 | Launcelot and Guenevere |  |
ACT III.
Scene I.
—Camelot. Gallery and portico in the apartments of the Queen of Orkney, overlooking a great water. Lionors and Borre.Borre.
Mamma,
I like to talk to you about Gawaine.
Lionors.
Why, darling?
Borre.
Because you hold me close to you,
And kiss me so.
Lionors.
My little innocent wisdom!
Borre.
Gawaine never kisses me. And yet he is kind;
He gives me sweets and—Oh, mamma, look! look!
The moon—how big it is! It comes right up,
Right up out of the mere, just like Gawaine
When he is swimming. You know, he plunges under
And then his head comes up 'way over yonder,
And then he shakes the drops out of his hair
And wipes his eyes with his fingers. The moon is bald
Like poor old Hugh the gardener. That's why
The water doesn't stick to it.
[kissing him].
Sweetheart! See
How still the moonlight lies upon the water!
Borre.
It's like a silver road.
Lionors.
How would you like
For you and me to go out hand in hand
As we do i' the meadows, and pluck those flowers
That grow on the waves by moonlight, and so go on
And on and on until we came to Fairyland?
Borre.
I'm 'fraid we'd get our feet wet.
Lionors.
I'm afraid we might.
Borre.
But what's a road for, if you mayn't walk on it?
Mamma, I don't think it's a road at all;
It's a river.
Lionors.
A river, love?
Borre.
A river of shine;
The fairies go swimming in 't.
[Enter Peredure.]
Lionors.
Good even, sir.
The Queen of Orkney is engaged within.
So please you wait with me a little while,
She'll see you presently.
I will remain;
You are very gracious.—Well, my little dreamer!
What are you thinking of, with your great brown eyes
Looking so wistfully on the mere? Come, kiss me.
What do you see out there?
Borre.
My lord, who lives
I' the sea?
Peredure.
Why, the fishes, Borre.
Borre.
And the old crabs
With their great ugly claws—I know. But I think
A princess lives there in a crystal palace,
All white and cool, with crabs to guard the gates.
That's why their arms are so long, you know—to catch
The robbers with.
Peredure.
Are there robbers in the sea?
Borre.
Oh, yes! that's such a pretty story. Mamma,
Tell it to him—you know, the one you told
Last night—about the water-kelpies that tried
To steal the princess' treasure.
Lionors.
Some other time,
Sweetheart.
Oh, please, mamma, please tell it!
Lionors.
Not
To-night, dear. It grows late, and it is time
For little folk to be abed. Come, Borre,
We'll go find nurse.—Excuse me, pray, my lord;
I will return soon.
Borre.
I don't want to go;
I am not sleepy.
Peredure.
Let me carry him.
Wouldn't you like a ride upon my shoulder?
That's it. Now we go. Lead on, my lady.
Borre.
Hey!
[Exeunt Lionors, Peredure, and Borre.]
[Enter Morgause and Publius.]
Publius.
If it be true, as you suspect—
Morgause.
No fear!
You are very wise and subtle, good my lord,
But trust a woman's wit as subtler still
Where woman's heart's at question. You were there;
Your eyes were fixed, as all eyes, on the Queen;
Yet you nor no man there saw what I saw.
With such a light as that I saw in hers
The while she gazed at Launcelot, 'tis small matter
Whether she flinch or falter to the world—
She loves.
Publius.
Well, let us grant, then, that she loves;
You women sometimes prove absurdly right,
And I incline to trust you. But the King
Will ask more solid proofs.
Morgause.
And he shall have them!
Ay, if I pull the ruin on myself,
I'll find the engines somewhere to upheave
The pillars of his peace. Oh, he doth vex me
Beyond endurance with that calm of his,
That silly satisfaction on his face,
As if he were some god, forsooth, and deigned
To live with men as a sun might deign to shine.
Publius.
Do not forget the most important thing,
That Launcelot must quarrel with the King;
For thence I see a great advantage grow
For Rome, and you will not forget, I hope,
I do not ask you why you hate the King;
Work for my ends and I will work for yours.
Morgause.
Agreed. But we must cast our lines for proofs,—
And yonder comes an angle for my hook.
Withdraw, my lord; leave me alone with him.
Publius.
My humble duty, madam.
[Exit.]
[Enter Peredure.]
Morgause.
Peredure!
It is kind in you to come to me, my lord.
Sit by me here. I am sad to-night and know not
What 'tis oppresses me.
