 | The Tragedy of Pardon |  |
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ACT IV
Scene I
The Chapel Courtyard. TintagelEarly morning in spring
To the right a wing of the Castle, in the centre the Chapel, to the left the Queen's House with an upper window, giving on to a boscage between the House and the Chapel.
King Mark stands in the porch of the Chapel: through a side-window he can watch the Queen's window.
Mark.
Sometimes she rests her arms along the ledge
And smiles and looks abroad. That is the greeting
I wait for: all the rest is heaviness.
O eyes, the dearest in the world, that keep
For me December's coldness through springtide—
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Are favouring, and as they dwell on him
They spread into a mercy all may see,
That all do see. But here I watch her smiles
Falling, in spring-tide, on my senseless woods.
[Iseult appears at the window.
So one may catch
A woman's face at rarest, raised to heaven,
Or lighting at some pleasure in herself.
Iseult
(listening to the birds).
O limpid, it is like the dew in flower!
Another—ah, that snatches as a scythe
That cuts into a score of varied sweets.
One that is all in silver to itself . . .
Enter Tristan, strolling through the boscage toward the Chapel, whistling bird-notes.
And one—how masterful the melody,
Buoyant and greeting and indifferent!
[Bending from the window.
Sweet, O sweet
The voices of the spring, and sweet to hear
The sweetest.
Tristan.
Queen, that was a common snatch.
Would you were free
To go forth to the woods; there are such notes
As must be caught in silence.
Iseult.
Would, ah, would,
Tristan, that we were free!
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I must pray for you,
Taken in such light temptation.
Iseult
(withdrawing from the window).
To your prayers!
[Tristan doffs to the Queen, then gaily passes on his way to Matins. At the Chapel-door he meets Mark.
Tristan
(saluting him).
I am heart-struck with the day—new-springing day! . . .
[Mark sets his hand violently on Tristan's arm.
Mark.
Tristan—
Tristan.
Oh, what is this?
Mark.
My pleasure, Tristan; my resolve; the joy
Of hearing you, my minstrel. You have sung
Yourself free of the cage! I set you loose. . . .
Those penetrating, sovereign notes—why, even
A murderer's heart were softened at their fall.
Go forth, pair in the singing woods. Go forth
Together, true to what you are, together
As paramours!
Tristan.
I whistled on my way
To Chapel and the Queen arrested me,
And bade me mock the oriole and spoke
Of how sweet freedom is. . . .
[Iseult comes out of her house to the Chapel, as the Bishop of Thames advances followed by Priests and Lords. Mark takes Iseult by the hand and sets her at Tristan's side.
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My lords, from you
I ask no counsel: I deliver judgment,
And bid you but be mute.
(To Iseult.)
Unhood, unhood,
And let us hear
Your morning music to the sky.
Iseult
(throwing back her hood and looking up).
The sky
Is very fair;
The birds are singing. In my heart I sighed
To be free with them; and the prayer came fast
For succour in temptation.
The Bishop
(taking Iseult's hand).
By ordeal
And in God's sight these twain are justified.
Behold this unscarred hand.
A breath's offence,
A moment's mitigation of the harsh
Rigours of duty, a too liberal
Interpretation of the morning's softness,
Are lovable infirmities, and in
Offending youth and beauty no offence.
Mark
(striking Iseult's hand out of the Bishop's).
My lords,
I care not now a jot where the truth lies,
Since God says this of them and April that!
We must believe the spring the churchman says—
It is a new religion that exists
Of its own depth and is effectual
Through disallowance. Then believe the spring!
Here is ordeal! Does the sunlight blast her?
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Is full of majesty. Look not so grave;
Nothing of this fair beauty shall be marred.
I have a sentence—'tis a mock, a jest,
A ritual of the May.
Take hands, take hands!
There should be joy in spring—the ice must crack.
I loose you from our bond and leave you twain!
The king, who knowing it,
Doth company with lovers, is a fool.
Go, Tristan, go—for of our fellowship
You are not any more. . . . Your silent mouth
Moves—let it keep its silence.
