 | Canute the Great |  |
Scene IV.
Glastonbury.Early morning. The burial-ground; beyond, the church, open, disclosing Edmund's tomb, by which Canute stands.
Enter Archbishop Ethelnoth and a Monk.
Monk.
Doth the king still keep vigil?
Ethelnoth.
I have watched unseen through the whole
night. Sometimes he would be restlessly pacing; and
anon, he would hide his face—dash his rosary to earth.
But his great, fierce hands showed the wrestling. In the
third watch a change came; his prayers were all said;
he turned from the tomb, and looked up. Then he fell
a musing, long, long. It was just when the day trembled,
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a child. After that he never moved till the bell sounded
for matins.
Monk.
Monuments all about him, and he had no
fear of the dead?
Ethelnoth.
Not the least: he looked often at the
graves, with a kingly eye too.
Monk.
You think he is penitent?
Ethelnoth.
I would fain have questioned him: his
face was so full of responses. But there was a privacy
about it, kept me well in the shadow.
Monk.
This is curious. If he should have a great
vision to recount! Did his brows shine?
Ethelnoth.
Well, to be honest, there is nothing in
Scripture comparable with his aspect. The bright colour
is come back to his cheeks; and his eyes burn again like
stars. He looked sickly so long.
Monk.
Yes; and it is marvellous a night in the chapel
should recover him. I could never live through it.
There is so much that is supernatural. But he does not
know how the corpses bloom about him—fresh as resurrection-morn;
he has never seen a saint's coffin
opened, nor breathed the fragrant, spiced air from the
lips. He is back now at his prayers.
Ethelnoth.
And the sunlight of the dawn is over him.
His head glows like an altar seized by God's descent.
I must see now that he rests and has meat. He will
suddenly hunger, and then no patience. It is the swoop
of the falcon on the woodcock. Get within.
[Exit Monk.]
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I trust you have found peace and absolution?
Canute.
'Tis for King Edmund that I kept the watch:
I said the prayers, the great mulct for his soul;
My task was ended long since in the dark.
Ethelnoth.
It should have kept you lowly on your knees
Till dawn. A penance—have you learnt them all,
The varied, slow, humiliating rites?
Canute.
'Tis little that I know except the creed,
And Pater-noster that Christ sang Himself,
And taught to His disciples: seven prayers
There are in that Divine one, and he sends
To God a message touching every want
A man may have, who sings it in his heart,
As I above this tomb. Oh, I have deeply
Foredone myself; but mercy hath been shown me,
And I for ever shall hold fast in thought
All this night's miracle.
Ethelnoth.
Confide the vision.
You have an aspect most mysterious,
As God had forced an entrance to your soul.
Canute.
O Ethelnoth, I have given up the keys of the
city to Him. There is no warfare longer between us.
They are wonderful Hands to fall into, and a wide world
that is opening. I must be a pilgrim.
Ethelnoth.
Then you saw one call you to St. Peter's
dome; or St. Joseph, who himself took the young Child
to a new country, with his wanderer's staff pointed your
route?
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No; 'tis the need of travel,
That I may think. God is a law-giver,
And in the mysteries of nature prints
The characters of rule. All things with Him
Are from a source, and of necessity
As stern as that which makes corruption sequence
To the slacked bonds of life.
Ethelnoth.
How shall you journey?
Canute.
Not by the sea—that's pagan; by slow highways,
Pausing at cities.
Ethelnoth.
This is worldly business,
Of which your soul will get no benefit.
Canute
[pointing to the altar].
Are your eyes glutted with the treasure there?
My breach of faith has opened intercourse
'Twixt me and heaven: we do not haggle now
On the first point at issue. Oh, this large,
Wide world of sorrow—'tis as I had entered
A kingdom. Let us out into the light.
[Turning to the burial-ground.]
Such very early morning, autumn-time,
A rigour in the air; from the dark chapel
How sharp the contrast!—golden sycamores,
The dew a filmy veil across the grass,
The blue mist o' the orchard. 'Tis the moment
When nature puts on immortality,
Casting her mortal weeds, and this elation
Springs from itself, a current in the air
That hath no ripple.
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From the Fount of God
I have drunk and am refreshed. My Edmund's England
Shall be no fleeting kingdom. Ethelnoth— [Exeunt into the Church, conversing, and finally joining the procession.]
