University of Virginia Library

ACT III

Scene I

A terrace, approached above from the castle by a central flight of steps, and communicating with an unseen courtyard below by other flights of steps.
The Bishop of Thames and Noblemen
Bishop.

Softly, softly, my lords! Our queen is a
very gracious queen; a stranger, but a gracious
queen. She is well beloved of the king; so is
Melot well beloved of the king and Sir Tristan
well beloved of the king. Then, where is the
offence? If my sovereign came to me—as often
he unbosoms himself—with any fear that his gladness
and his honour were attainted, I should have
patience with your complaining. But the king
comes to me always as a very humble penitent, in
remorse for his frequent impatience. What is ill
with the land? Marjodo has been slain by wild
beasts, as who may not be, traversing so wild a
country. The king has restored Sir Tristan to
favour—and in favour let him remain, till the
birth of an heir make the court tedious to him,
and he seek fresh adventure.

1. Nobleman.

We will not have heirs of his begetting.

Bishop.

I will not have slanders of your begetting.
Go home, my lords; look each one after his own
household. 'Tis the hour for my Office. Go!

[The lords retire and talk at the top of the left descending flight of stairs.

And so fair a woman, even as the holy women
of old—full of beauty and graciousness, innocent
in her husband's eyes and beloved.

[Looking round at the autumn birds.

It is well, O my soul, thou canst fly—fly away
and be at rest with thy God!

[He becomes lost in his Office. The lords descend and pass below the terrace. After a while King Mark enters: the Bishop rises and salutes him.
Good-morrow, Sire!

Mark.
O Churchman,
There is a marvellous sweet peace upon you.

Bishop.
I would extend it, for it is God's peace.
Nor is it from smooth fountains that this current
Flows and makes fruitful: it must well within.

Mark.
Ay, Holy Writ! God's peace is for the dying,
And for the very old. . . .
Your punishment
For blasphemy against the Holy Ghost?

Bishop.
Death, and by flame.

Mark.
. . . My Queen is more indulgent.
Oh, I am happy! She absolves so clean
She startles me.

Bishop.
She has a royal gift.

[The Priest returns to his Office: King Mark looks out. Tristan comes down the steps and stands behind him.
Mark
(as he feels Tristan's touch on his shoulder).
The birds are settling on our coast in troops,
Before they traverse ocean. Look, yon horseman
Rides through an empty field;
Yet in an instant something of the air
Rises from out its sod; black pinions dazzle
His horse and the whole sky: another instant
There is dead field again.

Tristan.
I love the autumn,
Its air and golden trees that fall away,
And pinions borne abroad.

Mark.
Is it your name
That sadly so inclines you? 'Twas a pang
When first you told your name—so glad a child,
With branch of linden in your curly hair,
Tucked close behind your ears, the blossoms jigging
About your forehead, as you taught my men
The wood-craft of the Parmenois. My Tristan,
I think you are full happy?

Tristan.
It is joy.

Mark.
What is?

Tristan.
This autumn, and once more your favour.

Mark.
Such verity is in your voice—I know
That verity! Yes, it is good to crackle
The crystal oak-leaves in the gritty snow;
'Tis good to watch your fingers that so deftly
Uncase, then clean the stag; and good to listen
To your ballads by the ingle-nook. Most dearly
I love you, sweet inheritor. The bracelet
I clasped upon your wrist for your first song
You have not worn of late.

Tristan.
Since I was ill,
Yonder in Ireland, it fell forward, tangling
My readiness of hand.

Mark.
King's gifts, king's praises
So light with you!

Voices
(below).
Our sovereign! . . .

Mark.
There is clamour.
Listen! 'Tis so we hear ourselves accounted
For what we are to subjects.

Tristan
(flinging himself down on a stone seat away from the parapet).
As you choose!
A king must take his knowledge as he can.
Pray God that I may never be a king,
And lose my joy even in the birds afield!

Mark moves away to the end of the terrace to the left and listens to the murmur below: after a few minutes he comes back, looks for an instant at Tristan; then goes up straight to the Bishop and seizes his arm.
Mark.
Listen awhile beside me!

Voices
(raised maliciously below).
We refuse:
We will not be the servants of a whore.
What did he say—this bishop she has caught?
Melot is well beloved of the queen,
Tristan is well beloved of the queen,
The king is well beloved of the queen,
And then he laughed . . . a mischief in his eye!
But we will not be governed of a whore.