Queen Iseult . . .
Queen of the May, turn from me to your lord,
Turn to Sir Tristan, take his hand; take hands!
[Iseult, with a radiant face, lays her hand in Tristan's: he bows to the King and Court, and leads her forth as from an altar. Many incline as they pass and follow them with a gaze of admiration and pity. Then the procession enters the Church. Melot steps out from among the Lords and lingers behind with the King.
Melot.
What have you done—what madness?
Mark.
Let them go,
Renounced them to the season. All my cattle
From all my stables rush now in the meadows;
The million trees spring into arborets,
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For the time's purpose. There at least is truth . . .
Melot.
Where will you go?
[Mark looks out far over the waves.
Mark.
The sea roars round Tintagel;
Where should I go but shipless to the sea?
Melot
(pointing to the Chapel).
Why you must pray; the little door is open,
The Matins are not sung.
[Mark stares at him bewildered.
All creatures pray,
And bring a change to pass.
Mark.
God is not blind:
In me there is no worship.
Melot.
Love is blind.
Love sees things white, white as the driven snow.
There, pass within!
[The King, with bowed head, goes into the Chapel.
Scene II
Morais. A Forest-glade in MayTo the right an interior of a domed cave, a bed of rushes on the floor of crystal rock; a loaf and a few other things on a shelf of the same rock; Tristan's harp and hunting-horn slung on a
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Tristan and Iseult come down the rocks of the wild-wood
Tristan.
Let me lift thee, all the boulders are not mossed;
Thy feet are weary.
[She springs into his arms.
Warm cheeks, where fresh roses
Are being mingled with the loveliest roses!
And yet thy hand is cold as water filling
A silver bowl, how shrewdly to the sense.
Come, let us rest.
[Sweeping the grass with his hand.
The dew is almost gone.
[They seat themselves by the fountain.
Iseult.
O Tristan, what a sound
Of peace and ardour; how the little waters
From the rock-vein are never intermitted
In song from jet to brink. And thou art here
With me among the lilies, the small lilies,
So unsuspected at the woodland's core,
We breathe them from a whiteness held remote
By the verdure of their bowers.
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Breathe them lonely,
Till I have brought out Kurvenal's dry loaf,
And the dry grapes,
And fetched a rill for breakfast in my horn.
[He goes into the cave and brings out what there is to eat. He then brings water in his horn and they begin their meal.
Iseult.
No bread! I'll steep the raisins. Fie, you men,
I think you could eat bark like woodpeckers.
[She watches him devour a crust.
O loved, are we not happy?
Tristan.
Even as in Paradise.
Iseult.
I would not hear
The name of any other place or give
A name to this young freshness by the stream.
[On her elbows on the grass.
O little flowers and meadow-slips and tangle
Of growing things for June, there is no circlet
So sweet as one my lover can enwreathe
Of your young shoots and coral.
See, this clover!
Twist me a wreath and I will shine so fair
That you will pledge me queen of all the forests
Of Cornwall and of Parmenie and Erin,
Till the last summer tumbles into gold.
I will enchant you.
Tristan.
What, a clover-wreath!
[He plucks flowers and they weave a chaplet
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[A far away horn-call.
Listen!
Iseult
(rising impetuously).
Shut close the door,
And let us to the cavern!
Tristan.
Stay, this trail
Is right away. No fear, no fear!
Iseult.
But listen!
Tristan.
No danger, love Iseult. Think you that Mark
Hunts through the wilderness?
Iseult.
One joy, one sorrow,
One love, one life between us—and one dread.
Tristan.
No dread!
Iseult.
O comfortable voice, but I am shaken . . .
[Another blast rings along the distance.
The horn again!
Oh, how I hate the sound!
Tristan.
And I a hunter!
[A very distant horn is heard.
Iseult.
