University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

Scene I.

A room on the northern bank of the Thames, overlooking the Danish fleet.
Enter Canute.
Canute.
Sunset! The air is ominous. I muse
On Danish majesty, my splendid fleet,
England's great city-river, and my Ravens
Flapping across; yet by King Edmund's favour
I winter in the Thames.
[Enter Thororin.]
O Thororin,
Be near me, play to me; I am beset
By terrible temptations.

Thororin.
English priests
Should teach you their religion; or your lady,
Your Christian queen, can she not give instruction,
And settle you in conduct? We are friends,
Love binds us; she is satisfied to listen
Hour after hour to the triumphant verse
I sang when you were pagan. Look at her!
[Emma and Edric are seen landing.]
She gives her hand to Streona. Confess
Your misery to that fine, goading face,
And it will cure despondency.

[Thororin withdraws as Emma and Edric approach.]
Canute.
He hurts
Deep, deep,—for he has visions, and should know
That I was crying out in mortal pain
For divination, insight, such as poets
Should draw from open gazing on the world.
What means my queen? Although her lips are rigid,
A stormy secret plays about her brows,
And, passing Edric's hand, she speeds to me,
Urgent, despotic.

Emma.
King of England, hail!
My all-possessing, worshipful, young lord.
Ah, ah, a regal flush! Wilt thou to London?
It is an air I love. Come, a behaviour
Less frank in its disclosures; feign surprise!

Canute.
What means this greeting? Edmund is not dead?

Emma.
All, all his lands are joined this day to yours;
I give you half a kingdom, for you took me
Without a dowry.

Canute.
Did he die by nature?
His cheek was withered when I saw him last;
Six battles had he fought, and swept like fire
Now here, now there, calling slow country-folk
To gather to his wars. A noble ruler!
[To Edric.]
He died at peace,—with housel?

Edric.
What a question!
When I sit down to feast, I know a sheep
Has bled for my repast.

Canute
[seizing Edric].
What, you have slain
Your very lord, who pardoned you your vileness,
Who trusted you?

Edric.
Ay, ay, he was a fool;
He trusted everybody, even you;
He treated you like one of the old stock,
Who knew the strength of covenant.
[Canute relaxes his hold.]
We settled
At Olney I should do this bit of work;
And now perform your part; the Mercian earldom,
And that respect you pay a man who serves
At some great crisis!

Canute.
Caitiff, did I give you
A word or a command that day I swore?

Edric.
The solemn oaths were all for Edmund's ears;
With me connivance was enough. Come, come,
No temper! There is sunset on the towers
Of London; all those gilded battlements
Are yours, and no suspicion: in a fit
Of lunacy my lad, while bedfellow
To his good uncle, stabbed him as he slept.
The childish actor had been ably prompted,
And terror made him perfect at the art;
His guilt is palpable. He roams the fields,
A jabbering little devil, full of secrets
To make Beelzebub an eaves-dropper.
[Aside.]
I waste my breath; a change is on his features.
I know this quiet; it arrests the sense,
Like the appeasing movement of a storm,
That paralyses, ere it devastate.
Best let her feel its fury.
[Turns to Emma, who remains breathlessly staring at Canute.]
'Tis a sickness
Needs the domestic touch; I take my leave.
When it is opportune recall my service,
Urge my desert.

Canute.
I fear to deal the blow,
And make a lightning end. I would call forth
My feasting jarls—they would bespatter him
With such disgraces, ridicule, and flaunts,
That he would die, unstruck, of countless gibes,
And feel by prophecy his corpse would serve
For next day's merriment.
[Seizing Edric suddenly.]
Thou hast offended
Beyond the bounds of nature, and the darkness
Shall never cover thee; for thee no grave,
But infinite exposure in the sun;
Corruption blazon thee the thing thou art,
Abhorred and dissolute!

[Canute strangles Edric, flings his body into the stream, and gazes out.]
Emma.
To look at it
The male's fierce nature in its nakedness,
With passions that dumb creatures in their lairs
Conceive in solitude! How break it in?
Wild as the waters that engulfed the world,
It rages in its hour of dominance,
And all familiar outlines are destroyed;
There is no sky, no comfort, no relief,
No streak in the great wilderness. O God,
Thou gavest us our beauty and our guile
To win these creatures. I will try a touch,—
'Tis softer than the voice, more powerful.

Canute.
I teem with memory. Old Gorm would glare
Above his cup—Whose hand is this?

Emma.
My king,
You are a murderer.

Canute.
I slew him not,
The great lord Edmund; if indeed I slew,
I loved his kingdom, loved his people, all
The other side, the hills beyond the stream;
I loved him yea, I hugged him to my heart,
I felt him royal.

Emma.
O Canute, you murdered
The faithful Edric.

Canute.
God what I have done
Is bloody round my brain; I cannot see.
I'm dazed to find my wife, and this close room
Behind me, when I leave the boundless wind,
And my far childhood.