Monk.
Why, he looks like a bridegroom coming out
of his chamber. I will at once set this down. How
he towers above the band of brethren! Heaven's favour
is assuredly upon him—and so beautiful! He has the
roses and lilies of a woman—not like brother Thurstan,
with the great, red patches in his cheeks. But it's in the
Scriptures—holiness always gets into the skin. My complexion
is a poor witness to my sanctity.
[Exit into the Church.]
[Enter Emma into the burial-ground.]
Emma.
Love, love!—I'll learn it in the burial-ground;
Love, love!—they think that I come here to pray?
Ay, as monks pace this path in orisons
To be beloved—of God. What dost thou here,
[Enter Thororin.]
My Thororin, in this drear water-land,
This isle of apple-orchards? Thou stand'st mute.
I left thy noble Viking at the tomb
Of Edmund, weeping; some vicissitude
Has fallen on him; he is shrunk and shamed.
Thororin.
And changed to thee, my queen?
Emma.
Oh, Heaven severs
More hearts than it unites. Thou art a poet,
And hath he banished thee his company?
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We two have stood together when the stars
Shone straight down in the sea, and I have sped
The ship with music fleeter than the wind.
I will to sea; there I shall dream of him,
Ah, there I shall recover—
Emma.
Thororin,
Thou hast my queenly heart. I can disburthen
Only to thee—a priest is judge of sin:
Who cares for sin? Who would be healed of that?
The hunger and the thirst about the heart
The poet can assuage; he knows the truth—
That love is the religion, and the body
But a poor pagan till it learn its rites.
We were so happy: none should look on lovers;
I' the world 'tis outrage, and on Heaven's part
It spoils the privacy. Two souls alone
With the blind sky and unrecording earth
To witness them—then there may be disclosures,
Deep, amorous friendship; but with God to watch—
He's made all ill betwixt us.
Thororin.
I have lost
The poet's joy, for in my Danish lord
All Sagas were accomplished. He betrays
Imagination, and the trust of song;
He has befooled my dreams, and I will go.
With me flies Gunhild; when she heard the king
Was praying, with an altered countenance,
She tossed her arms and cried, He is undone,
No hope for Scandinavia, but his child—
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Emma.
She would bless
My babe if she beheld him; he is featured
Like Gorm, his father's lawless grandfather
And stares out at the sea.
Thororin.
Yea, she spake true;—
Our king is lost; last night I saw him shudder
Passing my harp, and my resolve is taken.
He shall not look upon the sacred creature,
That never speaks save to proclaim its love.
Withdraw your heart as I the instrument
That has no music for him.
Emma.
Oh, to cease
From loving is impossible. He's changed,
I recognise it, but the man in him
Endures; the tough love overlives these things;
I could not quite forsake him. I will labour
To found fair abbeys, and enrich the Church,
Then, 'tis my last ambition, he will build
A stately tomb for me—a marriage bed;
For I shall lie and listen to his voice,
Awake and trembling: he will talk of sin,
And pray, and stumble in the Latin words,
Till I shall laugh to hear him, but his thought
Will be of a gold-haired and royal saint,
Serene at God's right hand, and meet for worship.
'Twill please me, as I moulder at his knee,
To know he has that picture, and that Emma
Draws him o' nights to the moonlighted choir.
You sing love overlives death: sing it loud
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Thororin.
Nay, be yourself, show you despise this doting,
Show how ignoble is a reign of peace.
This sleepy air is not for warriors;
Rouse him to conquest; let him see your scorn.
Emma.
And alienate him so. Have you not learnt,
My poet, love is the great, feigning art;
Itself the desperate, deep reality
That puts on all disguises? Feign to love,
All living creatures crowd to jeer at you,
Dead in dissimulation: be a lover,
And all that your belovèd covets most
You will become. Did my lord set his heart
On gem, or missal, I would gratify
His whim, and now saints are his admiration—
Thororin.
O noble-featured queen, you cannot grow
One of these petty women, with blank faces;
Your brow gleams as the flashing, northern sky,
And you will cease to charm him when you wear
A stagnant, dull sobriety.
[Re-enter Canute, Ethelnoth, and procession from the church. King and Archbishop walk apart.]
Emma.
He comes;
Is he not beautiful, a very hero?