Mark.
You may not listen: I will stop all ears
From such infection. Bishop, this is plague
That you must cure. Leash up these rabble-tongues;
Threat them with hell; or a wide massacre
Will cleanse the purlieus of my palace. Speak!

Bishop.
Sire, you would go to war with sland'rous tongues?
Let be, let be! I will confer with you
In private of this matter. Recollect
Your ear must not be general. Men live
In houses, Sire, not for the warmth, the shelter,
But rather to encase themselves
With the thick deafness of deep-crusted walls.
The day is fair. Sir Tristan mourns his friend;
Go, solace him. You took me from my prayers.

Mark.
I doubt no more; nor will I suffer doubt
In any bosom. Not a fiend of hell
But in the secret silence of his heart
Shall feel her as the blowing, smokeless air
He cannot breathe or taint. If you have power—

Bishop
(shaking his head).
The tongue can never with the tongue contend:
The issue is dissension.

Mark.
You are helpless!
But if you have no power
To cleanse my kingdom, then by miracle
I will draw down on it the heathen wave
That can submerge a country and leave soft,
Green fields in chequer on the earth again.
I have my instruments, and olden magic
Shall speak her pure, if you have nothing by you,
No flaming minister, no element,
No king that rides the air.

Bishop.
The Church is full
Of every potent magic. Truth is truth,
And can avouch itself without a tongue.
No heathen wave—
(With sudden energy).
There is an element!
Your Queen in face of all shall lift her hand
Fresh from the hissing iron, free from spot,
And God make her acquittal absolute.

Mark.
The iron!

Bishop.
Yea, my lord, and not the pyre:
That is your mercy; there I must reprove.

Mark.
Then give my Queen intelligence; assemble
My lords about her: but it is the Church
I put to proof, if it can silence slander.

Tristan
(springing forward).
Oh, vile to her! The branding iron! Mark,
You dare affright her so? Ah, would to God
That I had never borne her from her land,
Her mother, given this treasure of the world
For you to blemish, with your use, your wearing!
And would you crack the stone.

Mark.
If you are heated,
You heat for her the iron that will brand.
Leave your remonstrance!

Tristan.
For yourself I plead.
Such sin as never she can pardon, such
Offence as brands you ever! You will murder
Her love for you.

Mark.
No: prove her love for you
Need sing no Miserere.

Tristan.
So bewildered!
Unkingly! Take your titles and be base,
The cuckold of the crowd.

Mark.
Good bishop, open
Our counsel to the Queen and bring me word
Of her accordance. I await you here.

[Exit Bishop.
Tristan
(pacing violently up and down the terrace).
This mummery—O hell of flame!—for fire
Will burn; there is no miracle to stay it;
It shrivels little children in their beds,
And sleeping women; it has no remorse.
Fire!
(Approaching Mark.)
Better build a beacon
On Cawsand's topmost rocks, there publish her,
Stand by and feed the flames! If there be gods
Though verily I know not—elements
There are and licking airs—if there be gods,
Yon deed will be arrested: but go forth,
Destroy . . . her that Iseult of Ireland
Bore as the gracious dawning bears the sun.
O light of the earth, O fair!

[Wildly tossing his hands.
Mark
(who has remained looking toward the central staircase).
How dare you doubt
Of her, or heaven!

Tristan.
Would a god suffer it?
If it is suffered, if you put your Queen
To such intolerable, grave affront,
I pray—to those same fiery elements
You conjure, to dishonour you.

[The King continues quietly looking toward the staircase, down which Iseult is seen advancing with a clear and upright carriage.
Mark
(to Iseult).
Behold!
Iseult, it is the peril to my peace
I pray you have compassion of.

Iseult.
My lord,
There is no fear in me for any action
That you can put me to. Love of old time
Brought order to the angry elements,
And will assuage all discord.
I obey
This word of yours as if my mother bade me
Pluck herbs in the garden for my fresher health.
Appoint the time.

Mark
(glancing back at Tristan, as he kneels on the steps to Iseult).
Tristan, if there be gods!