Emma.
Spend your senseless wrath
On me, your Emma, who exalted you
To your most dear ambition. Yet you slew
The faithful servant who fulfilled the deed.

Canute.
Did you not lay a hand on me and weep?

Emma.
He love'd you truly—as your queen doth love,
And therefore I must weep him. Did you fear
Alfred, my eldest born of Ethelred,
I would myself with my own hands destroy
His sight, his life, whatever you should crave;
For all that derogates from your estate
Is fitted for destruction.

Canute
[unheeding].
Is it thus
That Hell begins? and can God make damnation
With just a little shifting of the days?
When me the live hour brings its transient tale,
I look it in the face: but shall the past
Ride down and meet me on the open plain?
Can nothing grow obscure,—the mighty figure,
Erect and kindly,—the reproachful glance
On skulking Edric? Am I forced to feel
Again the pressure of the great, warm hands,
And mutter words of feigning amity?
Nay, crowd the English people on the bank,
Unveil the hypocrite, call me by names
Shall strip me bare of majesty—a coward,
A cunning, sleek barbarian. Supreme
Above me thou shalt sit a king and judge—
Ah, I bethink me there are tears and prayers,
And drops of blood fall from the crucifix,
Or the great agony would overcome,
And I should fail of penitence; it works
Like death within me.

Emma.
Desolate, abandoned!
Oh, I must rally him.—My dearest lord,
Do not grow pale as one in guiltiness.
Never till now have I beheld you blench.
The deed was my conception; you are free.
I could not suffer you a demi-king,
Nor make you present of a demi-heir;
Therefore I ordered Edmund should be slain;
I gave command upon our marriage day,
And Edric nodded.

Canute
[unheeling].
I have seen a fox
Steal round a yard to snatch; a prowling dog
Creep for a bone. Ah, Edric, you and I
Are mates, the fiends will couple us in hell,
To hunt down the unwary. I repent
I plunged you in the cold;—my flaming cheek
Must bear the shame, while cool oblivion
Washes you o'er and o'er.

Emma.
He sickens me
With his dull raving.—My exceeding love
Moved me to hint to Edric . . .

Canute
[leaping to the window].
Has he sunk?
The moon has spread a sheet upon the stream,
And hidden all that's fatal. Treachery—
Ay, here, and my own act.

Emma.
He is intent
On self-reproach and bitterness.

Canute.
The stars
Have steadfast faces, and prefix our doom;
It is the wandering comets lead astray
With unsteered courses. What is permanent
Is god-like, and the shifty things a flaw
And a discredit to the universe.
Heaven hath so honoured man that he can bring
His word to pass, and make a feeble promise,
A breath, and an endeavour, more assured
Than rise or set of sun. That majesty
Being disowned, there is no use in kings,
No purpose to accomplish.
[Turning to Emma.]
Edmund's sons
Shall have their portion; I can make amends.
But that's not large enough! I would be rid
Of degradation, of the filching nature,
The vilenéss in the blood.

Emma
[aside].
God pardon me!
Until I hear that Edmund's babes are slain,
I have no strength for travail.—Oh, I faint.
'Twas thoughtless 'fore a woman in my state
To hack and murder. You are terrible;
Your wrath, I fear, has cost your land an heir.
For him, for you, I sinned. Canute, I die;
Pardon and pray for me.

Canute.
She's deadly white.
O Lady, have I hurt you?

Emma.
Ay, to death.
A mailed voice!—I am used to minstrel's tones;
And the reproach cut. I shall surely die
Barren and cursed, but on my failing knees
I pray you nurse these children as your own,
Adopt them both, and for your unborn babe
Harbour no guilty thought.

Canute.
You madden me.
Emma, you cannot mean—

Emma.
Nay, give my child
A third of your possessions, be untrue
To your great, bridal oath. What is a woman,
A mother, that your word to her should bind,
Though sealed with bridegroom's kisses. At my knees
You swore such things—a promise that the fruit
Of our embrace should own as heritage
All English royalties. Be false, dear king,
Add broken vows to deeds of faithlessness,
And take advantage of my sex; all men
Write truth to wives and maidens on a tablet
Of running water. They are Edmund's sons;
And you repent.

Canute.
My lot is tied to yours,
Fell tigress, temptress. Would you have your den
Bloody with slaughtered babes?

Emma.
I cannot bear
The sight of blood, the talk of butchery.
These children, let me never hear their names;
But bring me word they are not in the land.
We have removed the trouble of two kings;
No rival princes should encumber us;
For if you hold to the legitimate
And lawful issue, there are royal lads,
The two I pushed back from the throne to set
My young usurper there. I'd rather see
The boys I bore, than these step-grandchildren,
Mounting my daïs-steps. I must entreat
You keep good faith with me.

Canute.
You hold me bound
To that wild oath?