To Norway! Spread his glory in the North!
When the great battle-lust possesses him
He will be perfect pagan. Oh, I love thee,
For thou hast sung of that in all the world
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And endless iteration.
Thororin.
Come away!
Let us not look on him. The bells and chanting
Have thrust the homely sagas from his mind.
Emma.
O harp, that keeps him famous through the world,
O Thororin, my poet, on thy brows
I set my lips. Couple my name with his;
Sing of our kingly bairn.—Forget the rest—
Sing of his glory, sing the conqueror.
Thororin
[scowling at Canute].
A tattling penitent! Oh, I will tell
Great lies to make men tremble at thy name,
And thou shalt burn and harry like the rest,
The son of Swend, but fiercer in destruction.
I will keep faith with thee; my harp shall never
Know thy dishonour.
Emma.
Seven battlefields
Thou hast to sing, and Edmund's overthrow.
Farewell! [Exit Thororin; she watches Canute.]
He doth not even look on me,
There is a seeking passion in his face,
He's thinking how he best can serve his God.
Some faces never alter.
[Ethelnoth advances to her.]
Ethelnoth.
Noble lady,
What do you in the early morning air?
Emma
[aside].
He thinks I am so wrinkled and so stricken
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Shall dazzle and humiliate the monk,
And then— [glances at Canute]
'Tis said you lived here as a boy.
Archbishop, you have often paced this path
Among the abbey dead,—I came here humbly
To look for sepulture; my waning years
Incline me earthward, as those stooping trees
Bend their decaying branches to the ground.
Ethelnoth.
Daughter, these precints are not yet for you;
There's summer on your features, and your hair
Is radiant as Queen Guinevere's, whose bones
Moulder beneath you.
Emma
[shuddering].
Have I found the grave
Of Guinevere?
Ethelnoth.
Yes, lady, it was opened
Six years ago—the bloom still on her face,
But dusty.
Emma
[kneeling].
Will you let me lie beside
This lovely queen? Oh, deeper in the earth!
[Flings herself on the ground.]
I am an ageing woman:—meet I die,
And give him my wild soul to wanton with.
[Canute passes near her.]
God, he is cruel, with sharp instruments
He's cutting at my heart. Ah, blessèd father,
Did we twain walk together, we would found
Such stately houses, for I love the Church;
Yet oh!—it is my mortal sin—my husband
Is foremost in my heart.
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This reverie
Hath been too much prolonged, he doth not notice
His noble queen; she is a royal creature,
Doubtless of great munificence. I'll bring
This pair together.
Emma.
All my revenues,
If you can make him penitent of this,
His infamous neglect.
[Ethelnoth walks apart with Canute.]
In very truth,
My heart will burst its banks from this contraction
And pressure of my rage. I do not feign;
The fury in me doth transgress the limits
Of life's determined channels.
[Exit Ethelnoth.]
Canute
[approaching.]
Desolate!
My lady, with her bright hair in the grass
Untressed. Ah! you mistake; it was not here
They laid the king we murdered.
Emma.
Here is buried
Our Arthur, faultless monarch of the West,
And Guinevere, his beauteous, wicked queen.
Oh, give me leave my lord, to lie with her.
Canute.
You say that she was wicked.
Emma.
So am I.
She had a heart too passionate, and beauty
That bore no bloom save in the clime of love.
We shall speak low together; she will prate
Of Lancelot, but I shall say my husband
Was my sole lover, and became a pilgrim:
I lay a shrouded figure on the bed,
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Canute.
Emma, my precious queen,
You make me stark with horror: for my soul
I go to Rome; for I have wrought a deed
So black, so diabolical, I shudder
For hell by day and night. The time will come
When it will be far better for us, far,
Than all on middle earth, that we had ever
Performed God's will, and very earnestly
Loved Him with inward heart.
Emma.
You grow religious,
The ties of earth unloose. Make no farewell,
Do not come near me living; but this favour
I ask of you, when you return from Rome,
Visit my grave. You will have learnt how lowly
The courtesy to death.
Canute.
O Emma, Emma,
My greatest, dearest, it was in your heart
To put away my rival.
Emma.
You can pray,
It is the chief use of your lips. I'll die!
[Stooping over Guinevere's grave.]
I would be buried with my kind; your place
Will be by flawless Arthur.
