University of Virginia Library



5. V. The Holy Graal and Other Fragments


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THE HOLY GRAAL

A Tragedy


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  • Arthur, King of Britain.
  • Dubric, Archbishop of Canterbury.
  • Launcelot, Knight of the Round Table.
  • Galahault, Knight of the Round Table.
  • Lamoracke, Knight of the Round Table.
  • Bors De Ganys, Knight of the Round Table.
  • Galahad, son of Launcelot, Knight of the Round Table.
  • Percival, brother of Lamoracke, Knight of the Round Table.
  • Gawaine, Son of Morgause. Knight of the Round Table.
  • Agravaine, Son of Morgause. Knight of the Round Table.
  • Gaheris, Son of Morgause. Knight of the Round Table.
  • Gareth, Son of Morgause. Knight of the Round Table.
  • Mordred. Son of Morgause. Knight of the Round Table.
  • Kaye, Knight of the Round Table.
  • Taliesin, a Bard.
  • Dagonet, a Jester.
  • Pander.
  • Porter.
  • Guenevere, Queen of Britain.
  • Morgause, Queen of Orkney.
  • Morgana, an Enchantress, Queen of Gore.
  • Madelon, sister of Percival.
  • Sendal.
  • Guimere.
  • Lionors.
Knights, Ladies, Priests, Monks, Harlots, Soldiers, Attendants, Pages, etc.

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ACT I.

SCENE I.

—The Castle of Morgause, Queen of Orkney. A Chamber. Morgause, standing by a window. Morgana.
Morgause.
Is there no charm to overturn his state?
No magic net to cast about his legs
And trip him in his triumph? Where's that skill
For which the ignorant people call you witch
And even the learned, seeing the strange control
With which you make the laws of things o'ercome
And contradict themselves, call by your name
The emancipated worlds that hang in the clouds,
Fata Morgana—where's the use of witchcraft
When Arthur lives and waxes? Oh, for some horror
To strike him helpless, paralyzed, aghast,

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With doom advancing on him! Why, he grows
Too great for this small world, and his vast stride
Will shortly plant one foot out on the moon
And straddle space for empire. The old heroes
Are clean forgot, and every piping poet
Must squeak of Arthur, where the antique bards
Sang the divine deeds of the sons of gods.

Morgana.
What share have we in it? We are his sisters,
Or else he is no king. Where, then, our part
I' the pageant and the power?

Morgause.
He knows well
We are no sisters to him. He is a changeling,
A base-born upstart, an abandoned bastard—
Who knows save Merlin?—Merlin's son, perhaps,
And grandson to the Devil.

Morgana.
He has scorned us.
You know that once I stole Excalibur,
The sword and scabbard, and for proxy left
A false and brittle weapon by his bed,
Where he slept heavily beneath my spell;
And that Sir Accolon took the great sword

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And fought with him, and yet the King o'ercame,
Though weak with wounds and well-nigh weaponless.
He slew Sir Accolon—

Morgause.
Alas, my sister!

Morgana.
Tut, can a dead man longer give us joy?
He slew Sir Accolon, but slew not me,
Who was his worser foe. You knew all this,
But knew not that I sought his couch again
Where, seeing the sword clutched in his sleeping hand,
I durst not touch it; but the sheath I took
And cast it in the pool.

Morgause.
And to what end?
Men fight not with their sheaths.

Morgana.
There spoke the unlearned.
Not by the forthright and the obvious way
Is knowledge won or power. Upon this sheath
There is a prophecy that his fortunes hang
And on its loss the loss of all his weal.

Morgause.
And you believe this?


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Morgana.
I have studied long
In learning fearsome to the general,
And marvels have become my commonplaces,
And now I prophesy that from this hour
The flood of Arthur's destiny stands still
And lapses to its ebb.

Morgause.
Look yonder! Look!
A rider in the road!—a knight!—Ah me,
If it were Lamoracke!

Morgana.
Give heed to me.
You were not wont to be a lovesick girl
In your amours. I go to Camelot,
Where I would have your son, Sir Mordred, come—

Morgause.
Mordred, my son?

Morgana.
You shudder at his name.

Morgause.
He and his name alike are dreadful to me.

Morgana.
Your son, Sir Mordred, whom you bore to Arthur,
Before you found him so unlovable.


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Morgause.
What said he then of brother or of sister?
An idle tale to help him to the throne,
For which he spat on me!—The knight draws near.—
Hell were too brief to give my outrage ease!—
'Tis he! 'Tis Lamoracke.

Morgana.
Now out upon you
For a weak fool! Is this to wreak revenge?
I come to show the way. Send Mordred to me
Disguised, for Arthur cannot bear his face.
It is as sure as there is truth in hell
That he shall kill the King. My nightly devil—

Morgause.
He is at the drawbridge. See, he enters in!
—Oh, Mordred shall be told. His hate no more
Than mine needs your exciting. I have lived
So long with hate it hath become unconscious;
Nor would I think of it,—it has grown tiresome,—
And I would have some joy before I die.
Love is more novel. Oh, I shall remember!
[Enter Lamoracke.]
O Lamoracke!


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Morgana.
Nay, farewell then! I'll not stay
To listen love-songs.

Lamoracke.
Not so fast, fair lady,
For I have news to make you gasp with wonder.

Morgause.
No tenderer greeting! Do you fear my sister?
I do not say that she's not dangerous;
But since when have we loved like timid wives
And startled cavaliers that meet by stealth
And dare not fling their deeds in the world's face
And scoff at scandal? Would all Camelot
Knew with what scorn their coward decencies
And creeds that have no birth behind the lips—
Why, what's the matter, sir?

Lamoracke.
Though all my soul
Cry out to reach you, I may not advance.
I have sworn a vow.

Morgana.
This is most strange.

Morgause.
A vow!

Lamoracke.
'Tis but three days ago I left you. Well,

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Three days will serve as well as thirty years
To make the world all over. I have seen
It is another kind of world than that
I thought it. I accept what I have seen.

Morgana.
More mysteries! Your news, sir.

Lamoracke.
Yesterday
There came a young lad to the Court,—by heaven,
A beardless boy, as frail as some slim girl
With pale thin face and sad unheeding eyes
That men remember when they have passed by.
This child—what think you that he came to seek?
Knighthood—the heavy arms of strong men and
The stress of errantry. By God, no less!
Then came Sir Launcelot and called him son
And knighted him; and in the joust that day
He did unhorse me, me whose name men speak
With Launcelot's and Tristram's. This he did,
This stripling, Galahad, Sir Launcelot's son.

Morgana.
What, has the faithful Launcelot proved untrue?

Lamoracke.
No man dare say that Launcelot e'er was false

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To Guenevere. This is the tale they tell.
Elaine, the daughter of King Pelleas,
Loved him, and knowing him too true to see
In all the world but one fair woman's love,
Got her old nurse, Dame Brisen, with enchantments
To clothe her in the likeness of the Queen.
Then came she in to Launcelot and he,
Unwitting was deceived; and in this wise
Was Galahad engendered.

Morgause.
Come, your vow!

Morgana.
This is the tale he told to Guenevere;
How easily men think us to be gulled.

Morgause.
What care I for this boy? There's more behind.

Lamoracke.
The selfsame night, the jousting being done,
And the King being absent with Sir Galahault,
Sir Kaye and others on affairs of state,
We sat us down to feast; whereat this boy,
This Galahad, being new-come to our board,
Cast but a glance about the great Round Table,

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And with the sudden sureness of a shaft
Gained his quick-chosen seat,—a throne wherein
Not the great King himself e'er dared to rest,
And Merlin called it the Siege Perilous.
For it was written that no man might sit
Within that seat, save one it waited for,
But he should die. Therein the boy sat down
And died not, but his face seemed glorified,
And a great marveling went about the hall.

Morgana.
So had it been with you, had you sat there,
Or any other knight. Now it is strange
How men will dread their own imaginings.

Lamoracke.
There as we sat, expectant of strange things,
A sudden storm arose, and the quick lightnings
Made pale and lurid in recurrent change
The torches of our feast; and each man spoke
Hoarse or in whispers or with measured voice
As each one felt in his own way the awe
That calms the air before prodigious births.
What happened then I cannot well report,

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For I was all confused; but Percival
My brother saith it was the Holy Graal
That passed before our eyes, the very Cup
Wherein Our Lord first shed his mystic Blood,
Brought by the saint from Palestine and shrined
At Glastonbury many centuries.
Long since it vanished and it now returns
To bring the golden ages back to us.
I saw it not but saw its radiance
And felt its power. So, silent for a space
We stood, till Gawaine broke the hush and swore
An oath that for a twelvemonth and a day
No lust of body nor no lust of praise
Nor aught that chains us to this middle-earth
Should intercept him but he should attain
This quest. And all we swore it after him.

Morgana.
Virgins! Ha! Ha! The Knights of Camelot
Sworn virgins for a year!

Lamoracke.
It is our oath.

Morgana.
Then I may safely leave you with my sister.