Emma.
Your lips were hot and ready;
Your hands embraced my fingers. Ah, but then
I had not stooped from my great widowhood.
I was so amorous, I forgot my lover
Was not of gentle mould; like kingly Edmund,
I trusted the barbarian. Ay, strike me!
Your viking humour is not void of charm.
King Ethelred was sorry oftentimes,
Exceeding sorry, he had bribed the Danes;
A while ago you brought him to my mind;
Do not be sorry. . .

Canute.
Have you no remorse?

Emma.
That you are England's king? Impossible!
Go, and prevent mischance. Remove these babes,
All will be well.

Canute.
They never shall be slain,
But harboured safely where I cannot lay
My cruel hands about them. Over-sea,
Olaf, my brother, shall be foster nurse;
You shall not look on them [starting up].
I will give orders
They presently set sail.

Emma
[intercepting him].
King Edmund's widow
May trust your tenderness; I bow a victim
To your most killing hate. How opportune
The river flows beneath! I cannot live,
Yet, queenly, choose the manner of my death.
Lift me, my lord, once more into your arms,
Then fling me from you.

[He pushes her away, and she falls.]
Canute.
God! no more! temptation!
Let me not touch you, for my pulses dance
With murderous fever. All my promises
I will perform, and then I shall breathe free
To pour on you the measure of my hate,
To punish, to divorce you.

[Exit.]
Emma.
Gone His wrath
Has left me smitten—such huge, manly rage;
I'm shaken to the heart. So it should be.
One cannot love a man whose hands show not
As clearly they were made to deal stout blows,
As his smooth lips for kisses' tender use.
But yet my child,—he should not peril him,—
And, oh, the hatred in his quivering breath
As he forsook me. I have suffered treatment
Worthy of lamentation, and a sea
Heaves at my bosom; but I loose no weeping.
Without him all is tearless, desperate;
I have a headlong wish to die. Alas!
We cannot look each other in the face,
When there is jar between us; so accursed
Are quarrels of true love. I do not doubt
But my inextricable charm will keep
This boy in adoration. I will rest me
Upon our marriage-bed, on the dear couch,
Till I have strength, and beauty soothed enough
Simply to rise and draw him to my feet.

[Exit.]

Scene II.

The same; later.
Enter Canute.
Canute.
[Gazing abstractedly on the water.]

[Enter Child singing.]
Child.
Miserere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam;
Et secundum multitudinem miserationum tuarum, dele iniquitatem meam.

Canute.
How perfectly he sings the music! Child,
Who art thou with that voice, those dying cheeks?
Art thou an angel sent to wring my heart,
Or is it mortal woe? Thine arms are full.

Child.
Green, country herbs, they say, will staunch a wound;
And I have run about the fields and gathered
Those I could catch up quickly:—for the blood
Was leaping all the while. But here is clary,
The blessèd thistle, yarrow, sicklewort,
And all-heal red as gore. I knew a wood
So dark and cool, I crept for lily-leaves;
Then it grew lonely, and I lost the way.
But, oh, you must not beat me; it is done.
Father, I stabbed him, throw away the whip!
Now God will scourge me. So I plucked the flowers,
And sang for mercy in the holy words
Priest Sampson taught me, Miserere!

Canute.
This
Is Edric's child, the little murderer,
Who did my deed of treason. Edmund, turn
Those trustful eyes from off me.

Child.
Take me back.
He will be dead . . . He fell, O father, fell,
And when I put my cheek against his side,
Gave a great pant. Let's pray for him together.
Can you sing Miserere? For I did it,
And then he looked . . . Once in the ivy-tod
I caught an owl, and hurt its wing. 'Twas so
He looked. Oh, quickly tell me where he lies—
Next room? or down the passage? Do you know
He was my uncle, and was kissing me,
One, two, three, on my head.

Canute.
Cease! From these lips,
White, childish penitents, how awful sounds
The wild avowal of their treachery.
Child, it was I who struck your uncle's side,
Who falsely kissed him; it was I who set
Your father on this wickedness; 'twas I
Who drove your frantic innocence to work
The sin of my conception. Can you learn
That I alone am guilty, and God's wrath
Will visit me with judgment?

Child.
Come along,
And take me where he is. How can I go?
I do not know the path or time of day.
The leaves are fading. Can the blood flow long
Before it kills? I saw it spirit and jump;
I could not see it now. I ran and ran . . .
Perchance I stayed too long about the fields.
'Tis dark; no trees and hedges. He is gone,
And I am damned for ever; the fresh herbs
Could once have saved me.

Canute.
He is chill and fainting;
Give me these hands.

Child.
I am not much afraid.
Before I struck at him my skin was hot;
Now dew is falling on me; it is cool.
Let me lie in your arms where I can look
Up at the sky. There's some one . . . and he grows
So kindly. Oh, he smiles down all the way,
Quite golden in my eyes.

