University of Virginia Library

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!