Peredure.
Would that I had
The power to shield off sorrow from you, madam!
Morgause.
Why, would you use it if you had, my lord?
A little thing might do it for the nonce,
But yet I fear me you would scruple.
Peredure.
Scruple?
I am no coward; I would die to serve you.
I know you are no coward, and I think
You are indeed my friend.—Too much of this!
You are a poet. Sing me a sweet song,
Whose music may caress my painèd heart.
Peredure.
Lend me your cithern, lady.
Morgause.
Who says now
That I am not the royalest queen alive,
That have a king's son for my troubadour?
Peredure
[sings].
Of the glow,
Warm and pure and fleeting,
—Blush of apple-blossoms—
On cloud-bosoms,
When the sun is low.
'Mid the far
Topmost leaves that dapple
Stretch of summer blue—
There are you,
Sky-set like a star.
How should I
Dare to reach you, choose you,
Stain you with my touch?
It is much
That you star the sky.
So to seize
All that sets me rhyming—
In my hand enfold
All that gold
Of Hesperides?
If I might.
I would just behold you,
Sigh and turn away,
While the day
Darkens into the night.
Morgause.
You sigh, my lord. Did not the lady yield,
After so sweet a plaining in her ear?
To give unsought is sweetest to the giver.
Love such as yours, that asks no recompense,
Pleads for that reason more persuasively.
... Men love not often so—in Camelot.
Peredure.
The beautiful lady of my soul, for whom
My song was made, knows not my love for her.
The greatest happiness that I can hope
Is to sing for her, sitting at her feet,
As I do now at yours. I dare not vex
Her spirit with the story of my love,
Lest I should lose the little bliss I have
Nor gain no greater neither.
Morgause.
You are too fearful.
Who would not throw a bit of glass aside
To win a diamond? You cheat yourself
With the vain semblance of a love, my lord.
Be bold and snatch the real. Why, who knows
But that your lady pines to yield herself
As you to win her?
Peredure.
Oh, do not stir up
Between our ways.
Morgause.
And will you let her droop
And die, poor lady, dreaming that her life
Is wasted ointment spilt out on the floor,
When but a word were Siloam to her eyes
To let her see she had poured a priceless chrism
Over the very body of Love? If she
Were I and spoke to you as I do now,
How would you answer her?
Peredure.
Upon my knees.
Forgive me, my beloved.
Morgause.
What do you mean?
Peredure.
That you indeed are she.
Morgause.
Alas, alas!
What must you think? Indeed I knew not this.
Peredure.
Oh, kill me with your hands, not with your grief.
Oh love, love, love, I ne'er had thus offended,
But all my brain was whirling with your words.
Morgause.
We are most fortunate and unfortunate.
Peredure.
And dost thou love, then, too?
I have loved thee long.—
Why do you tremble so? Surely it is
No sin that we should love.
Peredure.
Can that be sin
Which makes me greater-hearted than before?
Morgause.
Why do you stand apart? Let me lean on you.—
Oh, take me in your strong arms, Peredure!
Surely it is no sin for us to kiss.
Peredure.
God help me, I scarce know where sin begins;
For I am caught up in a wind of passion
That sweeps me where it will.
[The tinkling of a lute without.]
Morgause
[starting].
It is not safe
For you to be found here so late. I hear
My women with their lutes. Nay, do not go—
Nay, but you must—but first one kiss, my love.—
Give me the key to your secret door. I'll come
To you; we shall be more secure than here.
Peredure.
Come quickly, then, or I shall scarce believe
But I have slept i' the moonlight and seen visions.
Of sandal burning in a darkened room!
I am drunk with this new joy.
Morgause.
Within two hours.
Peredure.
I live not till you come.
Morgause.
Oh, leave me, leave me!
You will be found. Farewell!
Peredure.
Love, love!
[Exit.]
Morgause.
This key
Shall unlock more secrets than a secret door.
[Ladinas climbs up from below with a lute. The scene closes.]
Scene II.
—A street in Camelot. Enter The Watch.First Watchman.
I say it and I say it again, that the King hath the strongest arm in the kingdom.
Second Watchman.
Not a doubt of that!
Third Watchman.
Our King be a powerful fighter.
Not but I think our Owen, the blacksmith, would run him hard.
First Watchman.
Oh, you think, do you? You're a fine one to think. Owen, the blacksmith!
Third Watchman.