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Farewell, sir. I'm in haste for Camelot
Where lords are welcome more than ladies now.
Sister, forget not to send on a man.
Farewell! La! virgins!

[Exit laughing.]
Morgause.
Lamoracke!

Lamoracke.
Morgause!
I could not leave—I could not go away
Upon so far—so vague—I know not what—
Without a last farewell.

Morgause.
So far? Would you be further
If you in truth had found the Holy Graal
On the other side of Nowhere?

Lamoracke.
I have sworn.

Morgause.
Sworn what? Sworn infidelity? Sworn hate?
Then why are you come here? O Lamoracke!
Say it is false, say that my ears have lied,
You said it not, you swore no vow. Kiss me
And say it is not true.

Lamoracke.
It is the truth.


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Morgause.
Why should you take a quest like this upon you?
You are no visionary.

Lamoracke.
The rest swore and I swore.

Morgause.
How little we are to you? Why, a woman—
[OMITTED]
And you betray us for a summer dream.

Lamoracke.
Look you, I have no great faith in this quest.
Such things may be for Galahad—not for me.
But I have undertaken it. Stand not you
Between me and the trial. I have come
Straining a bond which yet I will not break
For parting and not pleasure. Let us part.

Morgause.
Since it must be, then, and the love you swore
Is all so weak, since all our joy must pass
And that sweet season when life san for us
With lips that half forgot old cruelties,
—Do you remember when you kissed me first?
Ah, I remember, for the sun seemed then

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To burst the black clouds that o'erroofed my life,
And all the quivering color of the day
And happy voices of all living things
Began then. Ah, how wicked I had been—
How joyless you will never know. You saved me
—Love saved me, love reconciles all ill—
But let that pass. Since all this now is done,
One boon, for dead love's sake, ere love be dead.

Lamoracke.
So that it be not to forego the quest,
Anything!

Morgause.
One last night of joy.

Lamoracke.
Of joy?

Morgause.
Nay, start not, nothing that your vow forbids.
One night of revelry in innocence
As in the old days when you found me here
And cheered my desolation ere we loved
As we have loved.

Lamoracke.
So be it.


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Morgause.
Lionors!
[Sings]
O merry when the owlet calls
Across the moonlit snow!
And merry in the Devil's halls
Where such as we must go
Lionors!
[Enter Lionors.]
Quick, uncorslet the good knight—
Or stay, no hands but mine shall do that office.
Be ready with a bowl to lave his hands
In orient perfumes—and fetch in a mantle
Of softest sarsnet, rich in broideries.
[Exit Lionors]
[Sings as she undoes his armor.]
It was a Knight and a fair Lady—
Sing, all the winds are still!
She took the helmet from his head
And oh but her cheeks were rosy-red—
And hark, the partridge over the hill!
[Re-enter Lionors with mantle, and Attendant with bowl, etc.]

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It was a Knight and a fair Lady—
Sing, all the winds are stirring!
She loved him more than love can tell,
But he left her soul to the hounds of hell—
A soul or a bird, in the wind went whirring?
[Exeunt Lionors and Attendant.]
[The context of this song of Morgause is among the lost material.]
O I've come back to hell, My Dears,
O I've come back to hell.
The bliss of the saints is long complaints,
So I've come back to hell.
O I've come back to hell, My Dears,
O I've come back to hell.
Love's joy is sweet but bitter fleet,
So I've come back to hell.
O I've come back to hell, My Dears,
O I've come back to hell.
Love's joy being done what better fun
Than back to the joys of hell.


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SCENE II.

—A Courtyard. Fountain playing, flowers, etc. Pander and Porter on a bench, throwing dice.
Pander.

The devil's in the dice. I'll play no more to-day. God be praised, trade was never more brisk, and we have the finest pieces of women's flesh in fifty leagues. Else your cursed luck had drained me as dry as a worm-eaten walnut.


Porter.

Fortune's a balky filly; you must ride hard while she is in mood to carry you.


[Knocking.]
Pander.
More gallants! Well, I see Venus isn't ungodessed yet.
[Exit Porter.]
He that would get gold, let him sell the necessities of life.
[Enter Percival and Galahad.]
Good evening, gentlemen, and a merry night to you. I'll go call the ladies.
[Exit Pander.]

Percival.
That's an odd varlet.

Galahad.
Ay? I did not mark him.

Percival.
I liked him not. This is a pleasant place.


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Galahad.
How beautiful are lilies! See them raise
Their crowned heads like royalties above
Their lowlier fellows. There's no king on earth
So simply all-sufficient to his life
As these. There is a touch of God in them.

Percival.
It is the glory of man that he must strive.

Galahad.
That he may reach their rounded life at last.

Percival.
No more than these?

Galahad.
Ay, more than these, no doubt,
But filling out his vaster orb of life
And love and contemplation with the same
Serene completeness and untroubled poise,
Not fretful, not unsatisfied, not eager,
But calm, great, un ...
Like lilies in the garden of the Lord.

[Enter Sendal and Guimere.]
Guimere.
...


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SCENE III.

—Camelot. Hall of the Palace. Dubric and Launcelot.
Dubric.
Now God be praised that thou, Sir Launcelot,
Art wrought to this resolve. One act of thine
Outsermons my whole Lent,—so much art thou
The secret heart of every Knight-at-arms
Made manifest, his pattern and desire.
For what thou hast revealed, I have entombed it.
Even had confession no safeguarding oath,
Yet were my love for thee, my son, too great
And my desire to help thee to an end
So nobly vowed, too keen—Be not afraid;
This sleeps, for me, until the great awakening
At the Last Day.


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Launcelot.
My sin has rent my heart;
I have seen day by day unworthy loves
Taking in vain the name of that which was,
So help me Christ, howe'er an act of sin,
In both our hearts a holy mystery.
I have seen myself, unworthy that I am,
Chosen of men a captain and exemplar,
And by the same lips that exalted me
Debased with attribution of vile thought
Until the holiest secrets of my heart
Showed shameful and malign, and so deformed
Became a scripture for the vulgar spirit
To justify its filth with. So I saw
That that which was the cause of sin in others,
Howe'er itself immaculate at heart,
Must be by circumstance made interdict.

Dubric.
Man cannot live unto himself alone,
But every deed returns upon the doer
A thousandfold. What he hath done to one,
He doth admit that all may do to him,
And who shall say how many will accept
The gage?


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Launcelot.
I had a quarrel with the world;
It had done me wrong; therefore I put it by
And took my own, or so I thought. But now,
Even to take my own, I would not do
This evil to my fellows.

Dubric.
Ay, well said;
And yet do not too much forget, my son,
That howsoe'er your heart betray your conscience,
Confusing good and ill, it was a sin,
Essentially a sin, for coveting
Gives no true title, though it lead to theft.
Self masques so oft as conscience there's no safety
Save in submitting conscience, self and all,
To her who only can distinguish them
Unerringly, the Church. To her hath God
Committed this, and what she binds on earth
Is bound in heaven, and what she looses here
Is loosed there also.

Launcelot.
I would in all things
Submit myself to Holy Church as unto
God visible and audible on earth.
Therefore, resigning all pretence to judge,

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I have committed to the Church and God
The argument of sin, content myself
To execute their warrants. And now, absolved,
I leave the past and with a single heart
Devote myself to this most holy quest,
Whereof the vision and the miracle
Vouchsafed us in the coming of the Graal
Is as the rainbow covenanting hope;
And to what service else the Church may will.

Dubric.
God's blessing be an Eastern star to thee
And lead thee to His peace.

[Enter Galahault and Bors.]
Galahault.
Old friend, what's this?

Launcelot.
Welcome to Camelot!

Galahault.
Sir Bors hath told me
A tale so strange I scarce can credit it.
Go you upon this quest?

Launcelot.
Ay, if so be
In any way I may renew good deeds.


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Galahault.
Or any way employ your soul. I see
You too have known at last life's weariness.
Ah well, pray God you find a better cure
Than I!

Launcelot.
Will you not come with me, my friend?

Galahault.
Not I; I am too far gone in weariness.
I have not faith enough to serve a flea
To jump from dog to dog. Besides, you leave
The King alone; scarce one of his great knights
But goes upon the quest. Needs must that some
Remain nor leave him all disretinued.

Launcelot.
Mayhap your service will be more than ours;
But I am hushed with hope. What tidings, Bors?
Is all made ready for our setting forth?

Bors.
Our steeds stand saddled at the palace gates,
Yours, Galahad's, Percival's and my own.


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Launcelot.
And where
Is Galahad?

Bors.
With Percival. They are
Inseparable as doves. Even such a pair
Meseemeth you and I in the old days
Dreamed and aspired together. Twenty years
Sink out of time, and over the long gap
My soul leaps back to boyhood when I see them,
And my eyes fill with tears.

Launcelot.
God grant that they
Make good our failures! Though I lose all else,
I am most happy that I have my son,
My Galahad, in whose more perfect life
I shall not be left all unjustified.

[Enter Dagonet, with a lantern.]
Galahault.
What do you with the lantern, Fool?

Dagonet.

