubadour honoured in bower and hall.
(Changes the measure.)
And a temperate will,
The knight approveth his worth to all;
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With sweet minstrelling,
Makes troubadour honoured in bower and hall.
But when amid gentles and ladies gay,
His echoing harp he raises,
And seeks by the flow of his tuneful lay
To win him their guerdons, their praises;
And when with the goblet the foot-page fine
His carol hath cheerly greeted,
Full soon doth he note by the noble wine,
'Neath a noble roof he's seated.
His echoing harp he raises,
And seeks by the flow of his tuneful lay
To win him their guerdons, their praises;
And when with the goblet the foot-page fine
His carol hath cheerly greeted,
Full soon doth he note by the noble wine,
'Neath a noble roof he's seated.
Io.
Thy song is beautiful, and doth bespeak
A cunning high and rare.
Tris.
My friend is famed
Among Provence's younger troubadours.
Io.
(to Tristan).
Art thou, too, gifted with the power of song?
Tris.
Ah, I am but a novice; yet, methinks,
Your gentleness doth make me bold to sing.
Then pray you for the deed accept the will.
(Sings, preluding each verse with a few notes of the cithern.)
I came where the echoing city lay,
And over the mountains I took my way,
Weary and darkling, by rock and by lea;
When a valley burst suddenly on my sight,
Basking and beaming in sunshine bright,
And gemmed with all beautiful flowers that be.
And over the mountains I took my way,
Weary and darkling, by rock and by lea;
When a valley burst suddenly on my sight,
Basking and beaming in sunshine bright,
And gemmed with all beautiful flowers that be.
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Here all was still. No sweet bird's note
On my listening ear in the silence smote,
No sound or of man or of life arose;
And, as in some temple's most sacred hall,
In this vale of enchantment fair seemed all
To be lulled for aye in a charmed repose.
On my listening ear in the silence smote,
No sound or of man or of life arose;
And, as in some temple's most sacred hall,
In this vale of enchantment fair seemed all
To be lulled for aye in a charmed repose.
A door flew wide, and a form of light
Beamed, like a star, on my wondering sight;
Like a dewy rosebud, oppressed with sleep,
Which a wizard's wand had over it thrown,
Didst thou seem to me, thou lovely one,
And all things anear thee a hush did keep.
Beamed, like a star, on my wondering sight;
Like a dewy rosebud, oppressed with sleep,
Which a wizard's wand had over it thrown,
Didst thou seem to me, thou lovely one,
And all things anear thee a hush did keep.
The zephyr dreams on thy pearly cheek,
The flame on the hearth burns faint and weak,
The palm-trees drowsily droop their crest;
For all things have life through thee alone,
For all things will only be thine own,
And close their eyelids when thine do rest.
The flame on the hearth burns faint and weak,
The palm-trees drowsily droop their crest;
For all things have life through thee alone,
For all things will only be thine own,
And close their eyelids when thine do rest.
Thou didst awake, and a soul of life,
Through air, and through flower and grove, grew rife,
As though a sunbeam their sleep had broke!
Oh, gentle rose, take to thy heart,
As the homage pure of my faltering art,
The lay which thy beauty to being woke!
Through air, and through flower and grove, grew rife,
As though a sunbeam their sleep had broke!
Oh, gentle rose, take to thy heart,
As the homage pure of my faltering art,
The lay which thy beauty to being woke!
Io.
(to Tristan after a pause, in which she stands absorbed, with her hand upon her forehead.)
Lend me the cithern.
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Highly be honoured
The stranger guest,
Who comes with a blithesome
And cordial heart,—
Brings us a treasure,
Of story and measure,
And fills us with silent and wondering pleasure!
The stranger guest,
Who comes with a blithesome
And cordial heart,—
Brings us a treasure,
Of story and measure,
And fills us with silent and wondering pleasure!
Yet higher than all
Be honour to him,
The guest who doth bring us
Song linked to the lyre,
Who living thoughts, woven
In melody, pours,
And on wingèd words freely and joyously soars!
Be honour to him,
The guest who doth bring us
Song linked to the lyre,
Who living thoughts, woven
In melody, pours,
And on wingèd words freely and joyously soars!
With the minestrel enters
An influence holy
Under our portals;
While that he singeth,
Listens the air,
Hushed are the flowerets,
And, lowly inclining,
Stay their sweet breathing to list to the strain.
An influence holy
Under our portals;
While that he singeth,
Listens the air,
Hushed are the flowerets,
And, lowly inclining,
Stay their sweet breathing to list to the strain.
You, O ye strangers,
You who came hither
With harp and with song,
With me dividing
Your souls' inspiration,
You do I thank!