They as thinks, goes to hell; leastwise Father Aurelian says so.
First Watchman.
Owen, the blacksmith!
Fourth Watchman.
Well, I suppose a blacksmith may have muscle in his arm, as well as a king.
First Watchman.
Ah, there you goes a-supposing. The King, sir, is the King, and is not to be supposed.
Third Watchman.
Ay, 'tis a hanging matter to suppose the King—except for the Pope. The Pope can suppose anything.
First Watchman.
You go too much to the priests, David. Father Aurelian knows not everything, though I will not deny that he can say mass quicker than any priest in Camelot. The Pope cannot touch the King except in the way of cursing, and it's not likely the Holy Father would curse anybody —unless he were mightily provoked.
That's true, neighbor.
First Watchman.
The King is the head in things temporary, and the Pope in things spirituous.
Second Watchman.
And that's true, too.
First Watchman.
And I say again, the King is the strongest man in the kingdom. Before he was crowned, he pulled the great sword out o' the stone at Canterbury, where it was fast stuck, so that all the nobles in Britain had tugged away at it and none o' them so much as budged it. And they say the devil put it there, but that is not likely, for the Archbishop said that whoever should pull it out should be king, and it's not to be believed that the Archbishop would meddle with the devil. Well, at last the King came, but he was not King then, but no matter for that; and he heaved away at it and out it came so sudden that away went His Majesty heels over head backward and was near to break 's neck. And they call the place Arthur's Feat to this day, because there Arthur lost his feet. And I say, the King is the strongest man in Britain.
But that was a magic sword; it vanished afterward.
First Watchman.
Magic! Poh, David, you'll believe anything.
Third Watchman.
If it did not vanish, where is it now? Answer me that.
First Watchman.
Masters, we are set here to apprehend benefactors. But I take it that no benefactors will be in the street at this hour, for there is a law that no one be abroad after nine o' the clock but the King's watch. Let us go into Master Howell's tavern. If there be any benefactors they will be there.
Fourth Watchman.
Ay, we'll go have a pot of ale. But we must come back anon, for there might be honest men abroad.
First Watchman.
Truly, and if any honest men be stirring, they will take it ill that the watch be not by to protect them.
Third Watchman.
But 'tis against the law to be out at this time o' the night; and can a man be a true man and break the law?
First Watchman.
In a case of necessity he
[Exeunt.]
[Enter Guenevere, disguised as a Page, and Galahault.]
Guenevere.
Pray, how much farther is it? We have come
A long way from the palace.
Galahault.
We have but
To cross the little bridge beyond and pass
Under the row of willows to the left,
And we are there. It is a place I built
Some years ago when I had use for it.
But now the flowers have sown themselves at will
And the wild vines, untrimmed, have overflowed
The trellises and run along the ground,
Tangled with violets, and hollyhocks
Start straight and sudden in the very walks.
The simple people of the neighborhood
Say it is haunted, having no way else
To explain infrequent lights and seldom signs
Of habitation in such solitude.
You'll find within that all has been made ready
Even for a queen's sojourn.
Guenevere.
I thank you, sir.
How looked he when you left him?
Galahault.
Why, as one
Who is about to die and has seen heaven
Opening before him.
Guenevere.
But did he send no word?
Oh, pardon me, I have lost all my pride,
And I must hear you speak of him.
Watch
[within].
Ho, there!
Galahault.
Stand close, it is the watch;—and speak no word,
But keep your face in shadow.
[Enter the Watch.]
First Watchman.
Stand all together that they may not rush upon us suddenly and overpower us. —Who goes there?
Galahault.
What, old Griffith! What do you mean, you old oracle? Do you forget me?
First Watchman.
Bless us, masters, if it be
Galahault
[throwing purse].
Drink my health, Griffith,—you and your fellows. And if you get very drunk, I'll see you are none the worse for it. Come, boy.
[Exeunt Galahault and Guenevere.]
Second Watchman.
What did he give you?
First Watchman.
Gold! Ah, there's a prince for you, he is! I have carried him home drunk these many times. He knows what belongs to a gentleman. And did you hear what he called me? An oracle. That's as much as to say, a man of parts. Mark Antony was an oracle—he that killed Cæsar in the play. He killed him oracularly.
Fourth Watchman.
Not a one of you had come back but for me. You were so thirsty you could see naught but the tavern window.
Never you mind. We'll have a drink now as is a drink—and none the worse for waiting and letting our mouths water.