I am a philosopher hunting mice. When the wise men all turn fools, it is time for the fool to turn wise man. And, in truth, I think my search will bring me to a bottle before theirs will them to a cup.



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Dubric.
Let not your folly grow blasphemous.

Dagonet.

Nay, the King will not let my tongue be slit; he is too poor in advisers. The whole Court is Graal-mad, and Sir Galahault and I are all that is left of the Privy Council.


Galahault.
Even so, fellow-counsellor. Where left you the King?

Dagonet.
At his wit's end.

Galahault.
No; but whereabouts?

Dagonet.
Beside himself.

Galahault.
But in what place?

Dagonet.

In a tight one; for his knights leave him to chase fireflies, while all the lamps of the kingdom are left untrimmed—all save the Fool's lantern, and that serves but to show empty benches. But, in good sooth, the King is coming hitherward quite outcaptained and helpless even to show his own vexation.


[Enter Arthur, Kaye and others; Percival and Taliesin.]

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Arthur.
Is it true, Launcelot?
Was there no thought of me or my great dream
To build the perfect State (whereto ye all
Were bound with a great oath)—did naught of this
Speak for me in your heart? Heaven may be served
In many ways. I trust I serve no less,
Who would extend God's justice and knit close
The solid race, than they that seek new ways
To bring the grace of heaven into our hearts.
Even to do good, will you forsake that good
Whereto your hands are set?

Launcelot.
My lord, believe me,
I serve you best in this.

Arthur.
Nay, go thy way.
Thou art the noblest man my swarming life
Has yet been fronted with. What thou doest
Must have some glory in it; nor would I
Have anyone for me break sacred vows,
Though they were madness. Yet I must bewail
That which deprives my kingdom of thy sword,
My heart of thy great spirit. God be with thee!


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ACT III.

SCENE II

Arthur.
O Guenevere, you have made me the happiest man
To-night in all my kingdoms. I have craved
Long years, and have not spoken. I have held
Your selfhood far more royal than my crown
And your soul's privacy more sacred from
Irreverent entrance than the sanctuary.
Your husband, I have held your loveliness
Exempt; your King, I ne'er profaned your will.

Guenevere.
O sir, you have been royal.

Arthur.
Nay, I think
That I have been but just. There's nought so dear
To man or woman as that crag of life
Where each walks lonely. There's no bond on earth,
Nor wedlock nor the sacred rule of kings,
So strong that it may overbear this right
Of each soul to itself. The holy place
Of the heart's temple no man lawfully
May enter, save he bear the high election

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Of priest to the divinity within.
You have withheld from me; it was your right
And I have not complained. But now that you
Have razed the wall you chose should be between us,
I am more laureled and victorious
Than with ten empires or a thousand battles.
Ay, though the flower of my fair knights be lost,
Following a quest that few or none may gain,
Even Launcelot, my greatest—why, I have made
A fellowship that fifty knights were lost in.
And when our children take our place and theirs—

Guenevere.
Children!

Arthur.
Ay, sweetheart, when the throne of Britain
Shall have an heir to keep what we have won,
There'll not be fagots in the wood enough
To feed the bonfires. Guenevere, you have done
A deed to-night that sets a star i' the brow
Of womanhood, and rounds my dream of empire
To its proportioned close. I will not seize
My new-found joy too violently, to make
Your bounty, like the first buds of the spring

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Met by a blast of March, shrink back again
And shrivel in the bark. Good night, sweet Queen,
And God be with us and our house!

[Exit.]
Guenevere.
Children?
To bear him children! No, God strike me dead!

CURTAIN.

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NOTES ON THE HOLY GRAAL.

At first thought the association of the words “Holy Graal” with scenes of evil life may seem startling to the reader. But the dramatic achievement of the knights of the Graal required the whole picture. The plotting of the sisters and the seduction scenes furnish dramatic motive and prepare us for the story of those knights who abandoned the quest. It must show the temptation resisted by Galahad, temptation that to a high nature was not temptation, as in the scene in the brothel, where the pure knight, born out of the sacramental love of Launcelot and Guenevere, saw but the lily beds.

It will be readily understood by all who knew Richard Hovey that he could not have intended to show that Galahad, the typical knight of purity, should have attained his height through any ascetic or otherwise morbid ideal of life. Not by living less than the best but by living all things better than the best is the whiteness of the soul attained. Speaking about Galahad in Taliesin he says:

“In him ye shall behold how light can look on darkness and forgive,
How love can walk in the mire and take no stain therefrom.”

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The temptations of physical life, which mostly to the knights of legendary days meant the life of the flesh minus the soul, would not tempt Galahad more than they would many Galahads of later civilizations, —all those men by whom the sacramental nature of love has been really perceived.

That Galahad was to be shown in relation to women is apparent. We have the names of women introduced in the list of persons of the Holy Graal who are shown by the notes to be in Galahad's story. It is plain that if Galahad had “died a maid,” as we are told in a very early fragment of “Avalon,” it must have been from the absence from his life of a love as pure as that of which he was born, and because by his very nature nothing less than the spirituality of passion could to him have the name of love.

However portentous is the subject of sexual purity in woman, it is still partly a question of legal legitimacy, of social respectability, and of economic convenience.

The Galahad, or masculine idea of purity, “The Pure Knight,” one who stood above a knighthood in which loyalty to his lady in all her interests was the very basis of every knight's oath of arms, would be one in whom the renunciation was not a sacrifice of the passional but of the merely sensual. He would be one whom the consciousness of the sacramental love lifted to a plain quite beyond renunciation, —to inspiration. And such a one,— elected to the redemption of lost womanhood by restoring woman's faith in herself and love, through her faith in the untempting and untemptable man,—


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the Galahad of the “Poem in Dramas” would have been.

The Holy Graal brings into direct contrast the characters of two illegally born sons, Mordred and Galahad. One is of superhuman goodness and power, the other of diabolical selfishness. Modred, tool of fate, gives opportunity to draw a character bruised and marred by his untoward relation to his environment; one, having not only a soul born to discords, but a life full of deprivations in the direction of family life and love and social opportunity, by lack of legal inheritance; all this with that virility in brain and body so often found outside of birth from the easy debauchery of married-life-propinquity.

Galahad one day finds himself called bastard. But he is one of those who many wear the word as a star on his brow, a consecration on his life, an invisible angel thought—such as some souls feel floating over them,—and in the great moments of life touching upon consciousness.

There are parents wickedly below the law of what makes a wholesome order for all. There are also those so subject to psychological law that they live above the order of the many. Mordred's ill-starred life arose among the former, Galahad's immaculate conception gave him being among the latter.

One might almost say that the whiteness of Galahad was like the whiteness of light, made up of all colors, out of which, as in diamond brilliance, all


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color could flash, rather than any mere purity of cleanly, opaque, earthly white. In this connection one remembers the diamond sphere which Taliesin saw in the Graal chapel when Uriel knighted him poet, the diamond sphere a transparent light itself, flashing all colors, symbol of a wisdom containing all knowing, from clear heavenly blue through the burning spirit of yellow to the warm red flame of earthly things.

It was in the Holy Graal that Launcelot and Guenevere were to renounce their personal good in the service of society, Launcelot to go on the quest of the Graal and Guenevere to take up her cross by returning to Arthur and her rôle as mother of the realm. How inadequate a solution this action proved may be suggested by the one page of this play in which Guenevere meets Arthur. The situation is once more truly tragic, there being no solution. Turn which way she would she saw sin and suffering, the sacrifice of inner purity if she returned and the sacrifice of the peace of the realm if she did not.

The dignified ending of Tennyson's Guenevere in a convent, full of gentle deeds and repentance for her great sin in not having “loved the highest,” stands in marked contrast to her rôle in Richard Hovey's poem. Launcelot's confession to Dubric and his soliloquy before Rome bring to view, however, the pain he suffered at this point of his experience and show once more that the central character in the whole series of dramas is one not placed


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in the list of persons. That character is the social system of the age.

After the departure of the knights on the quest of the Graal, the court at Camelot would have resumed its ordinary routine of life.

All through Southern and Northern Europe during the few hundred years in which we place the story of the Round Table, Courts of Love were of frequent occurrence. We find that a Court of Love was planned for one of the acts of “The Holy Graal.”

The falcon carrying the scroll with the laws which were to govern in these courts was said to come from Broceliande, a sometime location in the Arthur myths. So, doubtless, this naïve and interesting code, administered by a concourse of the great ladies of each locality, seems to have had great influence in the formation of the standards and customs regarding the behavior of both ladies and lovers through all Europe. These Courts of Love are credited by high authority as having created manners. This could not be without there being underneath a marked influence upon morals.

In fact, the early history of woman, first in an accidental relationship to man, then as something owned, and later as party to a marriage bargain without any pretense to what has lately been called romantic love, culminated in a condition of society in which spiritual and mystical personal attractions were recognized—and lived, with loyalty according to the ordinances of these “Courts” by persons not married to one another and also when either party might be stably married to some other.


