 | Isolt of Ireland |  |
Scene I
Isolt's chamber.The scene represents a small vaulted chamber. In a recess at the back, Isolt lies on a couch. A silver lamp suspended from the ceiling lights the chamber. An arched doorway L. leads to an ante-room. Another R. to an inner room.
Enter Brangwaine, L.
Bran.
Madam! Isolt!
Is. of I.
[Without stirring.]
Who speaks that woeful name?
Bran.
'Tis I. Will you not rise, and let me robe you?
Is. of I.
Is there no rest for me even in this grave,
Where I lie ages dead? Let common souls
Garment their bones in flesh, and rise again,
When the great angel sounds; I will not rise
Till he can bid the yesterdays of time
Troop at his summons, wake the hawthorn-buds
Of summers dead, wake my dead hopes, dead joys,
To breathe and sing in the glad world I knew.
Bran.
The king—the king comes now to visit you.
Is. of I.
The king! Poor ghost! It is a thousand years
Since last I heard him gibber. O Brangwaine,
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And thoughts, thoughts, thoughts—my God! what horrible thoughts,
And rages: yet no deeds!
Bran.
Shake off these dreams
From your sick soul, and rise; for Tristram's sake.
Is. of I.
[Sits on the couch.]
For Tristram's sake? That name sounds like a spell.
What shall I do for Tristram's sake?
Bran.
Live! Live!
Speak fairly to the king. Tell him but all,
Unseal the founts of mercy in his breast.
All may be well.
Is. of I.
No, all cannot be well.
Tristram is dead, I know; though I suppose
His face is changed by death. I could not find him,
In all the trackless waste beyond the grave.
Bran.
He lives—I know it. We shall have news ere long.
Is. of I.
Perhaps? Ruined, Brangwaine, and by my love!
What baleful drop of hell's corrupting fire
Curdles, like poison in a sacrament,
The honey of love's flower?
Bran.
Vain question! Come—
Isolt, arise! front the stern face of life,
Be bold and live!
[Isolt rises and Brangwaine robes her.
Is. of I.
For what, then, should I live?
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She guards its whiteness from the smutch of sin;
I was the saint of joy, and clothed myself
In love's supreme delights; and now, now, now,
Behold my splendid robe tattered and frayed,
Not to be patched again.
[Sinks back on the couch.
Enter Enna, L.
Enna.
Madam, the king!
Is. of I.
Let the king enter!
Enter King Mark alone, L. He motions to Brangwaine, who retires, followed by Enna.
King M.
Isolt!
[Isolt rises and faces him—a pause.
Is. of I.
I am here. You come, I know, to pelt me
With stones of righteousness. Pelt and begone!
King M.
I see thee, and just anger bows the head
To weep in pity's train.
Is. of I.
I ask no pity.
Prepare the stake, the faggots; let me leap
Into the core of fire, burn out this pain
Within me, life! What fire can sting like this?
King M.
There's grace in true remorse, my erring wife.
Is. of I.
Erring? I erred, indeed, erred into wedlock!
King M.
Mad words!
Is. of I.
That was my only sin.
King M.
Still shameless?
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Not one, to announce in thee repentant mind
And justify forgiveness, which still yearns,
Like a grieved angel, o'er that fallen head,
And bids me, sinful man, show mercy now.
Is. of I.
Sir King, I am innocent.
King M.
Innocent? Oh!
Yet thou didst love me once, by all sweet tokens
That ever woman gave. And then, turn wanton!
Is. of I.
You are deceived! I never loved you, sir.
King M.
What! never loved me? Sorceress, for what end
Hast thou enslaved me?
Is. of I.
Speech is vain. The curse
Of Babel heaps confusion on our tongues.
King M.
If there be witchcraft here, it must be purged.
Is. of I.
The fire, the fire, ay, give me to the fire!
So man's vile justice still on woman falls.
Take my defiance and begone from me!
Re-enter Brangwaine.
King M.
[To Brangwaine.]
There is madness in her looks and in her words!
Bran.
My lord, a holy friar waits without.
Sent by the archbishop.
King M.
In good time he comes,
So, let him enter, bring him here, Brangwaine.
[Exit Brangwaine. A pause.
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Kur.
I am armed
In faith, my lord, and trust to win the fight.
King M.
[Looking at Isolt of Ireland.]
May God have mercy on this erring soul!
[Exeunt King Mark and Brangwaine, L.
Is. of I.
Well, friar, be brief, if thou wouldst have me bear,
Without a groan, the torture of more words.
Kur.
Madam, I will be brief.
Is. of I.
In what saint's name
Comest thou to conjure devils out of me?
Kur.
[In a low voice.]
Tristram lives.
Is. of I.
Tristram! Bait'st thou with his name
Some holy snare to mesh my unwary feet?
That were foul treachery, friar.
Kur.
[Putting back his hood.]
Beware of me
If the hood make the friar! If not, why, trust me.