Scene II

Tintagel: the sea-shore in front of a steep cavern, a boat moored under a rock
Tristan, in guise of a pilgrim, is pacing a narrow beach with stupendous cliffs above. He grasps a letter in his hands, and turns and reads and looks to sea.
Tristan.
She shall not bear the fire, God's shame on her!
But I would rather bury her alive.
What means this call to me, this strict command
That I should stain my face, change my apparel,
Become a pilgrim, habited like those
Strange, holy men that met me on these coasts
When first I landed—holy, holy faces,
And carrying the sweets of sanctity
About them in their persons, as the bees
The sugar of the flowers? She bade me chaunt
In prayers and psalms. I cannot pray for her,
She does defy the heavens too wantonly:
She is profane. But, oh, the Miserere
For Tristan—I can sing it with no feint.
[He chaunts.
How my voice sounds up!
No wonder; I am very far away,
Cut off, cut off, as if the sea
Closed on me, and I sat within a vault,
Remembering the birds. No avenue!
Cut off, cut off!

[Iseult has entered the cavern by a secret passage, and for some time has been standing at the cavern's mouth.
Iseult.
Ah me! How woe-begone!
But I forget the part I bade you play,
A pilgrim.

Tristan.
I will play no more false parts.
You must confess—the king will pardon you;
I will abjure your magic.

Iseult
(looking down into a deep tide-pool).
Will you drown
Like the void flagon?
Gaily blows the wind;
I cannot drop a tear. ‘Iseult, ma mort.’
Pilgrim, you have forgot your scallop-shell;
But I will bind it on.
[She picks up a scallop from the beach and slips it into the ribbon of his hat, looking into his face.
‘Iseult, ma vie.’

Tristan.
What would you have me do? You put a hollowness
In all I am. But promise me, before—
Before we part, you will not face the fire.

Iseult.
Before we part?

Tristan.
You go to the Ordeal,
And I, a pilgrim, whither?

Iseult.
Say, my Tristan,
Where of yourself you wend. Conceive yourself
Washed up as on my lovely Irish coast,
A stranger—

Tristan.
Ah, I had not then drunk magic!
I saw thy beauty, and in loyal passion
Besought it for the king: then came the error,
The deadly draught. It is incredible
To Mark his friend should be to him a liar,
Amazing, curious as a miracle
I should betray. He does not hear the trumpets
That blow their triumph through me in his presence,
Blast of victorious trumpets, the wild curse
With which they catch my heart. . . .

Iseult.
Break, break from this!
God help me! Such fierce hate is in my heart
To keep thee and to torture thee—a moan
To be avenged. Thou dreamest we are parting;
But I shall pass from branding iron to fire
Of branding fagots, for I choose the iron.

Tristan.
Choose to be branded! All our love will be
Henceforth as it is written of the brand,
For men to read.
It was a crystal sphere
That swung round to itself. I was within,
And all the music of the harmony
That swept it through the heavens was Iseult.
Oh, it is broken up!

[He buries his face in his hands. Iseult looks forth, bites her lips, and then speaks very low over Tristan.
Iseult.
There is a service
I beg of thee, to bear me from the ship,
Such as thou shalt behold me, vilely clad
In beggar's weeds, a penitent, to carry
And lay me on the sands of Caerleon:
No knight will touch me,
For every knight feels toward me in his heart
Even as thou. But with thy scallop-shell,
Untaintable, a pilgrim, thou shalt bear me
Fast in thy arms to Caerleon. I entreat.

Tristan.
For this thou calledst me?

Iseult.
Yea, holy man.

Tristan.
For this?

[He lifts her and bears her a few paces along.
Iseult
(as he sets her down).
Thou wilt slip footing on the shore,
I know thou wilt. Meek pilgrims do but rarely
Strive with such awful burthen in their arms.
Thou wilt slip footing, fall, we shall be thrown
Together, side by side, and I shall swear,
By all the relics and the Holy Rood,
Iseult has never borne embrace of man
Save of her lord and this same clumsy pilgrim.

Tristan
(embracing and re-embracing Iseult).
O fine, O venerable ruse! Ha, ha!
What triumph for your lover! Is it thus
That I must hold thee? I shall grip thee tight
Against the plashing waves. Neptune forbid
That I should kiss thee, though if he contend . . .
Give me full measure now, rain kisses on me!
How brief thy tenderness!