[Exeunt.]
Scene III.
—Merlin's Tower. Merlin. Enter Dagonet, unperceived.Merlin.
Burn, burn, ye leaping flames! And yet in vain.
Ye cannot burn away the prison-bars
That gaol my soul from knowledge. Yet burn on;
A little and a little still I learn.
Yet all the knowledge man can win avails
But to avoid the shock of mighty forces
Which he can neither deviate nor control.
I look out on the rushing of the world
As one who sees the gloom of swirling waters
In the abyss of midnight. On they sweep,
Fatal, resistless, plunging as one mass
From turbulence to booming turbulence.
Whence? Whither? Ye occult unconscious Powers!
How shall I call upon you? By what names?
What incantations?—Fool, what do you here?
Father Merlin, when will the devils appear?
Merlin.
What mean you, Fool?
Dagonet.
Were you not conjuring? I cry you mercy, I thought it was an invocation to Flibbertigibbet. Sir Kaye says that Asmodeus was your father, but the Devil himself will be saved ere his wits stop leaking.
Merlin.
I do not take that. How should his wits leak?
Dagonet.
Marry, I am sure his brain's cracked. He put me in the pillory the other day for making a jest that passed his understanding, but he will be pilloried with my jest long after I have ceased jesting with his pillory.
Merlin.
What, were you in the pillory, Dagonet?
Dagonet.
Long enough to feel an imaginary ruff about my neck still. But by the intercession of the Queen, I was delivered. I hope her issue may be nobler.
Merlin.
Her issue? Where is the sequence in this?
Dagonet.
That if her issue be no nobler than
Merlin.
Why, Fool?
Dagonet.
The Prince of Cameliard is bewitched; he does nothing but sigh.
Merlin.
Why, you should be the physician to heal him of that ailment. For what purpose else does the King keep you?
Dagonet.
Nay, the jester is a physician that heals none but the well. The sick will have none of him, neither the sick in body nor in wit nor in heart; for the sick in their bodies desire the sympathy of long faces; and the sick in their wits think they are mocked, because they do not understand what is said; and the sick in their hearts speak another language—laughter is bitterness to them and their recreation is in groans. And Prince Peredure is in the third of these categories,—he is in love. Indeed, Father Merlin, he is past my medicining, and I would you would cure him.
Merlin.
Would you have me cure youth of love?
Then I were a magician indeed.
And I would counsel you, good Dagonet,
To have an eye upon the Queen of Orkney.
She works with devious indirections, and
This love of Peredure may be to her
A point to rest the lever on, wherewith
She pries at greater matters. Come with me;
I have employment for you. 'T works so, does 't?
Fate lays on her a bitter-hearted life;
Even as long ago I prophesied
That woe should whelm her past all woman's woe
And woe past woman's from her heart should flow
To whelm the world—and Time unwinds it so.
[Exeunt.]
Scene IV.
—A forsaken garden. Launcelot.Launcelot.
It is the hour; and yet they do not come.
The sentinels grow drowsy at their posts;
And the wind rustles through the moonlit leaves
Like one that tosses on a sleepless bed
And wishes for the dawn. The shadows sleep,
And distant dogs behowl the loneliness.
O Moon, look down and lead my love to me! ...
Sir Galahault! Sir Galahault! I wonder
If it were wise to trust to you so far.
Nay, 't is unknightly in me to misdoubt
So true a heart. Who else but he had made
The evil fortune of my love his own
And dared for me all I myself can dare?
And yet to take my joy within his doors,
With secret entrance like a midnight thief,—
It irks me. Bah, I am a fool! What's place
Or time, when I clasp hands with Guenevere?
To look into her eyes is to forget
That space exists, beyond her circling arms!
Hark! did I hear the rustle of a cloak?
Or was 't the wind i' the lilacs?
[Enter Galahault.]
Galahault!
Alone?
Galahault.
Are you alone? And is all safe?
For what I bring with me is worth all Britain.
Launcelot.
All Britain? All the world!
My queen! my queen!
Guenevere.
Sir Galahault, needs must that once you loved.
'T is some lost lady's memory, sure, that stirs
Your will to do these gentle deeds.
Galahault.
I know
Love is the one intelligible word
Life utters.—But I pray you, pardon me [smiling]
,
I know, besides, that though you throw an alms
Of kind thoughts to a man whose life is lived,
The fleet-foot hours are restless to become
Spendthrift of richer treasure. Fare you well!