You will leave me, Tristan;
You must—ah, might it be here in the woods:
For then I should not light my pyre. So close
I keep me to the rivers and the trees,
Like Byblis, I should drop down in a fountain
When I was weary of pursuing thee;
Or else like Phyllis . . . often by this linden
I have thought upon her story, how she felt
She was forgotten in the great affairs
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And breathed her sighs into the leaves so deeply
She found herself amid the waving branches,
And, being rocked of the great winds, had peace.
When you go forth to hunt—you are a hunter,
And you must leave me—leave me in the woods!
Tristan
(impatiently).
But this is music; I must set my harp
To such a song.
Iseult.
You will not greatly suffer;
You have your harp. I see that you are chafing
To track the horn.
[She walks from him to the cave; at the threshold she stands and looks back at him, then lies down on the couch of rushes, with glistening eyes.
Tristan
(as he follows her into the cave).
Nay—I will bar the door,
And we will rest till noon. He does not seek us;
But this for utter safety, if he come.
[He unsheathes his sword and lays it by her.
Iseult.
Tristan, put back your sword. Divide us not
In soul and body, while your glittering falsehood
Flows by me with base laughter. I revolt.
In Love's name, by his arrows, I conjure
Your flagrant, trothless weapon from my couch.
Quench it—the sinister, cold-flowing steel!
Tristan.
The sword must stay; it guards you.
I am judge,
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And turn to sleep.
Iseult.
How can you so reproach
Your forest-queen?
Tristan.
That she should be assoiled
Before the world.
Iseult.
O Tristan!
Tristan.
Sleep, forget.
Iseult.
We are apart and of your will.
Tristan.
No woman
Can brook a lover's screen. You fret me. Sleep!
[He goes to the door and pauses.
How full of song
The forest—an announcing, tell-tale jangle,
And weary to my head. The horn has filled me
With bent for change, and there is listlessness
In country haunts. But Kurvenal will come
At noontide from Tintagel with his news:
Meantime I must keep guard upon the grotto.
(Turning back.)
'Tis breathing-time with her,
Deep sleep and rest. O perfect loveliness!
The holy clover round her eyes, the weapon
Alert beside her, she enravishes
More that she foils audacity. One kiss
Across the spiteful flash! O god of Love,
Be worshipped that this check is but a lie.
[He shuts the door and secures it. There is a near horn-call; King Mark and his Master-Huntsman come through the forest.
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The doe's-track ceases. Where then is our quarry?
Mark.
See, in the crystal rock a brazen doorway.
Huntsman.
Then this, Sir King, is a love-grot, once hollowed
By giants of heathen ages in the hillside
For secret dalliance, and then closely sealed
By Christian monarchs as a haunt of devils.
Mark.
This door inside and very hard is fastened.
Huntsman.
A marvel! Such-like caverns in a mountain
Are lighted, so my father's father told him,
With windows through the rock's acclivity.
Shall I make search over and round the ridges?
Mark.
Thou shalt.
[The Huntsman climbs.
This weary hunting that brings freshness
To head and cheek, but to the heart no service!
Huntsman.
Here is the casement, clear of roots and staring.
Mark.
What see you?
Huntsman.
Christ, 'tis magic! Is she mortal?
Mark.
A living soul within?
Huntsman.
A man and woman
Each side a sword that twinkles glassily.
The man is even as other men, the woman . . .
But I will look no further.
Mark.
How you tremble!
Huntsman
(springing down).
Look not, my king, come with me from the cavern.
Mark
(climbing).
Is this the zigzag that you took?
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God help you!
Mark
(looking in).
Even so. Good huntsman, lead my hounds to kennel;
I hunt no more this forest. All go home.
[Exit Huntsman.
My heart is cold with joy—the naked sword,
They in their beauty and seclusion: round them
Noon's fervid hour; both guileless, innocent.
O Easter-day, how can my heart arise
To greet a joy like this!
Iseult!
Thy face
Hot, flushed with childish vermeil, underneath
The purple chaplet of the clover-flower;
Thy sunlit mouth, so lovable, my kisses
Would rain down in a galaxy of flames,
As though this sun had sped them! Stay, a shaft
Falls harmfully; it will awaken her.