Iseult.
Poor, poor soiled pilgrim!
What dost thou know but Cupid and his arrows,
His vivid little pains, his petulance.
Venus has none of these: her votaries
She aids from secret caverns in the sea,
And wraps them to herself. O Tristan, not
By any guileful speech or crafty lie,
I pass forth to my judges unafraid,
But being upheld by the strong charms of Love,
Of Venus, if you will—these mysteries
Are of the many gods.
Awhile ago
I thought you were too solemn for the hour,
And trifled with you: now in very earnest,
Mingling your hands with mine, I can make prayer
To God to shield us: Holy Trinity,
Ever to thee, thou threefold light, we turn—
Love, Love, ere we can falter, once more Love!

Tristan.
Iseult, O queen—oh, silence!

Iseult.
To thine oars!
Thy task is simple. Mine!—oh, recollect
The crown before mine eyes, the vast cathedral,
The sickness and the shiver in the head.
If I should fail, or if the jugglery
Of swearing I have never lain in arms,
Save of the pilgrim and my lord, were ill
Approved of heaven—

Tristan.
Heaven loves thy innocence,
The king's great faith. And I shall see thy feet
Bare on the stone, shall see thee in thy smock,
Trembling for cold, yea, and for modesty,
I should behold thee thus; for I shall see thee.
It is all carven clear before my eyes
How thou art only mine.

Iseult.
So vast a crowd!

Scene III

The Interior of the Minster Church at Caerleon, with view of the Choir, the Choir-aisles, and, on the north side, of the Sacristy; on the south side, of the little Chapel of St. Mary Magdalen.
Relics are being laid on the altar; the King's throne is brought in. The Bishop of Thames, with attendant Priests, enters the Sacristy.
Priest.
Then will you put your robes on you, my lord?

Bishop.
It is not yet the hour. Shall we not pray?

Priest.
The king is in a marvellous distraction:
He watched all night.

Bishop.
I cannot aid the king.
[To Attendants who pass with brazier and bar of iron.
Stir not so noisily. Remember, caitiffs,
This lady is your queen. Of noble grace
She yields her to the bitter degradation.
[To others.
Bear very humbly
This habit of a penitent, this girdle,
Round to St. Mary's Chapel. Churls, remember
The thorns, the nails, the scourge that we adore
Are but adored as they are instrument
Of torture to pure sanctity. Step softly.

[He kneels. Slowly a crowd begins to fill the Church. Iseult and Brangaena enter St. Mary's Chapel. Attendants set the brazier, hissing round the iron, before the altar. Melot props himself against a column and looks up.
Melot.

I wonder . . . Is it in this woman to put
forth the miracle of truth? If she do it, we will
trouble no more for the philosopher's stone.

[An Attendant approaches him.
Attendant.

We may not disturb the bishop, we
may not disturb the king. Do we set the queen's
throne beside the king's?

Melot.
Assuredly, and lay across the seat
Her golden robes and over them the tarnished
And venerable crown that at her marriage
King Mark set on her head. He will re-crown—
That is the ceremony. Move with care.

[Iseult puts aside her regal robes. Brangaena receives a dark woollen garment and twisted cord from an Attendant; then, the penitent's dress in her hand, she watches Iseult, as if transfixed.
Iseult.
Help me; my crown is tangled in my hair,
My hair unloops: it must be tightly bound.
Help me . . . I tremble . . . I am not afraid,
Except at bungling. There!

Brangaena.
You snapt the circlet
With your fierce handling.

Iseult.
There! The crown, the jewels—
And, see, this little topaz at my heart,
With all my silks and raiment, the brown samite. . .

Brangaena.
Ay, beauty—

Iseult.
There! I give them to the poor.

Brangaena
(holding the topaz in her hand).
This?

Iseult.
Oh, how blessèd is the emptiness!
In my hands nothing. Sweet, I cannot wait.
This power is not for ever in my heart.
Help me, unknot this girdle, help, Brangaena!
O mortal cruelty! How thou art dangling
That topaz . . . Throw it to the jewel-heap;
And bid them hasten.

Brangaena.
Let me guard it, Queen:
Not that it is a jewel—for thine heart.

[Iseult takes the topaz and flings it away.
Iseult.
Is Tristan safe? I shall have need of him
In all the buzz when they are giving thanks.

Brangaena.
Tristan is fled. Iseult, how cold you are!
How far apart! Your feet are in my hands;
I try to chafe them. Think of me a little!
You are not dying: then I know the face
Looks off as it were staring at a sea,
And has no pity?
Nay, be merciful!

Iseult
(rubbing her hands together).
But, sweet, I cannot wait:
This power is not for ever in my heart.
Help me, unknot this girdle, help, Brangaena!