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Better a world with the love of the heart in it, even outside of marriage, than not at all. Naturally jealousies and dissensions arose, and by degrees husbands and wives began to see as the ideal, and to expect in marriage, friendship, and those mystic relations of affectionate loyalty which have now so completely become the ideal, that we must read history to remind us that our present expectation, even if it is not our constant attainment, is a wide advance upon martial conditions in earlier days. Having found the relations between love and the doctrine of the trinity in human kind, we now see that the greatest happiness and the best birth have their origin in an inextricable combination of physical, mental, and emotional attraction.

Our present ideal of love has come to include— on the physical plane—sensation, sympathy, instinct; then sentiment, adoration, intuition in the emotions; and judgment and conscience as the results of reason.

Such an ideal of love had the author of Launcelot and Guenevere.


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DIGEST OF THE HOLY GRAAL, MADE UP FROM THE FRAGMENTS AND STRAY NOTES LEFT BY MR. HOVEY.

The play opens at the Castle of Morgause, Queen of Orkney, with a scene of evil counsel between Morgause and Morgana, her sister.

Then Lamoracke, the lover of Morgause, comes to bid her good-by, saying that he has sworn a vow since he left her three days before; that a great wonder has happened at the Court of King Arthur, for Galahad, son of Launcelot, has taken the seat at the Round Table which Merlin, the Magician, had called the Siege Perilous, in which no man might sit and live until one came for whom it waited; that a vision of the Holy Graal had appeared to them assembled; and that Gawaine swore an oath, which they had all sworn after him, that for a twelvemonth and a day they would seek the Graal.

Morgause lures Lamoracke away from the idea of the quest and wins him to herself again, he thus being the first knight to fail in the performance of the vow.

Launcelot, before going on the quest confesses to Dubric, Archbishop of Canterbury, who gives him his blessing.


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Arthur does not wish his knights to leave the Court and go on the quest of the Graal; but on seeing that Launcelot is determined to go, he bids him God speed.

Galahad then enters the hall and is by Launcelot presented to the king; then Arthur and Galahad are left alone together.

In the garden of Camelot we are introduced to Madelon, the saintly sister of Sir Percival, and Sendal, the temptress. The influence of these two women follows Galahad throughout the play; and from the notes we believe that Madalon dies, as in Malory's story, and that Sendal repents on realizing the purity and strength of Galahad, who releases her from her own evil nature as he did the prisoners in the “Castle of the Maidens” in the early legend.

Before leaving the Court, Launcelot and Galahad bid Guenevere good-by, and a scene between these three is the end of the first act.

After the departure of the Graal knights a “Court of Love” is held in the garden at Camelot, at which Arthur the King, Taliesin the poet, Dagonet the jester, Kaye the Lord Seneschal, the sad Galahault, Mordred, Agravaine, Guenevere, Fata Morgana and the women of the Court are present. Mordred and Agravaine, who have lingered after the departure of the other knights, say that they never really intended to seek the Graal.

At Tintagel, Morgause, Lamoracke and Agravaine plot together to send Sendal and Guimere, disguised in men's clothes, to meet the Graal knights on the road pretending to be desirous of joining the


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quest and then to seduce them from the performance of their vow.

Galahad and Percival on their journey arrive at a beautiful garden which turns out to be the courtyard of a brothel, and there they meet Sendal and Guimere.

In the next act we have the attempt to carry out this plan. “The fickle Gawaine,” who has already fallen in love again, has resisted that new love and continued the quest.

Riding through the mountains, the Graal knights meet the women in their masculine disguise. The women, being attacked in revenge for their treachery, are saved by Galahad. Then Sendal confesses the plot, which implicates Morgause and Lamoracke. Gawaine, Morgause's son, furious at his mother and at Lamoracke, her lover, turns back for vengeance.

Meanwhile at Camelot Guenevere attempts to harmonize the tragic situation by turning to Arthur. Renunciation fails.

Gawaine goes to Tintagel and kills his mother and Lamoracke; then utterly disheartened, turns to his new love and gives up the quest of the Graal.

In another scene we are at Camelot again with King Arthur and Guenevere.

A note for the last scene of the fourth act shows it to have been between Galahad and Launcelot at Glastonbury, outside the Abbey, whither Launcelot comes on the miraculous ship which brings also the body of Madelon after her vicarious death. Here Galahad attains the Graal. From here Launcelot, broken in spirit, wanders away and is in the next


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play, “Astolat,” cared for by Elaine and finally restored to strength, goes to Camelot only to pass through new sunderings in the experience of the death of Elaine and the jealousy of Guenevere, and the death of Arthur in the next play.

The last act is at Camelot. The Court is assembled in the garden when Bors and Launcelot return.

The play closes with a scene between Launcelot and Guenevere.



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ASTOLAT

An Idyllic Drama.


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    PERSONS.

  • Arthur, King of Britain.
  • Tristram, Knight of the Round Table
  • Launcelot Du Lac, Knight of the Round Table
  • Dubric, a Christian Priest.
  • Taliesin, a Bard.
  • Borre, son of Lionors, illegitimate son of Arthur, and disciple of Taliesin.
  • The Dumb Man.
  • Guenevere, Queen of Britain.
  • Elaine.
  • Iseult.

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Author's Notes for Astolat.

First Main Action.—Re-establishment of relations between Launcelot and Guenevere.

Second Main Action.—Life and death of Elaine. (Pathos.)

Underplot.—Tristram and Iseult.

Leading persons in second main action the moral agents in resolving complication of first main action.

Personages of underplot the physical agents.

Tristram has brought his friend Launcelot to Elaine's to be cured, and visits him there.

Central idea.—The necessity for experience in order to come to one's self.

Insanity of Launcelot at beginning of play.


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Guenevere.
It is God's will.

Launcelot.
Not from our wills it sprang,
This love of ours that overcame our will,
Then from the will of God—for every effect
Must have a will somewhere behind it.
Oh, Guenevere, in the sad separate days

When silence and absence had bred in my soul the thought of the possibility that you had ceased to love me, I have cried out in horrified imagination, “False, false!” Then, more just, moaned to myself, “All's not lost yet. I love her still. Who was I that she ever should have loved me?”



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NOTES ON ASTOLAT

The story in this play was to be the reunion of the lovers after the experiment of renunciation of self had failed, also the reunion after the discord of the Elaine episode. As “The Marriage of Guenevere” embodies his thought about the influence of parents over the marriage of their children, and “The Birth of Galahad” shows the deeper experiences of mother and wife in what he calls “The True Family”; as Taliesin deals with art and the Graal with the problem of renunciation and chivalry, so “Astolat” was to show forth the intricacy of personal experience. It was a late addition to the series and was planned for the purpose of touching the psychology of the discords in a love.

The greater the love the better the environment required to keep it in that growth which is its only life. The great difficulty of adjusting love to its environment, however, must not hide the possibility of destruction from within, the danger treated in “Astolat.” Until two lovers are perfect humans every love has dangers from within. For love is harmony, and love is at every point dependent upon every point of the lover's love and every quality of the lover's character.


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Love is at once the ultimate desire and ultimate gift of the lover. Doubt of the entire gift or the entire desire is the foundation of jealousy, and this does not of necessity need a third person to be the object of envy or hatred. But the third party externalizes the situation and is dramatically valuable, especially in a poem intended for the theater, as was “Astolat.”

To a women like Guenevere, to whom love represented the inevitableness of the nature of things, a real jealousy would have meant destruction of all she had experienced of the harmonies of life, and have brought about, not temper like the jewel scene of Tennyson's Guenevere, for example, but tragic deeds. Destruction doubtless, perhaps of Launcelot, perhaps of the network of relations between them; possibly of the small and helpless Elaine, who would have had to be put out of the possibility of harming a great love like theirs, as one might dismiss any intrusive, unrelated thing from a great presence. Guenevere was too sure of Launcelot's love to envy any tenderness he seemed to give Elaine or any other, but her anger, that, in the face of feelings of such mystic might, there should be any moment of a lesser emotion, any cause for fear of a discord in the harmony, was natural; and such a nature as Launcelot's would in all loyalty have been beautifully tender and sympathetic to the lovelorn Elaine, giving thus more than provocation to any half understanding of his character in Guenevere.

An inherent element of jealousy comes from the wound to personal dignity, a thing it is one of the


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chief objects of life to attain. Personal worth represents the sum of living. It is the stewardship of the soul, the measure of the deeds of a life. Proud natures suffer most in jealousy. The poignancy of pain is for loss of self-respect as well as for loss of love. When personal dignity is lessened, resentment is natural.

The greater, or rather the more complex and mystic and miraculous, the nature of a love, the greater is its value. Thus is it worthy of a greater care. But of more importance still is the seldom considered truth that the greater is its need of protection. In another play, “The Lady of the Sonnets,” the author had planned to show what happened in a Shakespeare's heart when faith died. “Astolat” was to show what was requisite to obliterate jealousy from the life of a Launcelot and Guenevere.