Ah, Tristan, I can shield her slumber too:
Thou with thy good drawn blade, I with this rumple
Of leaves and grass and flowers in mat and lattice
Across the flood of day. God keep thee secret!
[After covering the window, he descends and goes out.
Iseult
(within).
Tristan! wake! Tristan! wake!
We have been spied and from the casement yonder,
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And bluebells. Tristan!
Tristan
(within).
I will look around.
[He unbars and opens the door.
Oh, here are steps!
We are discovered.
We must fly—but where?
How get thee to a vessel? All the coast
His spies will guard against us. O sweet days,
For ever shaken from us! Yet if Mark
Spied on us, heaven be praised the sword was there.
Iseult.
Would he had seen the truth and drew us now
From lambent Maytime to the lighted stake—
An indivisible close! Where is your pulse?
I would be firewood to a blaze that quenched
My ashes with thy ashes.
Enter Kurvenal
Tristan.
Kurvenal,
Our refuge is discovered.
Kurvenal.
By the King.
He met me on the forest-edge and bade me
Seek you with prayer you would return to him,
You and his Queen, unhazarded in honour,
Pardoning and faultless. He recalls his wife
And you the prince and heir of Cornwall, pledging
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Of all past mischief in the people's tongue.
'Tis generous homage from a King, my lord;
See thou demean thee in observance worthy
Of such a reconcilement.
[He is going into the cave with a loaf when Iseult calls him back.
Iseult.
Kurvenal,
Carry his harp away, he is impatient,
And it is time to part. My holy crown
Shall drench its triplet leaves in the blessed fountain
Still voluble of us, that gives my queenship
The lightning of a smile.
[She throws her clover-crown into the water.
Farewell, Farewell!
O sun and valleys, he knows not where he goes!
Scene III
Tintagel. The King's Hall; gloamingA harp is heard; gradually by the uncertain light the faces are discerned
A crowd gathers at the open doorway as Tristan sings
Tristan.
Helen of Troy, Helen of Troy!
And the dead men on the plain;
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They cover up the slain;
But none may bury the lovely face
That hath wrought men all their pain—
Helen of Troy, Helen of Troy,
We would look on you again!
Mark.
To have you and once more to have your harp,
Tristan, beloved!
Tristan.
Once more to have my harp.
Mark.
You set my heart a-bleeding with your music.
It is my penitence.
Tristan.
No, no, it is the music . . .
I listen to it deeper than you all:
It is the silence that it leaves behind.
[Iseult steals in at the back of the hall, deeply hooded.
(Very softly.)
Helen of Troy, Helen of Troy,
We would look on you again!
Iseult
(low to Melot).
I stole up from my sick-bed to this music;
But music is the enemy of love,
And tears it from its bonds.
Melot
(restraining her).
Atune, atune!
[She vanishes.
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Scene IV
The orchard at Tintagel—as in Act II., Scene VA burning noon at midsummer
The Queen's chamber in the background, reached by shallow steps. Melot is talking to himself among the old apple-trees hung with mistletoe.
Melot.
The world must not be governed by Beauty,
and the world must not be governed by Love.
O ancient Druids, if yours were the secret!
Guardians of the Universe, shedders of blood,
requiring the renunciation of all things that the
heart may a little feel the dew! But what is
this? A procession from the Queen's chamber!
[Melot draws back among the sweeping boughs of the apple-trees as the Queen's maidens come down the orchard with white and purple cushions which they spread on the grass. Then they sit down on the edge of the cushions and weave daisies.
Nessa.
Jocelinde, are you weeping? Will she die?
Jocelinde.
It thrills me through to touch her, like a harp.
Nessa.
She will not die . . .
(Picking a daisy.)
She loves him, loves him not,
Loves him. . . . Come closer, Jocelinde! She loves
Lord Tristan.
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(rising and settling the cushions).
This is all she bade us do.
[Iseult is borne in a litter down the orchard. She is dressed completely in cloth of gold. Brangaena is beside her.