Ah! I so feeble,
I could not fathom
All that you sang.
Novel and strange,
Strange as yourselves,
It swept me along, the light wingèd song.
You who came hither
With harp and with song,
With me dividing
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You do I thank!
Ah! I so feeble,
I could not fathom
All that you sang.
Novel and strange,
Strange as yourselves,
It swept me along, the light wingèd song.
Here in the valley,
Deep in the thicket,
Oftentimes nestleth
A stranger bird;
And in the evening,
Dream-like and still,
Her song from the leaves doth the nightingale trill.
Deep in the thicket,
Oftentimes nestleth
A stranger bird;
And in the evening,
Dream-like and still,
Her song from the leaves doth the nightingale trill.
No one can teach me
To sweep the guitar,
Till it throbs like her song.
No one can give me
Her rapturous strain,
That lifted my soul on its pinions, again.
To sweep the guitar,
Till it throbs like her song.
No one can give me
Her rapturous strain,
That lifted my soul on its pinions, again.
Whence, O ye strangers,
Cometh your song?
Say, is its home there,
Where, as I deem,
Fond aspirations,
Yearning and sighs,
In the slumberous silence of evening arise?
Cometh your song?
Say, is its home there,
Where, as I deem,
Fond aspirations,
Yearning and sighs,
In the slumberous silence of evening arise?
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Say, have the airy
Tenants of ether
Taught you their strains?
Strains so enchanting,
Flowing so wildly;
Strains that have freighted
My dreams with delight;
Strains full of story,
Life-like and clear,
Strains that gave glory
To all that is near!
Tenants of ether
Taught you their strains?
Strains so enchanting,
Flowing so wildly;
Strains that have freighted
My dreams with delight;
Strains full of story,
Life-like and clear,
Strains that gave glory
To all that is near!
Geof.
What lofty poesy!
Tris.
(to Iolanthe).
To the nightingale
You have compared our song. O were I but
The meanest, tiniest of yonder birds,
That build their nests anigh your dwelling-place,
And evermore might list the lovely strains
That do inspire your breast!
Geof.
Oh, noble lady,
There is one question—pray you pardon it!
Which musing wonder forces to my lips.
You live here from the world cut off, and none
Of all the knights and ladies of Provence,
Your rare perfections e'er have heard or known.
What line so blest can claim you for its child,
And who your father?
Io.
How! not know my father?
That gives me wonder; for none e'er come here
Who know not him.
Geof.
I pray you, what his name?
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The rest do call him Raymbaud.
Geof.
Raymbaud? Raymbaud?
Is he a knight?
Io.
A knight?
Geof.
Or warrior?
Wears he a helm, and shield, and golden spurs?
What his pursuits?
Io.
That have I ne'er inquired.
Geof.
Why are you pent up here so close?
Io.
(surprised).
So close?
Geof.
Ay, close and lonely?
Io.
Lonely I am not.
There you do much mistake.
Geof.
Yet no one's here?
Io.
No, no one's here. You're right; I cannot guess
How this should be. I never am alone.
But only wait, and I will summon Bertrand.
He will be truly glad that you are come.
(Exit into the house.)
Geof.
Now 'twill be seen who is this valley's lord.
Yet can I not subdue the rising thought,
That some dark mystery is here on foot,
Which he that owns this valley will be loth
That we should pry into. You cannot fail
To note, how cunningly yon door is covered
With moss, and stones, and branches, that, when closed,
It scarce may be distinguished from the rock.
Take my advice and tarry near the door.
I will but wait till some one comes, and then
Betake me straightway to the mountain pass,
To keep the entrance clear for our escape.
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Should aught appear amiss, I will return
Upon the moment. Do you hear me, Tristan?
Tris.
Ay, ay! Go, go! There!
Geof.
Is your heart enchained?
Has this young beauty quite enchanted you?
Tris.
No, I am ill at ease. My head's confused.
I almost think this tranquil valley is
That goal for which I've panted all my days;
That here at length my restless soaring pride
Shall find its true repose.
Geof.
(gravely).
I prithee, friend,
Remember, that King René waits for you.
Tris.
What is King René or his hopes to me?
What! For a province, which by law and right
Is truly mine, by our good swords achieved,
Shall I, in my youth's holiday, be chained
To his daughter—to a girl whom no one knows—
Whom no one e'er hath seen—whilst I—
Geof.
You rave.
This fit will pass. But now you are bewitched.
Stifle this feverish passion in your breast.
Tris.
Could I do that, I were bewitched indeed.
Geof.
Hush! hush! Some one approaches.
(Iolanthe returns from the house.)
Io.
Are you here?
Geof.
Wilt lead us to the master of the house?
Io.