Canute.
He sees the moon.
How pale and cold he's growing! All the flowers
Are slipping down. I cannot bear his weight.
'Tis condemnation. There is just a spot
Here on his garment, one bright drop of blood,
Sprinkling his spirit; he is saved; on him
It is the very mark of Christ; on me
The blot that makes illegible my name
I' the book of life.

Child.
If I should fall asleep,
It will not matter, for I could not see
The healing plants by night; besides my eyes
Will open wide at morning. I must hold
The blessèd thistle in my hand, and pray;
And God may so forgive me. Miserere!

Canute.
The child is dying on my breast. He closes
His frightened eyes; the notes are on his lips,
His arm still round my shoulder.
Sharply flows
The Thames now he is dead; the rush, the hum,
Are like a conscience haunting me without.
I cannot bear it. I will fling him forth
To the engulfing river, and forget him.
Rank, pagan impulse! I would learn the prayer,
Recall the gracious song,—and stormy sagas
Come hurtling through my brain. I am a stranger
To our sweet Saviour Christ; I cannot pray;
I love the slaughter of my enemies,
And to exact full vengeance. Little one,
Thou shalt have fair, white sere-cloth, and a circlet
Of purest gold. Now that I look on thee,
It grows soft in my heart as when they chanted
Across the stream.—Canute the king passed by,
And listened.—They shall sing about thy grave.

[He bows himself over the child and weeps.]

Scene III.

Malmesbury. The Orchard—moonlight.
Edith by a pool.
Edith.
They must not dress me like a penitent . . .
It was for kindness. White, white up in heaven,
And glist'ring: how it sails about the sky;
And I am for the water. I will do 't—
They put it on me as a dreadful task
To pull him out. Oh, here are golden flowers;
I will step softly in . . . but at the roots
It's black and treacherous—foul iris-bed.
Back, back! I cannot bear the filth. O Edric,
I will have courage, yea, I will be damned,
Damned for your sake. When it grows dark again,
I'll fling down in the water. For a little . . .
Oh, I will come to you, I know my service—
But just to watch the silver in the clouds,
Where there is muffled music. Gloria!
It's full through all the heavens, and the child
Sings clearer than the rest. How beautiful
To watch him from so very far away.
I loiter. I came down to the deep pool
To get damnation; they shall never say
That I deserted him, who am his wife.
How he has drawn me to him from the hour
He humbled me. I think he grows more strong
Now he is with the devils, and will bring
A host of them to carry me away.
No, no! 'Tis I myself must enter it;
For 'tis obedience that shall break her in,
He said, I will not force her. Now 'tis dark,
And I shall stumble on the choking rushes,
If I should try to drown. Who walks the orchard,
Weeping so bitterly?

Elgiva.
O England, England,
Dost feel it at thy heart, thou hast no king?
Ah me, and no avenger? The twin boys
I bore, that should have rid thee of thy tyrant,
Rock on the chilly sea: such little ones,
Cast forth without a nurse. O pitiless!
We do not keep a fire where no one comes;
I'm lonely, and the ashes in my blood
Tell of such desolation. I have lost
My twain, and all my kindness—

Edith.
Lady, lady,
'Tis quiet; you can rock a child to sleep
Down there, if that's your meaning. Come along.

Elgiva.
It is his sister Edith, who has had
Strange woe; whose little son . . . O God! O Heaven!
She stands there from whose body came the thing
That widowed me. So tall she is and white—
The fountain of my tears.

Edith.
I want your hand
To do it with. I held an iris-leaf—
It flashed like a drowned sword, and then I cried
A ghost! The moonlight laughed so merrily.
But I will say the Scripture over: Wives,
Obey your husbands. He is hidden there,
Under the cresses.

Elgiva
[aside].
She is surely mad.
I'll be an angry keeper, and my mood
Gives me a touch of cruelty.—Stand still.
How dare you stir?

Edith.
It is all learnt by heart;
It must be done; he watches all the while,
Though out of sight.

Elgiva.
Come back to me. Obey!

Edith.
Ah, now you know the word—obey! Yes, yes.
I will do all you tell me.

Elgiva.
Then walk back.
[Aside]
O God, that I should be so harsh! She fixes
Such waiting eyes upon me, timorous,
Yet full of noble candour, Edmund's eyes,
That could not learn suspicion.—Come away;
Sit on the bank. She does it like a child.
A child! I fill with tenderness: God sends her
To keep my heart a mother's. How it throbs
Against her nestling forehead!

Edith.
I am happy;
You said I must not drown. Indeed 'twas foul,
And I am fond of linen newly washed
I mean in shallow water, where the pebbles
Are clear and burnished . . . for—you do not know—
I felt that I was making me a harlot
To perish with him. Say it over to me,
Forbid it every hour and every day,
Now, and each moment! Save me by your voice,
Lest the reeds have me, and the loathsomeness,
The violating dregs.

