University of Virginia Library

Scene I

The Chapel Courtyard. Tintagel
Early 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—
But not for him! They through their innermost blue
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!

Tristan.
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.
Mark.
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?
The birds keep song; all that is in her heart
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,
Leaves, flowers of rare and undistinguished beauty
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.