Is. of I.
Kurvenal! Thou here? And Tristram, Tristram lives?
Or dost thou lie? Didst thou not say he lives?
Kur.
Lives, madam, but in such unhappy case,
Death were a life more wholesome.
Is. of I.
Sick of his wound?
Kur.
It preys upon his body, as remorse
Upon his soul, defying surgery.
It is but Tristram's ghost that thinly pines
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Pale as death's handmaid, faltering stands.
Is. of I.
O God!
And I not there! Where lies he sick? Who tends him?
Kur.
In his wife's castle by the Breton shore,
Nursed by his wife, Isolt.
Is. of I.
His wife, Isolt!
Ay—'tis her right: she tends him night and day,
Looks on his dying face, and when he calls
Upon her name, she comes and smiles—bends o'er him
With ministries of love, and feels him hers.
I see it, and am in hell. Why comest thou hither
To fill my breast with its eternal fire?
Kur.
He prays you, by your love, to come to him.
She adds her prayer.
Is. of I.
She—adds her prayer? To me?
How if I will not come?
Kur.
Then frankly, madam,
I can but pray that you may live in bale.
[Isolt laughs bitterly.
Kur.
If this be woman's love, a plague upon it;
I'll keep my cowl.
Is. of I.
Still blunt, my trusty squire?
Kur.
Your art—your art alone—can heal this wound,
And will you let him die, the world's best knight,
Like a sick hound? Shall I go back and tell him
I sued to you in vain, that he must die?
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Die—in her arms? The thought's a red-hot knife
Stabbing my breast. How may I scape from this?
Kur.
Change garments with Brangwaine.
Re-enter Brangwaine.
Bran.
Time flies!
Is. of I.
[To Brangwaine]
Brangwaine? Oh, may I trust thee?
Kur.
May you trust her, madam?
Would every woman were as staunch as she!
Is. of I.
Tristram, I come, I come! O winds and seas,
Be gentle now, and waft me to my love!
My true Brangwaine!
Bran.
'Tis the last sin, Isolt,
That even my foolish love may do for thee.
Kur.
Come, Night sweeps forward on her sable wings,
We must ride faster than her hooting owls
Swoop under branches, till we reach the coast—
And then, ho for the sea!
[Isolt and Brangwaine change mantles.
Kur.
O Tristram, Tristram,
Live but to-morrow by, and fill thy years
With famous tales of mighty deeds achieved!
[Symphony.
Is. of I.
[Embracing Brangwaine.]
Farewell, dearest Brangwaine, never was woman
To woman true, as thou, sweet friend, to me.
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Farewell, Isolt. Ride fast, all must be told
When the king comes, and finds me in thy place.
Is. of I.
Then with my mantle take my place indeed,
Reign here in Cornwall.
Bran.
Ah! What shrift may follow
Upon confession is a thing to dread,
Not to be jested on!
Is. of I.
I did not jest.
May all good angels give thee all the bliss
Thy dreams e'er promised, so farewell!
Bran.
Farewell!
[Exeunt Isolt and Kurvenal, R.
How oft I have mused upon the fateful hour
Somewhere in ambush for me, dreamed it by,
Moment by moment. Now it comes, I know
'Twill come in alien guise, looming more strangely
For the fantastic visions of my mind.
Well, well Isolt, I yet may wear thy crown.
Enter Enna, L.
Enna.
Madam, the king!
Bran.
I wait upon his will.
[Exit Enna.
Grant me, sweet saints, courage and woman's wit!
[She throws herself on the couch. Enter King Mark. He pauses, gazing at her.
King M.
Isolt!
[Brangwaine prostrates herself at the king's feet.
O can thy haughty spirit bow
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But kneel to heaven, not to me; who am bowed low
Under the whips of shame. Rise up, and speak
One mitigating word, that may atone
Thy fatal beauty with my outraged love.
Bran.
Let me lie here in penance at thy feet,
I dare not even look on thee.
King M.
Rise, Isolt!
Thou hadst strange accusation in thine eyes,
When last they blazed on me; give it a tongue,
That I may stand accused of mine own conscience,
If e'er in act or thought I have done thee wrong.
God has so humbled me, I would cut off
The hand of my offence, and enter maimed
The kingdom of His grace.
Bran.
No wrong, my lord,
Ever didst thou me!
King M.
Rise, then rise!
[He raises her and recognises her.
Brangwaine!
Where is the queen?
Bran.
My king, curse, kill me;
But first hear out my tale—
King M.
[Sternly.]
Where is the queen?
Bran.
Fled with the friar.
King M.
The friar?
Bran.
'Twas Kurvenal
Disguised.
King M.
Fled, fled! To horse!
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[Clinging to him.]
King, hear me first!
The queen is innocent—mine is the fault.
King M.
Innocent harlot! What! are ye devils both?
Bran.