Elgiva.
You shall not die;
It is a great command; and mortal sin
It were to disobey.

Edith.
Is that the word?
I feel an impulse sucking me apart
From this dear side, and yonder—

Elgiva.
I am strong;
You shall not go. Obey me.

Edith.
There it is!
Your voice is living, his down there is dead;
He could but catch me with the water plants;
You hold me in your lap, and twine me round
So firmly in your arms. Obey, obey!
Just as you think it well for me. I know
Why they have dressed me as a penitent;
My feet are muddy; but my hair, you see,
Is golden when I turn it to the moon,
Quite clear and shining. Shall I tie it up
The old way, like a crown? Faugh, it is damp;
I thought I had not sinned.

Elgiva.
It is the dew
Of autumn-eve, my dearest. You shall be
My care, my child, my blessing. We will live
Thus hand-in-hand, for we are sisters, both
Beloved of Edmund. It was in this orchard
His first kiss crowned my lips below the trees;
Their buds were red: the apples now are fallen,
The boughs no more possess them. Do I cry?
But there is something calm as Paradise
I' the climate of this weeping. All the night
Is one blue home of stars, and I am certain
Of a sweet sudden that my boys are safe
In the far country, and will live at peace,
And grow up with their father's spirit near.
I think it is this crooning at my breast
Makes me so blessèd; like the wood-dove's moan,
Sorrow and comfort are both reconciled
In this low music. She is sleeping half,
And half complaining. Noble Edmund's sister,
And England's royal princess!

Edith.
I have never
Known all this joy since I was three years old.
I go back in your arms through many days
Till I can find that I lay warm like this,
Taking no thought, my blood just like a prayer
They chant to measured harmonies.

Elgiva.
She enters
The life of heaven, though outside its door,
And a mad nun at Malmesbury! I will lead her
To my own cell; for the bland night is sending
Its sleep to earth, and visiting her brain
To heal all ache. My woman-child, my own.

[Exeunt.]

Scene IV.

Glastonbury.
Early morning. The burial-ground; beyond, the church, open, disclosing Edmund's tomb, by which Canute stands.
Enter Archbishop Ethelnoth and a Monk.
Monk.

Doth the king still keep vigil?

Ethelnoth.

I have watched unseen through the whole
night. Sometimes he would be restlessly pacing; and
anon, he would hide his face—dash his rosary to earth.
But his great, fierce hands showed the wrestling. In the
third watch a change came; his prayers were all said;
he turned from the tomb, and looked up. Then he fell
a musing, long, long. It was just when the day trembled,

and he watched all the changes in the sky, like
a child. After that he never moved till the bell sounded
for matins.

Monk.

Monuments all about him, and he had no
fear of the dead?

Ethelnoth.

Not the least: he looked often at the
graves, with a kingly eye too.

Monk.

You think he is penitent?

Ethelnoth.

I would fain have questioned him: his
face was so full of responses. But there was a privacy
about it, kept me well in the shadow.

Monk.

This is curious. If he should have a great
vision to recount! Did his brows shine?

Ethelnoth.

Well, to be honest, there is nothing in
Scripture comparable with his aspect. The bright colour
is come back to his cheeks; and his eyes burn again like
stars. He looked sickly so long.

Monk.

Yes; and it is marvellous a night in the chapel
should recover him. I could never live through it.
There is so much that is supernatural. But he does not
know how the corpses bloom about him—fresh as resurrection-morn;
he has never seen a saint's coffin
opened, nor breathed the fragrant, spiced air from the
lips. He is back now at his prayers.

Ethelnoth.

And the sunlight of the dawn is over him.
His head glows like an altar seized by God's descent.
I must see now that he rests and has meat. He will
suddenly hunger, and then no patience. It is the swoop
of the falcon on the woodcock. Get within.
[Exit Monk.]

[To Canute.]
I trust you have found peace and absolution?

Canute.
'Tis for King Edmund that I kept the watch:
I said the prayers, the great mulct for his soul;
My task was ended long since in the dark.

Ethelnoth.
It should have kept you lowly on your knees
Till dawn. A penance—have you learnt them all,
The varied, slow, humiliating rites?

Canute.
'Tis little that I know except the creed,
And Pater-noster that Christ sang Himself,
And taught to His disciples: seven prayers
There are in that Divine one, and he sends
To God a message touching every want
A man may have, who sings it in his heart,
As I above this tomb. Oh, I have deeply
Foredone myself; but mercy hath been shown me,
And I for ever shall hold fast in thought
All this night's miracle.

Ethelnoth.
Confide the vision.
You have an aspect most mysterious,
As God had forced an entrance to your soul.

Canute.

O Ethelnoth, I have given up the keys of the
city to Him. There is no warfare longer between us.
They are wonderful Hands to fall into, and a wide world
that is opening. I must be a pilgrim.

