University of Virginia Library

Scene III.

The same as Scene I. The spring is more advanced, and the later flowers, lilies especially, have appeared. Some lilies are set in a vase before the shrine of the Virgin. Dagonet is arranging a couch in the garden. Enter Dame Brisen with her arms full of cushions and coverings.
Dame Brisen.

I have been midwife these two and forty years, but never yet saw I woman out of her bed, not to say out of doors, the third day after the child was born. It is against all precedent. But she is that stubborn, you might as well argue with Tintagel.

Dagonet.

Fast asleep. How antique he looks for only two days old!

Dame Brisen.

Ay, this is the third day. He was born on Easter Sunday, of all days in the world. Have you spoken to the fathers at the Abbey concerning his christening? 'T is for to-day.

Dagonet.

Yes, yes. They have gone forth in procession to bless the fields. When they return, at vespers, you 're expected. The abbey will furnish

proxies for the sponsors. This seems to be all done by proxy. I wonder the youngster did not appear by attorney himself.

Dame Brisen.

To take the air in the garden! Is she wiser than all the women since Eve? I wash my hands of the consequences.

Dagonet.

Now, to look at the two of us, who would think that this was a monster of iniquity, not yet washed from his sins, and I one of the saints, clean as a fresh laundered shirt, absolved o' Saturday, communicated o' Sunday, and not having had a chance to commit any sins since?

Dame Brisen.

There, the couch is ready. Mass, I'll not have my fine frock on in time for the christening.

[Going.]
Enter Ylen and Guenevere.
Guenevere
(comes down from the castle with Ylen, and sinks on the couch).
... Oh, why should we bring forth
Children in weakness, not in strength? Why not
Be free and mighty, bearing mighty men,
Yielding our increase as the teeming Earth
That faints not—nay, rather exults and splurges
In her fecundity?

Ylen.
Well, by St. Anne,
Was never woman had less cause than thou
To rail against the curse.

Guenevere.
I am not bedrid;
But yet I am too trammelled for my will,
Which would be in the clouds with yonder hawk
And swoop to its desire.

Dame Brisen.
Madam, what name
Will you have given the child?

Guenevere.
Bring him to me.

Dame Brisen.
He is asleep; I would not wake him, madam,
Until it rings for vespers.

Guenevere.
Let me turn, then,
So I can see him. ... “Wrapped in swaddling clothes.” ...
He shall be christened Galahad.

Dame Brisen.
A fair name.

Ylen.
Why do you choose it?

Guenevere.
I would have him like
His father, even in name. Did you not know
That Launcelot was first named Galahad?

Ylen.
No, sooth.

Guenevere.
Yes, he was christened so; and after
Confirmed and knighted Launcelot of the Lake.

Ylen.
Go, get you ready, Brisen. ... Galahad!

[Exit Dame Brisen.]
Guenevere.
Dagonet, you must post from hence to-night,—
And be you swifter than the hunted fox!
I will not give you letters. Be your memory
My parchment. When you come to Launcelot,
Say I am coming—Were my wish my coach,
I should be there before you. But I fear
I shall not speed it with a courier.
Therefore, I send you first; for every day
That he is ignorant, is a day forgotten.
I would my thoughts were arrows to outspeed
The swallow to him! ... Tell him, he has a son.
—My lips are jealous of the word. Oh, how
Can I let any but myself declare
The wonder to him? ... Fetch me ink and paper.
I will write. You shall bear a letter to him.

Dagonet
(going).

If I had the heels of your will, it would be a quick journey. [Sings.]

[Exit.]
Ylen.
Look where the slow procession of the monks
Crawls through the fields.

Guenevere.
It lies along the downs,
Like a long line of seaweed on the surge.

Ylen.
They are turning homeward.

Guenevere.
Now I look at them,
I almost fancy I can hear their chanting.

Ylen.
That 's a sharp ear.

Guenevere.
Nay, surely I can hear them.

Re-enter Dagonet, with pens, ink, and paper, which he arranges by Guenevere's side on a table.
Monks
(chanting, far off, very faintly).

Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper * et in sæcula sæculorum. Amen.

Guenevere.
I will not write ... Tell him ... tell him ... Now what
Can he be told by any messenger?
Be letter perfect and there 's something gone
That was the real message. ... I will write.

[Writes.]
Monks
(without, nearer).

... exitus matutini et vespere delectabis.

Visitasti terram, et inebriasti eam * multiplicasti locupletare eam.

Flumen Dei repletum est aquis, parasti cibum illorum * quoniam ita est præparatio ejus.

Rivos ejus inebria, multiplica genimina ejus * in stillicidiis ejus lætabitur germinans.

Benedices coronæ anni benignitatis tuæ * et campi tui replebuntur ubertate.

Pinguescent speciosa deserti * et exultatione colles accingentur.

Induti sunt arietes ovium, et valles abundabunt frumento * clamabunt, etenim hymnum dicent.

Gloria Patri, et Filio * et Spiritui Sancto;

Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper * et in sæcula sæculorum. Amen.

[With the Gloria the procession of monks begins to come in sight. First, one with a banner bearing the device of a lion; next, one with a banner bearing the device of a dragon; then follow the lay brothers, in the brown habits of the order; then the priests, who wear surplices over their

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cowls; lastly, the abbot, in cope and mitre, preceded by an acolyte carrying a cross. As the first monk, with the banner of the lion, passes, Guenevere, having written her letter and sealed it, turns to Dagonet, who is looking at the monks. Ylen sits with Guenevere on the couch, and the three watch the procession silently, until it has passed.]

Domini est terra, et plenitudo ejus * orbis terrarum, et universi qui habitant in eo.