Up to a certain point the elaboration of a structure, be it man, animal, or the intricately knit up relations of two souls, strengthens the unit. But there is, still beyond, a degree of harmony, which becomes a kind of specialization of function and ministers to life in its highest phases, yet is less self-preservative than forms in the earlier stages of evolution, and thus it is with great loves. The long continuance of a love then is not, as popularly considered, the test of the greatness of the love. The character of a love, the joy it gives, the inspiration it is to either lover, the beautiful births it leads to, in offspring or in the two personalities, measure its worth. These things show its quality. Time can only increase its number of opportunities.


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The common use of the word jealousy covers many shades of meaning. Confusion sometimes arises as to the dividing line between envy and jealousy. One is jealous of a thing he considers his own and wishes to keep. One is envious of that which he wishes to have for his own, although he admits it to be another's. One who is envious is a would-be thief, one who is jealous is only selfish. The selfishness may even degenerate into greed. So far as the one he loves is concerned it is pure selfishness unrelieved by those magnanimous, generous and loving attitudes in which he would be willing to let the loved one have the small liberties of kindness and sympathy toward others, or to receive the gift of the love of others. These are the exacting ones about the payment of that which was originally a free gift. It would seem that the sense of ownership should be held loose enough to give personal liberty, and the possibility of continual giving without demand. Jealousy becomes more ignoble in proportion as it contains envy. The ignoble elements in jealousy are suspicion, selfishness, the meagre faith, all implying doubt of the loyalty of the loved one, also doubt of self-worth, the last degradation possible, and the last insult to one who has loved us. A lesser love is proven and a greater insulted by jealousy.

There is but one cure for jealousy—love. Love for the intruder, or such love of the loved one as gives gladness of his delight even at personal loss.

How a wise and generous person's ability to conquer the passion by rousing through great love some


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overmastering kindly emotion; how love of the offending rival may drown jealousy; how generosity, pity even, and all the kindly passions furnish the means of conquering jealousy; were sure to have been embodied in “Astolat,” where Launcelot's obligation of gratitude and friendship to Elaine were to cause Guenevere's jealousy. The all-conquering love that breeds a faith that has no fear, that submerges even pride and arms against scorn and ridicule, was the type of love exampled by Launcelot and Guenevere in the culmination of their lives in the “Poem in Dramas.” How jealousy may be prevented by clear sight of one's worth in the eye of the beloved object, by consciousness of the gift one gives, of its suitability to the need of the other, by unswerving continued gift, even under circumstances that might cause fear of loss, was part of the theme of “Astolat.”

Psychological jealousy demands mental perception of value and enthusiasm or emotional force in enjoying the perception. A character is also capable of guarding jealously a loved thing in proportion to its capacity for appreciation. All human passions admit of evolution into more and more exalted phases, according to the great admixture of qualities in the persons or the complexity of environing events, and jealousy is not an exception. In considering jealousy as a lower passion, it might be suggested that even love would seem so if only its commonest phases were considered. All the poets have written of love at its loveliest development. But jealousy has been thus far chiefly described in its


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simplest and most brutal conditions. One might say that jealousy is as yet unwritten by the poets. The contending reindeer drives off the other male to win his doe. The jealous man of little moral and intellectual growth kills his rival to have a clear path to his love. Othello, grandest of jealous heroes in English poetry, goes a step higher, paying Desdemona the compliment of blaming her, and also the compliment of not being willing to live when she is dead and proven innocent. This is jealousy at its worst, producing all the destruction possible—death to both Othello and Desdemona.

The passions may be considered as destructive or productive. Jealousy, if mainly destructive, is also preservative of that exclusive unity of relation which is doubtless beneficial to the magnetic conditions, in the exclusion of inharmonious magnetisms so important to the sensitive states of motherhood.

The reason then why we require all the attentions of a lover is an instinct resulting from racial experience and through social necessity.

No passion wholly painful, and so largely destructive, could have reached the present development of jealousy as a human attribute had it not some inherent necessity for being.

As with other bad passions, is not jealousy the excessive development of a good one?

This purity of relationship, mystic and magnetic as well as emotional, seems to have lain in the author's mind as an ultimate attainment for which no sacrifice was too great a price to pay;—the empire, the church, friendship, and loyalty to a royal


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friend, all being here set over against the preservation of the true family.

Since the marriage of Guenevere made the attainment of this condition more difficult than in the usual family, jealousy adds another element to the tragedy.

Here in the merest sketch of the theme are a few of the many facets Richard Hovey would have reflected the light from in “Astolat.”


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FATA MORGANA

A Masque


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Author's Notes for Fata Morgana.

  • Launcelot (Costume of novice). Plumbing the mystery of his evil (at and after his devotions.)
  • The other knight monks (Job's comforters).
  • The persian guest.
  • The descent into Hell.
  • Devils and Sins.
  • Lucifer.
  • Angro-Mainyus.
  • Fuit sicut Deus, scientes bonum et malum.
  • Persian. Serve then my master since he is evil.
  • Launc. Knowing the evil, now I choose the good.
  • The cell again. The Angel.
  • Thou hast repented. See that thou repair.


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    Hindoo/Unity/Sin/Thesis.

  • Quest of Merlin.
  • Girlhood of Guenevere.
  • Brociliande.
    • Persian/Duality/Effects/Anthithesis.

    • Holy Grail.
    • Morte d'Arthur.
    • The Descent into Hell.

      Hellenic/Unity in Complexity/Resolutions/Synthesis.

    • Arthur in Avalon.
    • The New Earth.
    • Voices of the Sea.

      The Sailing of the Serpent (?)


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NOTES ON FATA MORGANA

Of “Fata Morgana” he says in the Schema: “It suggests the ethical drift of the series.”

The foregoing early study indicates that in “Fata Morgana”—sometimes called “The Masque of Ethics”—he would have embodied his views regarding the Trinity.

The three masques would have involved his philosophy. The Morgana was to have treated ethics somewhat as the masque of Taliesin treats æsthetics.

It is easy to see that from the unity, which means unrelatedness through the duality, which means contention by opposition, to the trinity, which means inter-action, personality is a psychological evolution which he had outlined for this masque. The word Hellenic used here instead of Hegelian, modern, or Christian, probably indicates that he would have used the Trinity in physical beauty as his symbol in the masque.

As Taliesin presented the education, consecration, and function of the artist, so the “Masque of Evil” must have finally embodied the rôle of religion, or the philosophy of religions, in the evolution of evil or discord into good or harmony.

He found himself facing the Hindoo unity, then


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the philosophy of duality, which he dramatically represented under the name of Persian in the outline, and the Persian guest in the characterization. Later the trinity brought him to what he had called Hellenic Unity in Complexity, or what he later might have called Christian or Human Unity in Trinity.

“The Masque of Evil,” a study of the problem of good and evil, was a natural product from the author of the essay “The Duece, or Goethe's and Marlow's Faust.” This essay, read at the School of Philosophy at Farmington when he was twenty-five, was doubtless to this poem what a sketch is to a painting: hardly a cartoon, but the preliminary thought digested somewhat in mind but without the sacramental form which at once discovers and manifests. But the deeper development of his conception of the rôle of evil in the cosmos, which in those last ten years would have been prepared to be blazened by his genius in “Fata Morgana, The Masque of Ethics,” can only be guessed by those who know the trend and deepening of his thoughts in that time.


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ANGRO-MAINYUS
I am the Most High God;
Worship thou me!
Put not up vain prayers to avert my wrath,
For my wrath shall fall like the thunderbolt
And thou shalt be cleft asunder as an oak.
I am Angro-mainyus, the Most High God.
Cry not unto me for mercy, for I am merciless.
Sin and Death are my ministers,
And my ways are ways of torture and the shedding of blood.
I am the Lord thy God.
I am the Destroyer.
My sword is as fire in the forest;
My feet are inexorable.
Ask me not to deliver thee from evil.
I am Evil.
Ahura-mazda is God too,

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The beneficent one, the saviour!
He dwelleth in the Sun,
But I in the terror of tempests.
There are two thrones, but one God.
The waves of the sea war mightily,
But in the deeps there is calm.
Ahura-mazda and I are one God;
There is war between our legions,
But in us peace.
Behold, he knoweth my thoughts and I his,
And there is no discord in us.
He worketh in light
And I in darkness;
His ways and my ways are asunder.
But blaspheme not, calling me “Devil,”
Neither saying, “There are two Gods;”
I am the Most High God,
And I and Ahura-mazda are one.


89

KING ARTHUR

A Tragedy


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    PERSONS.

  • Arthur, King of Britain. Knight of the Round Table.
  • Mordred, son of Arthur and Morgause. Knight of the Round Table.
  • Gawaine, legitimate son of Morgause, nephew of Arthur. Knight of the Round Table.
  • Agravaine, legitimate son of Morgause, nephew of Arthur. Knight of the Round Table.
  • Gaheris, legitimate son of Morgause, nephew of Arthur. Knight of the Round Table.
  • Gareth, legitimate son of Morgause, nephew of Arthur. Knight of the Round Table.
  • Kaye, Arthur's foster-brother, Lord Senechal. Knight of the Round Table.
  • Bedevere, of Arthur's party. Knight of the Round Table.
  • Launcelot. Knight of the Round Table.
  • Lionel, Launcelot's brother. Knight of the Round Table.
  • Ector, Launcelot's brother. Knight of the Round Table.
  • Bors, Launcelot's cousin. Knight of the Round Table.
  • Lavaine, of Launcelot's party. Knight of the Round Table.
  • Dagonet, the Jester. Knight of the Round Table.
  • Wolfgar, a Saxon.
  • Ghost of Gawaine.
  • Guenevere, Queen of Britain.
  • ---, her Damsel.
  • Morgana, sister of Arthur, Queen of Gore, a Witch.
  • Ghost of Morgause.
Scene: Camelot, Joyous Gard, and places between.
Time: Autumn.