Ethelnoth.

Then you saw one call you to St. Peter's
dome; or St. Joseph, who himself took the young Child
to a new country, with his wanderer's staff pointed your
route?

Canute.
No; 'tis the need of travel,
That I may think. God is a law-giver,
And in the mysteries of nature prints
The characters of rule. All things with Him
Are from a source, and of necessity
As stern as that which makes corruption sequence
To the slacked bonds of life.

Ethelnoth.
How shall you journey?

Canute.
Not by the sea—that's pagan; by slow highways,
Pausing at cities.

Ethelnoth.
This is worldly business,
Of which your soul will get no benefit.

Canute
[pointing to the altar].
Are your eyes glutted with the treasure there?
My breach of faith has opened intercourse
'Twixt me and heaven: we do not haggle now
On the first point at issue. Oh, this large,
Wide world of sorrow—'tis as I had entered
A kingdom. Let us out into the light.
[Turning to the burial-ground.]
Such very early morning, autumn-time,
A rigour in the air; from the dark chapel
How sharp the contrast!—golden sycamores,
The dew a filmy veil across the grass,
The blue mist o' the orchard. 'Tis the moment
When nature puts on immortality,
Casting her mortal weeds, and this elation
Springs from itself, a current in the air
That hath no ripple.
[Re-enter Monk: a procession passes.]
From the Fount of God
I have drunk and am refreshed. My Edmund's England
Shall be no fleeting kingdom. Ethelnoth— [Exeunt into the Church, conversing, and finally joining the procession.]


Monk.

Why, he looks like a bridegroom coming out
of his chamber. I will at once set this down. How
he towers above the band of brethren! Heaven's favour
is assuredly upon him—and so beautiful! He has the
roses and lilies of a woman—not like brother Thurstan,
with the great, red patches in his cheeks. But it's in the
Scriptures—holiness always gets into the skin. My complexion
is a poor witness to my sanctity. [Exit into the Church.]

[Enter Emma into the burial-ground.]
Emma.
Love, love!—I'll learn it in the burial-ground;
Love, love!—they think that I come here to pray?
Ay, as monks pace this path in orisons
To be beloved—of God. What dost thou here,
[Enter Thororin.]
My Thororin, in this drear water-land,
This isle of apple-orchards? Thou stand'st mute.
I left thy noble Viking at the tomb
Of Edmund, weeping; some vicissitude
Has fallen on him; he is shrunk and shamed.

Thororin.
And changed to thee, my queen?

Emma.
Oh, Heaven severs
More hearts than it unites. Thou art a poet,
And hath he banished thee his company?

Thororin.
We two have stood together when the stars
Shone straight down in the sea, and I have sped
The ship with music fleeter than the wind.
I will to sea; there I shall dream of him,
Ah, there I shall recover—

Emma.
Thororin,
Thou hast my queenly heart. I can disburthen
Only to thee—a priest is judge of sin:
Who cares for sin? Who would be healed of that?
The hunger and the thirst about the heart
The poet can assuage; he knows the truth—
That love is the religion, and the body
But a poor pagan till it learn its rites.
We were so happy: none should look on lovers;
I' the world 'tis outrage, and on Heaven's part
It spoils the privacy. Two souls alone
With the blind sky and unrecording earth
To witness them—then there may be disclosures,
Deep, amorous friendship; but with God to watch—
He's made all ill betwixt us.

Thororin.
I have lost
The poet's joy, for in my Danish lord
All Sagas were accomplished. He betrays
Imagination, and the trust of song;
He has befooled my dreams, and I will go.
With me flies Gunhild; when she heard the king
Was praying, with an altered countenance,
She tossed her arms and cried, He is undone,
No hope for Scandinavia, but his child—
And a beam crossed her forehead.

Emma.
She would bless
My babe if she beheld him; he is featured
Like Gorm, his father's lawless grandfather
And stares out at the sea.

Thororin.
Yea, she spake true;—
Our king is lost; last night I saw him shudder
Passing my harp, and my resolve is taken.
He shall not look upon the sacred creature,
That never speaks save to proclaim its love.
Withdraw your heart as I the instrument
That has no music for him.

Emma.
Oh, to cease
From loving is impossible. He's changed,
I recognise it, but the man in him
Endures; the tough love overlives these things;
I could not quite forsake him. I will labour
To found fair abbeys, and enrich the Church,
Then, 'tis my last ambition, he will build
A stately tomb for me—a marriage bed;
For I shall lie and listen to his voice,
Awake and trembling: he will talk of sin,
And pray, and stumble in the Latin words,
Till I shall laugh to hear him, but his thought
Will be of a gold-haired and royal saint,
Serene at God's right hand, and meet for worship.
'Twill please me, as I moulder at his knee,
To know he has that picture, and that Emma
Draws him o' nights to the moonlighted choir.
You sing love overlives death: sing it loud
In Norway! I will act it; I will feign.