Alas! they are all gone, and no one came
In answer to my call. They have forsook me.
Tris.
But they will come again.
Io.
Yes; thou art right—
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I, too, at times go with them. But, when not,
There still is some one with me.
Geof.
(to Tristan).
You stay here?
Tris.
I will.
Geof.
So be it, while I go watch the pass.
(Exit, bowing to Iolanthe, who does not return the salutation.)
Io.
(listening).
Goes thy friend hence?
Tris.
He will return anon.
Your pardon now—let me atone a fault
I have committed; but oh, chide me not!
As you lay sleeping, from your breast I took
An ornament as a memorial token.
'Tis here!
Io.
Where, where? (Tristan gives her the amulet.)
An ornament—and mine?
Tris.
Yes; I conjecture so.
Io.
It is not mine;
But I will ask of Martha. (Lays the amulet on the table.)
Tris.
In its stead,
Pray give me one of yonder blushing roses,
That rear their petals, fairest 'mongst all flowers,
As though they were the counterfeit of thee!
Io.
A rose? Oh, willingly!
(Plucks and gives him a white rose.)
Tris.
Ah, it is white!
Give me the red one, that is fair as thou!
Io.
What meanest thou—a red one?
Tris.
(pointing).
One of these.
Io.
Take it thyself!
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No; let me keep the rose,
Which thou hast chosen, which thy fair hand has gathered.
And in good sooth I do applaud thy choice.
For the white rose, within whose calyx sleeps
A faint and trembling ruddiness, betypes
The dream-like beauty of this garden fair.
Give me another rose—a white one, too—
Then with the twin flowers will I deck my cap,
And wear them as thy colours evermore.
Io.
(plucks and gives him a red rose).
Here is a rose; meanest thou one like this?
Tris.
(starts).
I asked thee for a white rose.
Io.
Well, and this?
Tris.
Why this? (Aside.)
What thought comes o'er me? (Aloud.)
Nay, then, tell me (holds up the two roses, along with another which he has himself gathered)
How many roses have I in my hand?
Io.
(stretches out her hand towards them).
Give me them, then.
Tris.
Nay, tell me without touching.
Io.
How can I so?
Tris.
(aside).
Alas! alas! she's blind!
(Aloud, and with a faltering voice.)
Nay, I am sure you know.
Io.
No; you mistake.
If I would know how anything is shaped,
Or what its number, I must touch it first.
Is not this clear?
Tris.
(confused).
Yes, certainly; you're right.
And yet sometimes—
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Well, well?—sometimes?—speak, speak!
Tris.
I think there are—that there are certain things,
Which we distinguish by their hues alone,
As various kinds of flowers, and various stuffs.
Io.
Thou mean'st by this their character, their form;
Is it not so?
Tris.
Nay, not exactly that.
Io.
Is it so hard, then, to distinguish flowers?
Are not the roses round, and soft, and fine,
Round to the feeling, as the zephyr's breath,
And soft and glowing as a summer's eve?
Are gillyflowers like roses? No, their scent
Bedizzies, like the wine I gave to thee.
And then a cactus—are its arrowy points
Not stinging, like the wind, when frosts are keen?
Tris.
(aside).
Amazement! (Aloud.)
Have they never told thee, then,
That objects, things, can be distinguished, though
Placed at a distance,—with the aid—of sight?
Io.
At distance? Yes! I by his twittering know
The little bird that sits upon the roof,
And, in like fashion, all men by their voice.
The sprightly steed whereon I daily ride,
I know him in the distance by his pace,
And by his neigh. Yet—with the help of sight?
They told me not of that. An instrument
Fashioned by art, or but a tool, perhaps?
I do not know this sight. Canst teach me, then,
Its use and purpose?
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(aside).
O almighty powers!
She does not know or dream that she is blind.
Io.
(after a pause).
Whence art thou? Thou dost use so many words,
I find impossible to understand,
And in thy converse, too, there is so much
For me quite new and strange! Say, is the vale
Which is thy home so very different
From this of ours? Then stay, if stay thou canst,
And teach me all that I am wanting in.
Tris.
No, O thou sweet and gracious lady, no!
I cannot teach what thou art wanting in.
Io.
Didst thou but choose, I do believe thou couldst.
They tell me I am tractable and apt.
Many, who erewhile have been here, have taught me
Now this, now that, which readily I learned.
Make but the trial. I am very sure
Thou hatest me not. Thy tones are mild and gentle.
Thou wilt not say me “nay,” when I entreat.
Oh, speak! I'm all attention when thou speakest.
Tris.
Alas! attention here will stead thee little.
Yet—tell me one thing. Thou hast surely learned,
That of thy lovely frame there is no part
Without its purpose, or without its use.