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ACT I.

SCENE I.

—Near Camelot. A Rocky Gorge in the Mountains. A Castle in the distance. Bugles. King Arthur. Knights and Attendants, in hunting dress, appear on a ledge, looking across the chasm at the ledge opposite, where the deer has leaped and disappeared. Huntsmen, with dogs, scramble down the side of the Gorge and begin to climb the opposite cliff,—with them Sir Lionel.
Huntsmen.
Hallo! Hallo! Illo-ho-ho! Hallo!

Lionel.
Send round your horses by the upper pass.
Dismount! This way—this way!

[King Arthur and others turn back with the horses, and are afterward heard further up, crossing the Gorge. Others, among them Sir Ector, Sir Agravaine, Sir Mordred, Sir Gawaine, Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth, follow Lionel. Gawaine falls in descending the rocks. Gaheris and Gareth rush to his assistance.]

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Mordred
(aside to Agravaine).
Come back!

[Exeunt all but Gawaine, Gaheris, Gareth, Mordred and Agravaine.]
Ector
[without].
Illo-ho! [Bugles.]


Gareth.
Are you hurt, brother?

Gaheris.
Pray God, he be not killed!

Agravaine.
He is but stunned. [Gawaine stirs.]


Mordred.
Are you much hurt, Gawaine?

Gawaine.
I hardly know. Give me your hand again.
My head is light.—What, all my brothers out
O' the chase for me! This is too brotherly.

Mordred.
That was a perilous fall. Are no bones broken?

Gawain
[walking, moving his arms, etc.]
I fell no pain, only a numbness that
Is less already. Come, it is not too late
To overtake them yet.
[Starts quickly, staggers and holds out his hand to Mordred.]

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Let me sit down.
There's something sprained here.

Mordred.
Rest you here a space;
And when your rebel nerves grow orderly,
We'll help you to a horse.

Gawaine.
It irks me much
That Lionel, not I, shall kill the deer.

Gareth.
Ector will press him close.

Gewaine
[with whimsical chagrin].
It will be Lionel;
But, Lionel or Ector, still not I.

Mordred.
Marked you that Launcelot is not with the hunt?

Gawaine.
What castle is that yonder?

Agravaine.
You know it well,—
Castle Carniffel.

Gaheris.
Where the King confines
Our Aunt, Morgana, whom they call the Fay.

Gawaine.
What, have we come so far?


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Mordred.
Confines? He might
Confine as well the air.

Gareth.
Weird tales are told
Of her enchantments there. Men say, she is seen
I' the clouds, and builds strange palaces of mist
Shot through with sunlight; the which, as you approach,
Melt into hideous shapes of boar and fish,
Beaked horrors, jowled and jag-browed monstrousness;
And at a sudden all will disappear
And the bare world jut forth like a baseless dream.

Gawaine.
Why, since she dwells so near, for all men's tales,
We'll claim her hospitality.

Garath.
The King
Will take it ill that any of his knights
—Most, we that are his kin—should have to do
With one in his displeasure.

Gawaine.
I meddle not
With their dissension. She is yet our aunt

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As well as the King's sister. She will hardly
Bar us the door. Come, rest we there to-night.

[They wind the morte without.]
Mordred.
The deer is slain. This was a goodly chase.
The day is nearly over. Launcelot
Has lacked good sport. I marvel he came not.

Agravaine.
I marvel not; nor do you neither, brother,
If you would speak your heart. And as for sport,
Our hunting is the manlier, and yet
I think he would not say he had lacked sport.

Gawaine.
Do I mistake or does the west begin
To show a faint flush o'er the mountain tops?

Agravaine.
I wonder that we are not all ashamed
To see how Launcelot dallies by the Queen
Daily and nightly, and we all know it so.
By God, it is disloyal of us all
That we should suffer such a noble king
To be so shamed!


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Gawaine.
Pray you, no more of this.
I am not of your counsel, you know well.

Gareth.
So help me God, I will not go with you.

Gaheris.
Nor I.

Mordred.
Then I will.

Gawaine.
I believe that well;
For never yet was brood of mischief got,
Thou didst not run to dandle it. Would ye both
Would be less busy, for too well I know
What will befall of it.

Agravaine.
Fall what fall may,
I will unfold it to the King.

Gawaine.
Nay, hear me;
And do not in your folly pull your vengeance
Down on yourselves and all of us. Imperil not
The empire. Know you not, if war arise
'Twixt Launcelot and our house, how many lords,
Great princes and the knightliest of our order,
Will hold with Launcelot? Brother, Sir Agravaine,
You cannot have forgot how many times

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He hath delivered Arthur and the Queen.
Ay, and the best of us full oft had been
Cold at the heart-root, had not Launcelot
Been by to prove a better knight than we.
Ungrateful as ye are, do ye forget
How when ye both and threescore others lay
Chained in that cruel dungeon of Penmore—
Who was it then but Launcelot whose might
Saved you from death in torments? Brother, methinks
It claims a memory.

Agravaine.
Do as ye list;
I will not hide it longer.
[Bugles.]
[Enter King Arthur, Knights and Huntsmen, with the deer.]
Song.
Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor,
When the horn is on the hill?
[Bugle: Tarantara.]
With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing,
And a ten-tined buck to kill!

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Before the sun goes down, goes down,
We shall slay the buck of ten;
[Bugle: Tarantara.]
And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha'e venison,
When we come home again.

Let him that loves his ease, his ease,
Keep close and house him fair;
[Bugle: Tarantara.]
He'll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of danger
And the joy of the open air.
But he that loves the hills, the hills,
Let him come out to-day.
[Bugle: Tarantara.]
For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying,
And the hunt's up and away.
[Exeunt Huntsmen with deer, the Knights following dispersedly. The King observes Gawaine and his brothers, who converse apart.]
Gawaine.
Be silent, brother.


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Agravaine.
I will not.

Mordred.
Nor will I.

Gawaine.
Then go your gait!
I will not hear your scandals nor abet you.

Gaheris.
Nor I.

Gareth.
Nor I, for I will ne'er speak evil
Of Launcelot. Alas, now is the fate
Fallen on the Kingdom.

Gawaine.
And the fellowship
Of the Round Table shall be clean dispersed.

[Exeunt Gawaine, Gaheris and Gareth.]
Arthur.
What quarrel is this, nephews?

Agravaine.
Sir, we conceived,
Mordred and I, that duty is to speak,
Not easy pleasant words men love us for,
But bitter truth and hard to him that hears
And perilous to the speaker.

Arthur.
Assuredly:
He that deceives me of the enemy's force
To save me from to-day's discouragement,
Jeopards my cause to-morrow.


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Agravain.
Sir, our three brothers
Held otherwise and, as you saw, for this
Fell out with us and left us.

Arthur.
For naught else?
Why, 'tis but thought. Think wrongly as you will,
You harm no one in that. But men will seek
Occasion for dispute in pimpernels
Ere they will lack a quarrel.

Mordred.
Put it that
A man had in his treasury much gold
And thought no more on't, having at his belt
The key that kept all safely; yet there was
An ingress to his hoard he knew not of,
And secretly by night another came
Thereby and spoiled him. He, good soul, secure
In bolts and bars, rich only in conceit,
Went, carrying his key to empty space,
And dreamt no evil. Were it well or no
To break in roughly on his easy smiling
With “Sir, you are robbed! Too late to save your gold,
But time, small comfort, yet to catch the thief”?


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Arthur.
Why, who would be the fool of dreams? Surely
The waking world whose shows betray us not
Is better than a sleep where we may walk
O'er any brink to death.

Mordred.
[Kneeling.]
Sire, your own words
For pardon if our speech offend! Yourself
Are he that keeps the key of the rifled room,
Your Queen the gold, and he that pilfers her
—Alas, to say 't!—your bravest knight, your friend, Launcelot.

Arthur.
Sirs, ye are bold to brave me thus.
Reck ye the danger?

Agravaine.
We speak that we do know.
Our lives be forfeit if it prove not true.

Mordred.
Upon your hint I spoke. Lay not to us
Aught other end but honor. Are we not
Your sister's sons?—what more, but let that pass.—

Agravaine.
This concerns us and all our house as well

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As you, King Arthur. If you do us wrong,
Will men think you do shame to your own blood,
Unless for some strange secret?

Arthur.
Will you dare?
Before me?—Have my kindred been so leal
That I should make them keepers of my honor?