Thororin.
Nay, be yourself, show you despise this doting,
Show how ignoble is a reign of peace.
This sleepy air is not for warriors;
Rouse him to conquest; let him see your scorn.

Emma.
And alienate him so. Have you not learnt,
My poet, love is the great, feigning art;
Itself the desperate, deep reality
That puts on all disguises? Feign to love,
All living creatures crowd to jeer at you,
Dead in dissimulation: be a lover,
And all that your belovèd covets most
You will become. Did my lord set his heart
On gem, or missal, I would gratify
His whim, and now saints are his admiration—

Thororin.
O noble-featured queen, you cannot grow
One of these petty women, with blank faces;
Your brow gleams as the flashing, northern sky,
And you will cease to charm him when you wear
A stagnant, dull sobriety.

[Re-enter Canute, Ethelnoth, and procession from the church. King and Archbishop walk apart.]
Emma.
He comes;
Is he not beautiful, a very hero?
To Norway! Spread his glory in the North!
When the great battle-lust possesses him
He will be perfect pagan. Oh, I love thee,
For thou hast sung of that in all the world
Most worthy of eternal chronicle,
And endless iteration.

Thororin.
Come away!
Let us not look on him. The bells and chanting
Have thrust the homely sagas from his mind.

Emma.
O harp, that keeps him famous through the world,
O Thororin, my poet, on thy brows
I set my lips. Couple my name with his;
Sing of our kingly bairn.—Forget the rest—
Sing of his glory, sing the conqueror.

Thororin
[scowling at Canute].
A tattling penitent! Oh, I will tell
Great lies to make men tremble at thy name,
And thou shalt burn and harry like the rest,
The son of Swend, but fiercer in destruction.
I will keep faith with thee; my harp shall never
Know thy dishonour.

Emma.
Seven battlefields
Thou hast to sing, and Edmund's overthrow.
Farewell! [Exit Thororin; she watches Canute.]
He doth not even look on me,
There is a seeking passion in his face,
He's thinking how he best can serve his God.
Some faces never alter.

[Ethelnoth advances to her.]
Ethelnoth.
Noble lady,
What do you in the early morning air?

Emma
[aside].
He thinks I am so wrinkled and so stricken
That I disfigure the young day? My beauty
Shall dazzle and humiliate the monk,
And then— [glances at Canute]

'Tis said you lived here as a boy.
Archbishop, you have often paced this path
Among the abbey dead,—I came here humbly
To look for sepulture; my waning years
Incline me earthward, as those stooping trees
Bend their decaying branches to the ground.

Ethelnoth.
Daughter, these precints are not yet for you;
There's summer on your features, and your hair
Is radiant as Queen Guinevere's, whose bones
Moulder beneath you.

Emma
[shuddering].
Have I found the grave
Of Guinevere?

Ethelnoth.
Yes, lady, it was opened
Six years ago—the bloom still on her face,
But dusty.

Emma
[kneeling].
Will you let me lie beside
This lovely queen? Oh, deeper in the earth!
[Flings herself on the ground.]
I am an ageing woman:—meet I die,
And give him my wild soul to wanton with.
[Canute passes near her.]
God, he is cruel, with sharp instruments
He's cutting at my heart. Ah, blessèd father,
Did we twain walk together, we would found
Such stately houses, for I love the Church;
Yet oh!—it is my mortal sin—my husband
Is foremost in my heart.

Ethelnoth.
This reverie
Hath been too much prolonged, he doth not notice
His noble queen; she is a royal creature,
Doubtless of great munificence. I'll bring
This pair together.

Emma.
All my revenues,
If you can make him penitent of this,
His infamous neglect.
[Ethelnoth walks apart with Canute.]
In very truth,
My heart will burst its banks from this contraction
And pressure of my rage. I do not feign;
The fury in me doth transgress the limits
Of life's determined channels.

[Exit Ethelnoth.]
Canute
[approaching.]
Desolate!
My lady, with her bright hair in the grass
Untressed. Ah! you mistake; it was not here
They laid the king we murdered.

Emma.
Here is buried
Our Arthur, faultless monarch of the West,
And Guinevere, his beauteous, wicked queen.
Oh, give me leave my lord, to lie with her.

Canute.
You say that she was wicked.

Emma.
So am I.
She had a heart too passionate, and beauty
That bore no bloom save in the clime of love.
We shall speak low together; she will prate
Of Lancelot, but I shall say my husband
Was my sole lover, and became a pilgrim:
I lay a shrouded figure on the bed,
When he returned.

Canute.
Emma, my precious queen,
You make me stark with horror: for my soul
I go to Rome; for I have wrought a deed
So black, so diabolical, I shudder
For hell by day and night. The time will come
When it will be far better for us, far,
Than all on middle earth, that we had ever
Performed God's will, and very earnestly
Loved Him with inward heart.