I will not irk you with a formal leave.
[Exit.]
Guenevere.
Now!
Launcelot.
Heart to heart!
Guenevere.
Oh, do not jar with speech
This perfect chord of silence!—Nay, there needs
Thy throat's deep music. Let thy lips drop words,
Like pearls, between thy kisses.
Launcelot.
Thy speech breaks
Against the interruption of my lips,
Over perpetual pebbles.
Guenevere.
Nay but, love,
It is the saucy pebbles that provoke
The brook's discourse; for, where the bed is smooth,
The waters glide as silent as a Dryad
That disappears among the silent trees.
Launcelot.
And so our kisses still provoke our speech.
Guenevere.
Why, if the night must first be smooth of kisses,
I fear that I shall talk until the dawn.
Launcelot.
Alas, that dawn should be so soon!
Guenevere.
We will
Divide each moment in a thousand parts,
And every part a pearl; and they shall make
A rosary of little lucent globes,
Innumerous as the dewdrops of the dawn:
And, counting them, night shall seem infinite.
Launcelot.
Yet even now we count them, and they pass.
Across your hair, and the night wind may touch
Your throat and chin, as I do now.
Guenevere.
O love,
My lips will weary you, too often kissed.
Launcelot.
Why, then the night will weary of the moon.
Guenevere.
But I'll be strange and chide; and then a cloud
Will pass between you and the moon.
Launcelot.
Nay, then
The moon will 'broider with her light the cloud,—
And I will kiss again, to hear your chiding.
Guenevere.
My voice will weary you, too rarely still.
Launcelot.
Then will the leaves grow weary of the wind.—
Hark, how they laugh into each other's ears
And whisper secrets for pure merriment!
Guenevere.
My love will weary you, too undisguised,
Too wild, too headlong, too unlimited!
Then God will weary of the joy of heaven!
O love, in whom even Love's perversity
Is lovely! O chameleon-colored heart!
Look, I have seen a sky at sunset lapse
From gold and flame to misted violet
And through a thousand shifting colors more,
Olive and pearl and myriad hues of rose,
Each lovelier than the last. Even such a sky
Thy heart is.
Guenevere.
Then must thou be like the sun,
For from his kiss the sky takes on her hue.
And surely, if the sun took human shape,
He would become even such a man as thou,
My live Apollo! Spendthrift of thy brightness!
—Nay, let us stay awhile yet, for the night
Doth seem attunèd to our hearts and they
Incorporate with the night. Was e'er before
Such rapture in the air?
Launcelot.
O teasing Queen!
You slip through my desires and glide away
As a seal swims. Ah, why will you be coy?
More than the last entrains.
Guenevere.
I give you all;
I am no niggard to keep something back.
But yet, I pray you, stay a little while.
There is a sweetness in all things that pass;
We love the moonlight better for the sun,
And the day better when the night is near;
The last look on a place where we have dwelt
Reveals more beauty than we dreamed before,
When it was daily. This is my last hour
Of girlhood; and, although the wider days
Bring greater guerdons and more large delights,
Yet this one thing they shall not bring again.
Love, yet a little while!
Launcelot.
Your girlhood, say you?
Guenevere.
I know not how to tell you—
The morn that followed on my wedding night,
War called the King to Cornwall,—since which hour
I have not seen him.—That one night, indeed,
And shook as one that fears she knows not what,
The King unsheathed his sword Excalibur
And placed it for a sign between us twain,
—And all night long the sword divided us.
Launcelot.
Mine, mine, all mine!
Guenevere.
All thine, my Launcelot,
Body and soul! My husband!
Launcelot.
Ay, dear wife,
Although the cowled monastic trees have been
The only priests of our great bridal.
Guenevere.
Husband!
I laugh into your hair with the mere joy
Of saying it over so. ... The wicked stars
Are twinkling with a mischievous delight
To spy on us.
Launcelot.
Then are they like you now,
The roguery of heaven. Anon, you'll change
And be its splendor and its mystery.
Let us go in; I have seen you as a vision
Of morning in the hills, and as a Queen,
And as the dainty mimicry of a boy;
And clothed upon with moonlight and sweet air.
[They enter the house. Then all is silent, save for a rustle of wind in the leaves and the voice of a distant watchman, calling the hour. A nightingale begins to sing in the thicket.]
Curtain.
| Launcelot and Guenevere | |