Mordred.
The bond of blood abides. I do but dread
Lest others should say this; and say besides
Your love for Launcelot had made you rather
Be ignorant, so you might deem him true,
Than seek the truth that haply might reveal
Him traitor—doubly traitor that your love,
Yours whom he wrongs, so shield him. God be witness
I speak not only for my honor's sake,
Being of your blood, but for the love I bear you.

Arthur.
Son, son, if I could trust you! What you work
That I hold evil, may seem good to you;
At least I will believe so. But to be

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Assured you love me, to have evidence
Your crooked seeming cloaks nobility,
That would so rest my heart I could endure
What else ill chance shall bring, and think it light.

Mordred.
God pardon me my life and all amiss
I have done in it; and you too, my lord,
Pardon me. But in this I do no evil.
My heart swells like a troubled sea to think
That you should be so wronged.

Arthur.
I have such will
That you should be as fair as you would seem,
I make my hope half credence. For this tale
Of Launcelot and my Queen, I long have known
There were such slanders in the court, and paid
Small heed to them. Ye know not Launcelot.
Were the devotion that he shows the Queen
Tenfold what it hath been—nay, if he loved her
As you would have it that he does, he would
Not trespass on my right. I might to-day
Depart my kingdom and leave Guenevere
With him till my return, and be as safe
As had I left her in a nunnery.


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Mordred.
Alas, that such a noble trust should be
So traitorously rewarded! Send word
You'll not return to Camelot to-day,
But spend the night in yonder castle. Indeed,
'Twill be dark traveling if we do return,
For see, the sun is setting. Launcelot
Will haste to Guenevere. Sir Agravaine
And I will, with twelve others, secretly
Steal back to Camelot, leaving you here,
And take them in the deed. If we should fail,
Then we will answer Launcelot in the lists
With the appeal to arms.

Arthur.
That would mean death
To both of you.

Mordred.
Right well we know it, Sire,
Unless God fought with us.

Arthur.
Well, be it so.
Cost what it may, the scandal must be stopped
By proof or disproof.

Mordred.
Go to the castle;
Sir Agravaine will guide you. I will send

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The courier to the Queen, recall the knights
And bid them join you yonder.

Arthur.
Is not that
The castle of Morgana?

Mordred.
It is yours, Sire;
You are the King.

Arthur.
Be it so.
Come, Agravaine. And thou, Sir Mordred, pray
That you may live to see the end of this.

[Exeunt Arthur and Agravaine. The sunset has faded away into one dull red line. The scene darkens. A lone bugle sounds far down the pass.]
Mordred.
Well played and won!—Now to recall the knights.
[Sounds his bugle and waits, listening. Two ravens, startled, flap their wings and fly about, croaking, in the tree-tops. A bugle without answers. Mordred blows a second time and looks up, as the ravens stir again above.]

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Men say ye are the Devil's ministers
And run upon his errands. Seek him, then,
And croak the news in Hell! Soft, I mistake;
For I serve Heaven. I but bring to pass
God's justice on the scorners of His law.
[Enter a Huntsman. The ravens stir and croak again.]
The King to-night returns not to the palace.
Go, call the hunt together and convey them
To yonder castle on the cliff. Make speed!
[Exit Huntsman.]
Brr! It grows dark apace, and the night air
Makes the flesh creep and shiver.

[Bugles, off, calling and answering. The ravens suddenly rise, croak and fly away with a great flapping of their wings.]
[Enter Morgana. Mordred starts and fingers his sword-hilt nervously.]
Morgana.
It is I, Mordred.
Gawaine is at the castle. So I learned
That you were here, parted from him in anger.


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Mordred.
Ay, we have lost him. Agravaine must needs,
Like a blunt fool, blurt out what I had else
With craft suggested. Our over-nice Gawaine,
I fear, is frighted to the other side.
But Arthur has been won.
[Bugles, off, calling and answering.]
Hear you the horns?
They sound the prelude of our mastery.
I, seeing the wind in the sails, jumped to the helm
And guided all through safely. Ere the King
Could hear of aught from others, I so wrought
He yielded to our plan.

Morgana.
When is it to be?

[The wind rises in the trees. Noises of the night. An occasional bugle far off. Lights appear at the castle.]
Mordred.
To-night. The King sleeps at your castle. I,
With Agravaine and twelve beside, return
To Camelot, where we do think to take
The Queen and Launcelot.


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Morgana.
I would it had
Been later. Yet the auguries are well.
My prescience bodes some mishap on the way;
But you shall win. Last night, being in a trance,
[An owl hoots.]
I saw your mother's spirit. And she cried
Out with a loud voice, “Mordred! Mordred! Mordred!
Through him his father's ancient wrong to me
Shall be avenged.”

Mordred.
Ay, but the crown, the crown!

Morgana.
“Let him fear not,” she cried. “He shall be crowned.
The King shall have no child by Guevenere;
But shall renounce her, and acknowledge Mordred,
Though bastard, for his heir.”

Mordred.
It shall go hard
But I will make the prophecy come true.
Come to the castle!

[Exeunt. Noises of the night. The scene closes.]

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Scene II.

—Camelot. The Queen's Apartments: A room with heavy paneling of oak and great oaken rafters. The walls are hung with tapestries. At the left a window, showing the heavy masonry of which the building is constructed. At the right a door with hangings, leading into other rooms of the suite. At the center, a heavy barred door, that opens into the general corridors. In the alcove, couch nearly concealed with hangings. Low seats covered with skins, etc.
Launcelot and Guenevere.
Guenevere.
And still you do not speak.
Think you of him?—the King? Must I believe
You love him more than me?

Launcelot.
Oh, Guenevere!—
Your bond to him is formal, mine as real
As—God in heaven! as real as mine to you.

Guenevere.



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NOTES ON KING ARTHUR.

As to the choice of the heir, there is no authoritative note, but I have a vague memory that Borre, the child of Lionors, who had been educated by the good and wise Taliesin, was to be named heir. Borre appears as a charming child in the first play, the “Marriage of Guenevere,” and without appearing, he became a strong dramatic figure in the lost manuscript, where his mother, the lady Lionors, is being wrought upon by Morgause in the depth of her wicked revel on the occasion of the temptation of Lamoracke. Here most dramatic words pass between the mother and Morgause, the insolent temptress of the youth. Borre's name is first introduced by Morgause when, before the marriage, she eases her hatred of Arthur by hinting to Guenevere that he is not all she might have pictured in her ideal, referring to the lady Lionors and her child, and linking her name by innuendo with that of Arthur.

The play of King Arthur was to contain a final conflict in the mind of the honor-tortured Launcelot, between his love and his friendship. He had lost no time in rescuing Guenevere after Arthur had executed the law of the land by condemning her to be burnt—that being the punishment for high treason


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in queens. For more than twenty years Arthur had refused to listen to rumors or in any way doubt Guenevere, but once proven in guilt by Mordred and his associates, Arthur, who stood for public justice, condemned her. After the rescue, Launcelot, who puts personal loyalty before the law, felt that Guenevere was now his. He took her to Joyous Gard, which was the court of his father's kingdom before the kings gave up their thrones to join Arthur's Round Table.

Arthur besieged Joyous Gard to recapture Guenevere. Launcelot unhesitatingly defended the place against Arthur. When, however, he knew that Mordred had seized the throne and that Arthur must turn back to defend himself again Mordred, he went forth to Arthur's assistance, but not without a great conflict between his desire to loyally see justice done to Arthur against Mordred, and his anger, probably the greatest anger of his knightly life, against the man who had condemned Guenevere to torturing death by fire.

To Launcelot right was above the law. To Arthur the law was above any view of right or wrong. To Dubric, the priest, we remember, the Church was above either. And these three classes continue to this day, the Arthurs, the Launcelots, the Dubrics. A great jurist has said: “He who taketh the law of the land for his sole guide is neither a good neighbor nor an honest man.” In this discussion Guenevere joins. Guenevere could see Launcelot defend her but not revenge her. She urges him to do the generous deed. Bors also belongs to this scene;


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the noble, frank cousin who from the first and always stood his ideals and Launcelot side by side.

To Launcelot there was but one crime to be done in the name of love, and that was love itself. Love must inspire to all good deeds, to sacrifice, to generosity, to forgiveness. So he goes to Arthur's rescue.

The plot of King Arthur is indicated in the scenario. The first scene is written. Of the second scene, being the love scene upon which Mordred breaks, we have but a few lines. It was planned to show the development and beauty of love after the passage of all those years, after the experiences of absence, sorrow, remorse, the attempt at renunciation, after the wounding and healing of the discord of jealousy. We do not know how the author would in this scene have shown a greater love than that pictured in the temptation of Launcelot in “The Birth of Galahad,” but we know that was what he was to do. From this time on Launcelot's love would be expressed by deeds, the rescue and so forth, and Guenevere's by her defense of herself in court and her general nobility of attitude in all matters, showing that her love being good had made her good—more, noble. A noble love develops itself and its lovers, ever to higher possibilities; or, if it be destroyed, to ever higher loves. This theory of the ever-growing beauty of love was a central theme in the “Poem in Dramas.”