Emma.
You grow religious,
The ties of earth unloose. Make no farewell,
Do not come near me living; but this favour
I ask of you, when you return from Rome,
Visit my grave. You will have learnt how lowly
The courtesy to death.

Canute.
O Emma, Emma,
My greatest, dearest, it was in your heart
To put away my rival.

Emma.
You can pray,
It is the chief use of your lips. I'll die!
[Stooping over Guinevere's grave.]
I would be buried with my kind; your place
Will be by flawless Arthur.

Canute.
Do you jeer?
Then I will fling you off from bed and board.

Emma.
Clip my long hair, and dress me as a nun?
I prithee give me into custody
O' the archbishop. To the barrèd cell!
For he is gentle; he will bring my boy
To play bo-peep at kissing.

Canute.
You will make him
A murderer, a traitor.

Emma.
Like his father!

Canute.
Since penitents are dumb beneath the scourge,
I do not chide you. [Aside.]
There is strength in me
To judge her, and condemn. A fatal creature!
Can you repent?

Emma.
Of noble Edmund's death?
Most bitterly—for England has no king,
[Canute turns away.]
And he had royal gifts. Oh, I am mad
Thus from the grass to hiss at him. He goes;
Then all is disannulled between our lives,—
I am a lonely corpse. Help, help! Come back!

Canute.
What would the queen with an unkingly man,
Whose crown she shares?

Emma.
A lie, a hateful lie.
The wet mould at my breast is chill, and bitter
The memories that come up through the turf
Of that lost woman.

Canute.
Emma, do you find
Your mate in her?

Emma.
Yea, since she sinned for love.
There is no wickedness I would not work,
No crimes so monstrous that it would not seem
Part of my wifely duty, no deception
I would not practise for your dear advance.
I pray you mark, my king, that I confess
My guilt. [Aside.]
I am not feigning, so my nature
Yearns for his deeper love.—My noble Dane,
[Re-enter Ethelnoth fearfully.]
Your glory I have dimmed; as I deserve,
Put me away from you.

Ethelnoth
[distractedly].
This must not be,
What God has joined—

Canute.
Sever you not, you fool,
With priestly intervention. She is mine!
[Raising and clasping Emma. Exit Ethelnoth.]
Mine, mine,—the dearer for her wickedness,
The more to be desired! Be not afraid,
I have learnt this, sin is a mighty bond
'Twixt God and man. Love that hath ne'er forgiven
Is virgin and untender; spousal passion
Becomes acquainted with life's vilest things,
Transmutes them, and exalts. Oh, wonderful,
This touch of pardon,—all the shame cast out;
The heart a-ripple with the gaiety,
The leaping consciousness that Heaven knows all,
And yet esteems us royal. Think of it—
The joy, the hope!

Emma.
The joy! To see your face
Turned to my brow, that's joy; and if your soul
Could even thus incline to my poor spirit,
All would be firm between us. I am old,
And fixed in disposition, hard to move,
Not changed in one rare day. Oh, you are young;
Have patience, give me slowly of your hopes,
Your happiness. I thought I had no king,—
All royalty was gone. But you are great
Beyond our nuptial night, beyond the day
That saw us crowned together.

Canute.
Starry tears,
Such as the northern seas dashed in the face
Of your young Viking.

Emma.
O Canute, these words
Give me a home again upon your breast.
Not wholly changed!

Canute.
For thou art mine. Thus linked,
We will serve England; law and peacefulness
Shall, of our effort, dwell within her shores.
My brother could no more.

Emma.
This altar-cloth
Hid in my robe—I had it in my thought
To lay it secretly on Edmund's shrine.
Will you present it?

Canute.
O my Elfgifu,
Say that you wrought it carefully with tears.

Emma.
No; God forbid the foul hypocrisy!
These blue and shining peacocks that I sewed
Were for pure love, and every lady-stitch
Entwisted for your sake.

Canute.
A frank confession.
[Aside.]
The glorious, golden heart!—Then we together
Will lay it on our kingly brother's tomb.
Emma, the holy places I have wrecked
Make ruin in my dreams.

Emma.
With all my relics
You shall give reparation: we will found
Great houses. [Aside.]
Now his eyes are shed on me
Full as the morning sun.—And for our England
We will take common thought.

Canute.
Her sons shall serve
One God and worship Him, one Christendom
For ever hold, and with right truthfulness,
Even as thou, shall love Canute their lord.
And I have vowed, in that I basely slew
Their hero-king, that all my altered years
Shall be a great atonement, and accomplish
The best of his conception. We are led
By baffling roads to wisdom, but a light
Creeps ever after as we step along;
I turned back in my sin, and then I saw
The dogging lustre. Let us take our gift,
Your work, my queen, to Edmund's sepulchre.
This is to be a pilgrim:—the new life
Is full of blessing. Come!

[Exeunt into the Church.]