Iseult
(to Brangaena).
So hot a noon!
(To the Maidens.)
Remember that you say I am asleep.
And trouble not to seek me till the eve,
For I would lie a long while in the sun.
[The Maidens pass down the orchard, up the steps into the Queen's chamber. Iseult pushes a low bough aside and looks up.
The sky is very hot . . . and now—fetch Tristan!
Fetch me the crystal cup
You plunged into the sea, give me the flagon,
The dim strong-scented wine that rose like music,
That sank down in my heart to swell again!
I cannot bear this consciousness: my senses
Are idle as the war-horse on the plain,
That hears the battle-neigh, that has no rider,
That champs and cannot graze. Fetch Tristan to me.
[Melot advances and stands before the litter, the postern-gate behind him.
[Startled and as if in defence.
Melot, how often you have led Sir Tristan
Here to this orchard, and in Love's own name.
Melot.
How often! And to-day he must not come.
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Then I must die!
Melot
(eagerly).
It is a magic power.
Iseult.
Melot, you do not kill yourself; a dwarf
You are and loved of none, and yet you live.
What do you live for?
Melot.
For the seasons, child.
To see the snow again—it is enough.
My eyes have gathered simples from their sight,
And I have looked so far I do not weep.
Iseult's Iseult,
Is there no magic in you, and no power
For the scents upon the air? . . .
Death is the charm:
It is what you have drunk: your Fate persists,
And she is standing by an open grave.
Iseult.
I cannot! Melot, you as well might ask
The apple-trees, when every branch is crimson,
Of their own will to crackle in the fire.
I cannot die—not for a hundred years.
Since I have drunk the cup
There can be no more dying any more.
Melot.
You tempt your lover to his death.
Iseult.
Temptation!
You say I tempt . . .
[With free laughter in response to Melot's face.
There is no Paradise
To woman, till her Paradise is lost.
It is so sweet to fall into temptation,
And to draw down, to lead
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You see—it is the Charm!
. . . You love the King:
You will betray us?
Melot.
Were that for his peace?
You think Love has one season and one office!
Iseult.
But one; we do not weary of our food;
We should renounce our breath, renouncing it.
Melot, I am not steady for discourse;
I am estranged from you—the great estrangement
Betwixt the living and the dead.
(To Brangaena.)
Fetch Tristan!
(More bitterly to Melot.)
You love the King and you would see me dead.
Melot.
Ay, if you cannot change;
For we must die, or ripen, or be loathed.
[Brangaena unperceived slips through the postern.
The Charm is out,
And you can raise no further incantation.
Iseult
(rousing herself).
The Charm is out! Brangaena!
Melot.
She is sped.
[He turns down the orchard and passes through the open door of the Queen's chamber.
Iseult.
He leaves me, and he is my Genius.
I have no power to call . . . But I am glad!
[Again lying back and looking up to the sky.
O ecstasy—the serpent in the grass,
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Tristan, Tristan!
With every hour his lustrousness falls off.
. . . O little verdant paths, my feet are aching;
I walk on burning ploughshares, day and night,
But none are curious; I may suffer now . . .
My lover is grown kind—
As one should speak of age in youth; this kindness
Is contract between mortals . . .
He delays;
I tremble, and a music rushes through me
That cannot find its way. O my Desire!
Tristan enters: for a moment he does not perceive the Queen
And now I see him with no other eyes
At rest on him—O God!
[As Tristan approaches.
You stayed too long;
I have grown cold, and I am sick.
Tristan.
Beloved,
But I am all your sickness.
Iseult.
All.
Tristan.
What is it
That flushes you so darkly?
[He kisses her hand.
Iseult.
Nay, no more,
No more joy of you! 'Tis the crystal cup
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And dolour to each other; our desire
Burns, as the spices that embalm Love's corse,
And leaps and sparkles as Love's very brand.
O Love, O Charm! The Charm is broken up;
The crystal flagon has sailed far to sea;
The sea-wrack has set root in it; it sails
A hairy skull across the universe.