Quia ipse super maria fundavit eum * et super flumina præparavit eum.

Quis ascendet in montem Domini * aut quis stabit in loco sancto ejus?

Innocens manibus, et mundo corde * qui non accepit in [The procession passes out of sight.]
vano animam suam, nec juravit in dolo proximo suo.

Hic accipiet benedictionem a Domino ...

Guenevere.

Here is the letter. Guard it with thy life.

Dagonet
(Taking letter).

Better yet, with my wits, and with my heels. I will go in and furnish myself for the journey. Fare you well, madam. Fare you well, my liege. Now to see the world.

[Exit.]
Enter Dame Brisen, hurriedly.
Dame Brisen.

It is nigh on the hour. I shall be late. The fathers are already—... [She is about to take up the child in her arms, and suddenly breaks off speaking. The others, startled, look up, and, following

her gaze, perceive Merlin standing in the gate. Guenevere rises, but Ylen remains seated on the couch.]

Monks
(without, in the distance).

Quis est iste Rex gloriæ? * Dominus virtutum ipse est Rex gloriæ.

Enter Merlin.
Ylen.
You are welcome, Merlin. That I do not rise,
My sickness must excuse. Will you go in?
Or shall our Brisen bring us cakes and wine
Here in the garden?

Merlin.
Madam, bravely played.
But you, O Queen, why do you rise and stand
Alert, with quivering nostril? Sit you down,
And have no fear of me.

Guenevere.
I fear you not.

Merlin.
The labor to play out your comedy
Is much ado for nothing. I'll be plain.
(To Ylen.)
You, who are childless, must not seem to be;
(To Guenevere.)
And you, who are not childless, must be thought so.
And so your riddle is reed. Now drop your masks.
Why feign deceit, since I am not deceived?

Guenevere.
Nay, then, you know. (Sinking on couch.)
God knows I love not masks.
It is a bitter thing to lie—to hide
As if you were ashamed of what you lived!
I tell thee, Merlin, I am proud of it,—
Proud of my love, proud of my lover, proud—
Ay, prouder of my child than of my crown!
I would I could go out into the streets
And show him with a boast. I would the world
Might know how much to envy is my joy!
And I must lie—like some poor penny thief
That thinks to 'scape a flogging; I must lie,
Like a base mind that dares not let its thoughts
Out-doors, lest it be seen how vile they are.
It doth unburden me to speak at last
And not degrade myself. You know the truth.
What will you do? I must know what's to be—
The worst!—or best. ... And yet I do not know
What I hold worst or best. ... What will you do?

Merlin.
Nothing.

Guenevere.
Nothing?

Merlin.
Nothing. I judge you not.
I am very old; men call me very wise;
But neither in the codes the Romans brought us,
Nor in the teaching of the Christian monks,
Nor in the stars, nor in the crucible,
No, nor in those dark elder mysteries
The immemorial Druidic years
Down the dim arches of the woods of Time
Have whispered to each other, in the aloof
And native shades of Britain, which are now
A vague tradition of the rustling oak;
Not in all these, nor in all-testing Life
That heeds not our conclusions, have I found
That there is any wisdom beyond this,
To keep oneself from judgment. In myself
Are undiscovered countries; how should I
Map out the wildernesses in another?
In those uncharted regions of your soul,
There are events of which you never dreamed
That yet have drawn your whole life after them.
I have to do only with how your deeds
Affect the State. And it imports the State
That what you have concealed should be concealed.
And therefore have I sought you, that it may
The better be concealed and that we cross not
Each other's purposes.

[The bells of the abbey begin to ring in the distance; and they continue ringing until the end of the scene.]
Dame Brisen.
It rings for vespers.
Shall I not hasten, madam?

Guenevere.
You may go.

Merlin.
Wait. Let me see the child. ... If I mistake not,
We two have stood beneath the sacred oak
Together. You were young and very fair ...

Dame Brisen.
I was that Druid priestess.

Merlin.
And since then
Men say that you have witnessed darker rites.

Dame Brisen.
Men say they know not what.

Merlin.
But you are she,
That Brisen whom I mean.

Dame Brisen.
I am that Brisen.

Merlin.
The sight is on me. I behold this child
Grown to a man; the armor that he bears
Is silvern pale; he stands among the knights
Like a white birch among grim-visaged pines;
He is like a moon-lit pillar in the night;
And angels float unseen above his head,
Bearing the Holy Graal.

Guenevere.
The Holy Graal!

Merlin.
Ay, this is he that shall achieve the Graal;
Whose birth has been foretold in prophecies
Even since King Evelac's time. This is the man
Of whom the seers have spoken, saying: He
Shall be a knight without a peer, stainless,
A virgin, set apart unto the Lord.
His arm shall be like David's, and his sword
Like Michael's when he leads the seraphim.
None shall withstand him; the immaterial Fiend
Dare not affront the flame along his blade.
So he shall pass across the twilight world
Like a white meteor and disappear
None knoweth how nor whither.

Guenevere.
Strange and holy
I know he is. In the still hours I have heard
The footfalls of celestial visitants.
Strange spells have come upon me. And I
Who am not wont to pray, have felt my soul
Become a phraseless prayer and lie, like night,
Bare to the stars. ... God, is it no sacrifice
I lay upon thy dark and shadowy altar?
Never to call him son, never to feel
His little arms about my neck, never
To hear his wakening spirit turn to mine
Its dear unfolding loves ... and now, even now
To leave him! ... I shall watch him from afar;
His glory will be trumpets in my heart;
But the great gulfs of silence are between us.
You dark remorseless creditors that exact
Our debts with usury, is it not enough? ...

Curtain.
[The bells continue to ring a few moments after the curtain falls.]