The trial scene would have been Guenevere's greatest scene in the series. Here her greatness and goodness must all have been shown to stand in contrast with the power of the law over her. It was long discussed whether the rescue should be from the


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court scene, to avoid falling into physical drama if it took place at the fire scene. But the court scene had to stop at a moral climax, the characters being Arthur, Guenevere, and the Law.

The death of Arthur in personal conflict with Mordred, each at the end of the battle killing the other, and Launcelot's too late arrival occupies the foreground when Guenevere, in the falling darkness enters with the monks, who, carrying torches, go about to shrive the dying and bury the dead.

So the tragedy remains. Arthur is dead, and sorrow has fallen upon all the land. Only in Avalon “the place of peace,” can we look for those resolutions of discord which the spirit of man still awaits.


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DIGEST OF KING ARTHUR MADE UP FROM THE FRAGMENTS AND STRAY NOTES LEFT BY MR. HOVEY.
Near Camelot—Sunset.

Rocky gorge. Mountains. The Hunt. Mordred and Gawaine. Morgana and Mordred. Witchcraft. (Scene written.)

Camelot—Night.

Interior of tower. Launcelot and Guenevere. Love scene. The interruption. Escape of Launcelot. Mordred's love for Guenevere. Entrance of conspirators. Return and capture of Guenevere.

Camelot—Next Day.

Great hall. Trial scene. The stake. The rescue.

Camelot—The Great Hall.

Mordred and Morgana. The council. The war against Launcelot. The naming of the heir. “No son? I am your son.” Mordred's resentment. Mordred determines revenge. The Saxon.

Gard—Next Day.

The battlements. Launcelot and Guenevere. Their justification. The approach of Arthur's army.


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Camelot—Night.

A room. Carouse of Kaye and Dagonet. Treachery of Mordred, who remains with Kaye and betrays him to the Saxon. Mordred is proclaimed King. Capture of Kaye. Escape of Dagonet.

Joyous Gard—Next Day.

Arthur's tent. Gawaine's death. Dagonet. Arthur learns from Dagonet of Mordred's revolt and raises siege.

Mordred's Camp—Night.

Witchcraft.

Joyous Gard—Dawn.

The battlements. The ghost of Gawaine. Launcelot to the rescue. Launcelot furious at Arthur's treatment of Guenevere. Guenevere persuades him to go. Bors.

The Battlefield—Nightfall.

The last battle, etc. Death of Mordred and Arthur. When Launcelot arrives, Mordred is dead and Arthur dying. Entrance of Guenevere. “The three queens.”


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AVALON

A Harmonody


119

Arthur.
I have laid in a long mistake.
But now at last and suddenly I see.

Argent.
[States the great law of suddenness in appearance. Reconciliation of Plutonic and Neptunian theories (vide Hartmann's Unconscious). Slow preparation in the unconscious. Conscious sudden at end of process.]


Launcelot.
The atmosphere of souls, the ether
In which they swim like stars, is God himself.
In Him they live and move and have their being.
The power that holds each spirit in its place
And melts the heaven of souls in harmony
Is love that draws each spirit to its neighbor;
And as the various spaces of the stars,
So soul from soul is variously severed.
I love my fellows as earth loves the stars
That move far off in their own silent courses,
Shedding on us a mild beneficence;

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Others I love as earth loves Uranus,
Mars, Venus, Mercury, Saturn and the sun,
For these are nearer to me and their courses
Inextricably intertwined with mine.
But thee, my sweet, my greatest heart of women,
Thee do I love as the earth loves the moon.
[OMITTED]
And yet the earth hath something of its own
It never told the moon, and the moon hides
A silent secret in its charmed heart
The earth can never know.
[OMITTED]


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Guenevere.
And Galahad, thy son, who died a maid?
Shall he be ever lonely?

Launcelot.
For him too
Some mystic lady waits in Avalon,
That dim mysterious mother-land of forms.
[OMITTED]


122

Launcelot.
Arthur in Avalon has found his bride,
And there is peace between his soul and mine.
[OMITTED]


123

Launcelot.
It doth not now repent me of my sins;
They oft were my salvation. But for them
I might have lain forever in my dream
In the child-hearted valleys. They, like wolves,
Roused me from my as yet unearned repose
And drove me toiling up this arduous hill
Where from the summit now mine eyes look out
At peace upon a peaceful universe.
Nay, sweet, our sins are but God's thunder-clouds,
That hide the glorious sun a little while;
And afterwards the fields bring forth their fruit.


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NOTES ON AVALON.

Trying to fancy how he thought of “Avalon” let us find a little the grace of his soul by reminding ourselves of the speech of Uriel to Percival in “Taliesin,”—Percival, the good knight, the practical man, when in contrast with Taliesin, the man of prayer, vision, and song.

Uriel.
Percival. ... Percival! ... Approach no nearer thy desire, thou of the Choice.
The time is not yet. Still the air thy spirit breathes too thickened is with noise
Of earth-blown rumors for the thin pulsations of the interstellar voice
To stir its sluggard atoms to the unbroken theme the deeps hear and rejoice.
Thy heart is yet too full of anger, and the hate of evil clots thy soul;
Too far from hell to hate it must he be whom God shall breathe on as a coal

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Until the pure light of perfection burns about him like an aureole.
Pray to the tranquil night to let the calm of stars beneath the silent pole
Fall like a mighty hand upon thy spirit, even like the hand of Death.
And in that hour when thou art clothed upon with the tranquillity of Death,
When Love has cast out even the hate of hate,—Love whom the gods name Death,—
Come, and the gates shall open; come, and thou shalt enter in the holy place,
See the mask melt into the features of the Living Soul it covers, face
The Eyes that all love looks through, feel intense about thee like a burning breath
The swift invasion of his heart-beats, the reverberation of his grace. ...

With such moral height in the masque of æsthetics what would not have been the mystic whiteness of the peaks of song whence he would have had us worship in his masque of ethics.

His nature was most deeply religious. He forgot dogmas in insights, and life in the pure visions born of the impulses of a high and illumined heart.


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So “Avalon” would not have been merely religious in the conventional sense, but might have soared to those mystic heights where love alone is motive, and act, and reward.

As was well said by one of his earliest reviewers:

“While the development of the succeeding dramas is dimly outlined and darkly foreshadowed in the enigmatic replies of the awe-inspiring Norns to Merlin's questionings, there is still a deeper intent, revealing in part the poet's philosophy of being; indicating, by means of ideal characters, who, in turn, personify the classical, medieval, and Christian myths, the growth of the religious instinct in man, through varied phases of terror or of beauty, to culminate, at last, in the Christian ideal.”

Let it, however, be remembered that “Merlin” was but a partial view of the subject which was to have been supplemented by “Taliesin” and “Morgana”; and finally to reach some state of solution of the whole tangle in a complexity of interaction without tangle, which in the case of the masque “Avalon,” he named Harmonody.

The scene of the “Quest of Merlin” being chiefly laid in Avalon, where Merlin and allegorical folk of all degree, from the dryads to the angels, are assembled, indicates that his Avalon is the place of eternity, the place of the beginning and the end. Merlin deals with very primitive seekings for this land and the experience of its infinities. Prophecy is an easy thing in a place where past, present and future are visible; and what matter if they are called


127

Urd, Verdandi, Skuld! Merlin's questioning was a very simple one; whether two mortals should marry. But the Avalon of the masque of that name, although the same, was to be another Avalon. Even as those equal infinities, past and future, which seem so different relatively to us, are one and relatively to themselves the same.

For the Harmonody “Avalon,” which was to end the “Poem in Dramas,” we have in the notes but few characters named: Arthur, Guenevere, Launcelot and Galahad. But the evolution of mythologies running through the masques makes it seem likely that all the people of his earth-world and his unreal world as well should have assembled, each making some essential part of the completed harmony.

An evolution of societies, governments, religions, an evolution of material conditions, mental conditions, spiritual conditions, was the great groundwork of the “Poem in Dramas.” That work itself was suggested as evolving from simple to complex, from discord to harmony. The masque of Merlin begins with the Norns and ends with the angels and final star prophesies. Taliesin again begins with the magic of the wood, of physical nature and our own nature, and ends with Taliesin's human song going on even terms with the angelic choirs. As Carman said: “Richard never for a moment doubted the ultimate benignity of nature.”

Whether this progression from primitive chaos to the holiest flights of human inspiration was to be repeated in “Morgana,” we do not find indicated in the


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notebooks; but there is no doubt that in its own variation this was what it was to be, and that a like progression was to pass through the masques themselves, each rising to a different height, so that in the end the last, “Avalon,” should be supreme.

A harmony is greater as its components are the more unlike, if they still are in each part helpful to every part. Even so the study in ethics, called a “Masque of Evil,” was needed, so that the basic contrast should produce a greater harmony as the discords were resolved in “Avalon.”

Somewhere in eternity, not regarding place, all stages of the human race must coexist, regardless of their place in time, and their relation or absence of relation or their experiences. This condition he uses as a place, and calls Avalon.