Thy hand and fingers serve to grasp at much,
Thy foot, so tiny as it is, with ease
Transports thee wheresoe'er thy wishes point;
The sound of words, the tone, doth pierce the soul
Through the ear's small and tortuous avenues;
The stream of language gushes from thy lips;
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Which heaves, unclogged with care, and sinks again.
Io.
All this I've noted well. Prithee, go on.
Tris.
Then tell me, to what end dost thou suppose
Omnipotence hath gifted thee with eyes?
Of what avail to thee are those twin stars,
That sparkle with such wondrous brilliancy,
They scorn to grasp the common light of day?
Io.
(touches her eyes, then muses for a little).
You ask of what avail—how can you ask?
And yet, I ne'er have given the matter thought.
My eyes! my eyes! 'Tis easy to perceive.
At eve, when I am weary, slumber first
Droops heavy on my eyes, and thence it spreads
O'er all my body, with no thought of mine,
As feeling vibrates from each finger's tip.
Thus then I know my eyes avail me much.
And hast not thou experience had enough,
Wherein thine eyes can minister to thee?
Only the other morn, as I was planting
A little rose-bush here, a nimble snake
Leapt out and bit me in the finger; then
With the sharp pain I wept. Another time,
When I had pined for many tedious days,
Because my father was detained from home,
I wept for very gladness when he came!
Through tears I gave my bursting heart relief,
And at mine eyes it found a gushing vent.
Then never ask me, unto what avail
Omnipotence hath gifted me with eyes.
Through them, when I am weary, comes repose;
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My joy is raised to rapture.
Tris.
Oh, forgive me!
The question was most foolish; for in thee
Is such an inward radiancy of soul,
Thou hast no need of that which by the light
We through the eye discern. Say, shall I deem,
That thou of some unheard-of race art sprung,
Richly endowed with other powers than we?
Thou livest lonely here—this valley, too,
Seems conjured forth by magic 'mongst the hills.
Hast thou come hither from the golden East,
With Peris in thy train?—Or art thou one
Of Brahma's daughters, and from Ind has been
Transported hither by a sorcerer?
O beautiful unknown! If thou be'st sprung
Of mortal men, who call the earth their mother,
Be thou to life's so transitory joys
Susceptible as I, and deign to look
With favour on a knight's devoted love!
Hear this his vow! No woman shall efface
(Stand she in birth and beauty ne'er so high)
The image thou hast stamped upon my soul!
Io.
(after a pause).
Thy words are laden with a wondrous power.
Say, from what master didst thou learn the art,
To charm, by words, which yet are mysteries?
Meseemed as though I trod some path alone,
Which I had never trod before; and yet
All seems to me—all, all that thou hast said—
So godlike, so enchanting! Oh, speak on—
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Linger along the words which thou hast spoken,
That mingled pain and rapture in my soul!
Enter Geoffrey hurriedly.
Geof.
I see men at a distance coming hither!
Do not forget that we are here alone.
Tris.
(to Iolanthe).
Now, noble maiden, must I take my leave.
Io.
Ah! no, no! Wherefore wilt thou go?
Tris.
I'll come
Again, and soon—to-day I'll come again.
Wilt thou permit me, with thy hand to mark
How high I am, that, when we next shall meet,
Thou may'st distinguish me?
Io.
What need of that?
I know that few resemble thee in height.
Thy utterance comes to me as from above,
Like all that's high and inconceivable.
And know I not thy tone? Like as thou speakest
None speak beside. No voice, no melody
I've known in nature, or in instrument,
Doth own a resonance so lovely, sweet,
So winning, full, and gracious as thy voice.
Trust me, I'll know thee well amidst them all!
Tris.
Then fare thee well, until we meet once more!
Io.
There—take my hand. Farewell! Thou'lt come again—
Again, and soon?—Thou know'st I wait for thee!
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(kneels and kisses her hand).
Oh, never doubt that I will come again.
My heart impels me hither. Though I go,
Still of my thoughts the better half remains;
And whatsoe'er is left to me of life
Yearns back to thee with evermore unrest.
Farewell!
(Exit through the concealed door, following Geoffrey, who has retired during the last speech.)
Io.
Hark! there he goes! Among the hills,
From which so oft the stranger's foot resounds,
Now echoes his light step. Oh, hush, hush, hush!
I hear it now no more.—Yes; there again!
But now,—'tis gone!—Will he indeed return?
If he, too, like so many guests before,
Should come but this one time! Oh! no, no, no!
Did he not promise me, and pledge his vow,
He would come back to-day? The dews are falling;
Already eve draws on.—Ah, no!—to-day
He cannot come.—Perhaps to-morrow, then?
But now it is so lonely here.
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