Mine was the sin. Hear from a soul in torment
The utter truth; not Tristram and Isolt
Are false, but I, Brangwaine.
King M.
Riddles, more riddles!
Enna!
Re-enter Enna.
Go, bid my page summon the grooms
To saddle my best horse. Call out my guards
And bid them mount in haste to ride with me.
[Exit Enna.
And now thy tale. Isolt is innocent,
Thou guilty? Make this plain—ay, make this plain.
Bran.
As o'er the seas we came, she drank with Tristram,
Knowing not what she did, the magic draught
Her mother had prepared for her and thee.
King M.
What was this draught?
Bran.
A cup of sorcery,
A love-draught brewed with potent spells, and spiced
With magic herbs; which when they drank, their blood,
Quick with the flame of love's eternal spring,
Ached in their glowing breasts, till the sweet sin
Seemed but the passionate flower of life's delight.
King M.
How came they by that cup?
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They took it blindly
From these weak erring hands, drank, and so fell.
King M.
Thou hast done this! O for what spite, Brangwaine,
Hast thou made league with devils, in fair souls
To sow this crescent flame? Thy deed confounds
The ken of insight with its traitor face.
Bran.
I was the handmaid of my evil star.
Isolt, in wifely duty, would have drunk
The cup of peace with Tristram, and mistook
The phials.
King M.
[Apart.]
Fate! O Fate! O my lost wife!
She never loved me, never, never, never!
Yet she could sing the very tune of love
In my enchanted ear, in her young arms
Fold me, till—O false harlot! Fool, O fool!
I will turn anchoret. Let me never more
Feel the sweet softness of a woman's breast.
Lewd fires of hell seethe under, and its touch
Is mere damnation!
[He moves towards the door.
Bran.
Oh, stay! my lord, my lord,
Hear me once more!
[Clutches his mantle and falls on her knees.
King M.
What, woman, art thou there?
I had forgot thee. More? Ha! Is there more?
What worse abomination makes thee pale?
Bran.
The queen is innocent.
King M.
Darest thou so lie?
Bran.
She never did deceive thee with false love.
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Not she?
Bran.
[Rising.]
I swear to thee it was not she
That—loved thee so.
King M.
Not she? What sorcery then
Out of the impassioned air bodied her warm?
Bran.
I was that guilty, yet most loving woman
Who gave thee—what she ne'er even feigned to give.
King M.
Thou, thou, Brangwaine!
Bran.
Thou hast my secret now.
King M.
What shall I do with thee?
Bran.
[Sighing.]
Even what thou wilt,
I know that I have lost the dearest thing
Ever I had. I stole it like a thief,
And like a thief must answer for my deed.
I knew I had to suffer; but I loved—
O how I loved!
King M.
Yet like a living lie,
Didst thou creep to my breast, flatter me blind.
Bran.
The sins we do, we see but from within—
See through the thick heartbeats, plumed like eagles,
That were in others carrion birds. But oh,
Here I lay bound, the slave of secrecy!
King M.
I must have full confession from thy lips.
How came this crime to pass?
Bran.
To save worse sin,
The sin thou didst in ignorance deem the queen's.
She with fierce threats, by solemn oaths, constrained me
To hide her love's default. But soon—ay, soon,
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King M.
Thy fault is but the blemish of a flower,
Matched with the ghastly horror that but now
O'erwhelmed me. Yet I am like one suddenly waked,
Who finds the ravishing music of his dream
But the sweet inward echo of a tune
Of the mere world, that woke him. Woman, woman,
Give me that dream again!
Bran.
Would I could give thee
More, more than—I have given, my blood, my soul,
I, but the mere occasion of thy dream,
Not even that dream, which fades and nevermore
I can make live again. Well, cast me forth
Like Hagar. Righteous Abraham had less cause.
King M.
O tangling briar, whose blossoms were so sweet,
I cannot drive their odour from my sense!
Bran.
Then a last grace, I'll not be banished now.
I am mad for some swift death, demand it thus!
[She throws herself passionately into the king's arms. He puts her away gently. She sinks on the couch and covers her face with her hands.
King M.
Thy love may win thy pardon, be content!
“Sin follows sin, as wolf the wolf to prey”—
So by her sinful tongue was I rebuked.
Enter Enna.
Enna.
My lord, your knights are mounted.
King M.
Let them wait!
[Waves his hand to Enna.
[Exit Enna.
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Which now Tristram, his son, blindly avenges,
Be slower than just God, who has pardoned me,
To pardon? Yet my crime gave, by God's grace,
This realm to Christ. Marvellous are His ways!
Bran.
[Not looking up.]
Sir, I know all, know you for what you are.
Repenting sin, the sinner grows a saint.
King M.
Come, rise, Brangwaine; for thou shalt ride with me.
The Holy Church must counsel me for means,
That may redeem this ruin of our lives.
[He raises Brangwaine. As the stage is darkened the scene changes.
End of Scene I
| Isolt of Ireland | |