Now. . . . You would pledge me, and there is no wine,
Only great recollections and the hour.
O misery, what are you?
Tristan.
I am Tristan.
Wherein have I offended, that you keep
So sealed from me? It is like banishment.
Wherefore?
Iseult.
So Melot asks, so asks Brangaena,
So Love would never ask. Lie back a little,
Your arm across my pillow! Ah, as sweet
To me as hydromel and bergamot. . . .
Now swear me all your curse.
Tristan.
Heart's Sorrow, hush!
God shield us, there are voices
Within your chamber.
[Iseult more closely clasps him.
There is struggle even . . .
[Seeking to free himself.
Sweet, for your sake . . .
[His eyes remain fascinated on the open doorway of Iseult's chamber. There is the sound of
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Iseult, love, you behold not!
Iseult.
How should I?
Still so fearful of the flame?
Tristan, it does not scorch; it hurts no more
Than yonder blazing noon.
Feel my soft hand;
Put by all terror; wait as in a trance.
Are you my lover, Tristan? I put on
For you my wedding-raiment, this gold raiment—
Nothing I wear has ever been King Mark's.
Look, look!
[She passes her hand through her hair.
How the gold matches with the gold . . .
No grey: I never will bear age for you.
Am I not blonde?
Tristan
(starting).
There is a flow of blood
Down from your chamber-door. Yet all is silent.
Love, it is trickling down to us.
Iseult.
What matter!
Sweep back my hair. Conceive
The glory wouldst thou lay me on the pyre,
Carry and lay me there: I would enfold thee
In my swift arms of flame.
Tristan
(still gazing toward the place where Mark stood).
You shall not die,
God's peace, you shall not. We must bid farewell,
For ever we must bid farewell.
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For ever?
Then to the waste again, then to the storms!
And paths that are but foot-prints in the sand,
One's own fresh foot-prints. I shall let you go;
I shall walk on alone!
But take this ring,
A pledge, a jewel, an eternal kiss . . .
For I shall ever dwell within thy heart,
As Christ's own wounds dwell with Him evermore,
In Heaven with God, or wandering 'mid the damned!
[Pressing her face down on his arm.
Remember—
I shall awake . . . remember, let it haunt you
How I awake, how I breathe through the noon,
The sunset, and the long close of the night.
Tristan.
Thy wedding-dress,
Thou art in thy wedding-dress . . .
[Kissing the ring.
Our love henceforth
Be vain and be for ever. Cloth of gold . . .
Iseult.
The Charm is broke!
Tristan.
The Charm is just begun.
Pure cloth of gold . . .
[He stands apart from her for an instant with wide, blank stare, then, sharply turning, goes out by the postern.
Iseult
(deeply sighing).
Then I will bend myself
To his pleasure and be lissome—play the harlot
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I will veil myself,
I must, I am not dim.
[She stretches herself, veiled, as if recovering from sleep, as King Mark, Courtiers, the Bishop of Thames and Priests enter and draw back.
All.
Alone!
The Queen alone!
[The King comes forward, his arms wide to Iseult. Then suddenly he turns to his Court.
Mark.
Truth, truth! And I surprised
A noontide sleep in the orchard. Go your ways,
Speed on, return to villages and streets.
If you encounter
A troop of lepers on your way, with haste
Bid them come tinkling hither. I have one
To join to their abhorred company.
[The Courtiers, Bishop, and Priests retire.
Iseult,
What would you? You are damned so very deep
I would but pamper you as all the fiends
Are pampering. You keep a royal state—
Would you still keep it?
Would you be my Queen?
You smile: none other
Can fetch that smile, and I have rarer jewels;
My sceptre—you shall wield it—anything
That I can give you, ask! . . . for I would sell
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Could I join your tribe.
And catch you underneath this burning heaven!
I am devoted to you now, Iseult;
It is a magic hour.
Iseult.
Sire, I would live.
. . . Let me live on
To sunset, and the long close of the night.
| The Tragedy of Pardon | |