[Brangaena, as if waking, dresses her as a penitent.
Brangaena.
Though you are dark and humble before God.
Sweet, wild one, yet God knows it is a mask;
He will not be deceived: you go forth guilty
To the ordeal, and the iron will burn.

[A pilgrim passes up the south aisle, and enters the choir, brushing Melot, who slightly shrugs his shoulders.
Iseult.
Is Tristan safe? I shall have need of him
In all the buzz, when they are giving thanks.

Brangaena.
Tristan is fled.
(Suddenly clasping her knees.)
Iseult, be merciful.
Have mercy on me! What is Tristan's love?
He flees. But I am with you at the pyre,
And may not burn beside you. Pity me!
I cannot let you go. There is love
Of woman unto woman, in its fibre
Stronger than knits a mother to her child.
There is no lack in it and no defect;
It looks nor up nor down;
But loves from plenitude to plenitude,
With level eyes, as in the Trinity
God looks across and worships. O my dear,
To keep you moving in and out my days!
Let me go forth and to the multitude
Publish the story of my great neglect;
And I will take the iron in my hand,
And pray that it may burn me to the bone,
If all I speak before the holy bishop,
The king and all his lieges, be not true:
That you are under spell and innocent,
That you and the lord Tristan are as one,
Are fashioned to each other, as the cup
To acorn; and no other use is yours,
Or purpose in the world.

Iseult
(breathing hard).
But where is Tristan?
Go, peep into the church. I hear such noises,
I am turned sick.
[King Mark enters and takes his throne.
Tell me what you behold,
And if they soon will come to summon us.
[Exit Brangaena into the Church.
I quail a little, I am very chill.
If he have shrunk away! He disappears
As suddenly as I have heard Tintagel's
Whole fairy fabric falls from tower to base,
As in a dream, at the appointed day.

Re-enter Brangaena
Brangaena.
The king is waiting: he is on his throne;
He becked me to him, said that he should crown you—
I could have bowed me down upon my knees,
But for an awe. . . . I could have owned my sin,
And wrought you liberation.

Iseult.
He shall crown me.
What saw you, what beside?

Brangaena.
Close to the altar
A pilgrim, very fervent at his prayers.
He trembled as I passed him.

Iseult
(with a low laugh).
At his prayers,
Poor devil!
[She takes a step toward the Church, then hastily returns to Brangaena.
Sweet, I will not kiss you now;
But afterwards. . . .
Come first, for the first kiss.

Brangaena
(detaining her).
The bishop is not robed.

Iseult.
The iron glows;
I have to seize the iron. Follow me.
O Love, Love, Love,
Thou burn'st too hot: the iron will drop cold
And hissing at my feet. Brangaena, you
Have saved me, for your crystal cup it is
Sustains me at this hour. Walk steadily. . . .
You must not stay me. . . . I must walk alone.

[She goes far up the aisle and by the side-door enters the choir, ascends the steps, to the amazement of all, passes Tristan, snatches the iron from the brazier, goes back a few steps and waits the Bishop who, with a procession, advances. In dumb-show the relics are uncovered, a vow is proposed and repeated—at the end of the repetition Iseult waves her hand toward the pilgrim, praying with hidden face: then in a voice that can just be heard the Bishop speaks.
Bishop.
Lay down the iron.
[He descends the steps, with her, lifting her hand.
See, the hand unscarred.

Iseult.
Brangaena!
[She embraces her.
Bishop, but this faithful soul
Hath not passed scathless through her agony.
[Looking round.
I thank you, gentle people, for your prayers;
[Fixing her eyes on Tristan, who has fallen prone on the altar-steps.
You have remembered how a soul is lonely,
Being accused.
(To Bishop.)
Now lead me to my lord.
[She stands before the King, who has risen, with clasped hands.
No speech between us: you have promised triumph.
Crown me!
(To Brangaena.)
Lay on my robes.

[The Bishop and King place the crown on her head. The Church is thrilled with strange music. Iseult again stoops to Brangaena and kisses her: the crowd looks up reverently as to some miracle.
Iseult.
Belovèd, it is thou and I that hear,
Not that poor pilgrim, thou and I together:
We share the secret. Is it not the same
Sweet singing, as of currents in the air,
That you so oft have told me ravished you
When the little flask was sealed?

Brangaena.
It is the same.

[She falls in swoon at Iseult's feet.