Canute.
Do you jeer?
Then I will fling you off from bed and board.
Emma.
Clip my long hair, and dress me as a nun?
I prithee give me into custody
O' the archbishop. To the barrèd cell!
For he is gentle; he will bring my boy
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Canute.
You will make him
A murderer, a traitor.
Emma.
Like his father!
Canute.
Since penitents are dumb beneath the scourge,
I do not chide you. [Aside.]
There is strength in me
To judge her, and condemn. A fatal creature!
Can you repent?
Emma.
Of noble Edmund's death?
Most bitterly—for England has no king,
[Canute turns away.]
And he had royal gifts. Oh, I am mad
Thus from the grass to hiss at him. He goes;
Then all is disannulled between our lives,—
I am a lonely corpse. Help, help! Come back!
Canute.
What would the queen with an unkingly man,
Whose crown she shares?
Emma.
A lie, a hateful lie.
The wet mould at my breast is chill, and bitter
The memories that come up through the turf
Of that lost woman.
Canute.
Emma, do you find
Your mate in her?
Emma.
Yea, since she sinned for love.
There is no wickedness I would not work,
No crimes so monstrous that it would not seem
Part of my wifely duty, no deception
I would not practise for your dear advance.
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My guilt. [Aside.]
I am not feigning, so my nature
Yearns for his deeper love.—My noble Dane,
[Re-enter Ethelnoth fearfully.]
Your glory I have dimmed; as I deserve,
Put me away from you.
Ethelnoth
[distractedly].
This must not be,
What God has joined—
Canute.
Sever you not, you fool,
With priestly intervention. She is mine!
[Raising and clasping Emma. Exit Ethelnoth.]
Mine, mine,—the dearer for her wickedness,
The more to be desired! Be not afraid,
I have learnt this, sin is a mighty bond
'Twixt God and man. Love that hath ne'er forgiven
Is virgin and untender; spousal passion
Becomes acquainted with life's vilest things,
Transmutes them, and exalts. Oh, wonderful,
This touch of pardon,—all the shame cast out;
The heart a-ripple with the gaiety,
The leaping consciousness that Heaven knows all,
And yet esteems us royal. Think of it—
The joy, the hope!
Emma.
The joy! To see your face
Turned to my brow, that's joy; and if your soul
Could even thus incline to my poor spirit,
All would be firm between us. I am old,
And fixed in disposition, hard to move,
Not changed in one rare day. Oh, you are young;
Have patience, give me slowly of your hopes,
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All royalty was gone. But you are great
Beyond our nuptial night, beyond the day
That saw us crowned together.
Canute.
Starry tears,
Such as the northern seas dashed in the face
Of your young Viking.
Emma.
O Canute, these words
Give me a home again upon your breast.
Not wholly changed!
Canute.
For thou art mine. Thus linked,
We will serve England; law and peacefulness
Shall, of our effort, dwell within her shores.
My brother could no more.
Emma.
This altar-cloth
Hid in my robe—I had it in my thought
To lay it secretly on Edmund's shrine.
Will you present it?
Canute.
O my Elfgifu,
Say that you wrought it carefully with tears.
Emma.
No; God forbid the foul hypocrisy!
These blue and shining peacocks that I sewed
Were for pure love, and every lady-stitch
Entwisted for your sake.
Canute.
A frank confession.
[Aside.]
The glorious, golden heart!—Then we together
Will lay it on our kingly brother's tomb.
Emma, the holy places I have wrecked
Make ruin in my dreams.
Emma.
With all my relics
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Great houses. [Aside.]
Now his eyes are shed on me
Full as the morning sun.—And for our England
We will take common thought.
Canute.
Her sons shall serve
One God and worship Him, one Christendom
For ever hold, and with right truthfulness,
Even as thou, shall love Canute their lord.
And I have vowed, in that I basely slew
Their hero-king, that all my altered years
Shall be a great atonement, and accomplish
The best of his conception. We are led
By baffling roads to wisdom, but a light
Creeps ever after as we step along;
I turned back in my sin, and then I saw
The dogging lustre. Let us take our gift,
Your work, my queen, to Edmund's sepulchre.
This is to be a pilgrim:—the new life
Is full of blessing. Come!
[Exeunt into the Church.]
| Canute the Great | |