 | Tristan de Léonois |  |
105
ACT II
Scene
A vessel on the sea.Queen Yseult la Belle and Sir Kaherdin; sailors moving about. The Queen is in hunting green—a falcon on her wrist.
Yseult.
O the wild sea!
How like a misty juggler is the sea—
Such transformations! Glass of deepest dew
For days, now wild and grievous.
Look, Sir Kaherdin!
A dusky cloud,
With dusk below on ocean, like a nest
Deserted by a riding bird! What strangeness,
What mischief and what strangeness!
While little, deadly scuds wander the wind,
The adamantine wind.
What wild adventure,
From the wild instant in the casement-light,
When, at Tintagel, as a ring of Tours,
You sparkled on me my own jasper ring,
With whisper of command, and I a promise,
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I flew my falcon and she blocked
High on your mast, her mistress seeking her!
Sir Kaherdin,
I flew my falcon to your ship and I
Followed my falcon's flight,
Simply because this ring was planted green
Upon my hand and on this ring my oath.
You are a stranger to me.
Kaherdin.
O fair Queen,
I carried on my hand your jasper ring,
Across this flood of sea;
And my great friend, Sir Tristan, slipped it there,
With story of his sorrow,
Murmured to tears I would not watch. Unsay
I am a stranger—but a friending stanger,
If you are bent to have me strange—your squire
And servant.
Yseult
(after a brooding silence).
By what right, Sir Kaherdin,
When I ascended to your ship with escort
Of the Duke Audret, did you shift the plank,
When I was safe, and plunge him in the sea?
Kaherdin.
Whew! By what right?
The right to kill Sir Tristan's enemy.
The man was feasting-fellow,
And counsellor and creature to King Mark:
Simply as I should kill a bird
Injurious to a country-side. And joy
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The right I have to carry you away,
To bear you over sea—
Love's right!
[He moves away and looks over the sea. His Captain joins him, and they talk together anxiously.
Yseult.
Why then I am a captive—and of Love!
I thought I was in freedom and to have
My will, my love's accomplishing, my pleasure,
As in some distant fairyland. I took
This ring, I asked no question. Haughtily
I swept down from Tintagel, in my garb
A huntress, and Duke Audret smiled at me,
And said the King would joy of my fresh colour.
I am here, still in huntress's dress, though royal:
I am here and for my prey.
[She looses her falcon on a sea-bird.
Who-whoop! Begone!
Kaherdin
(running to her).
Queen, Queen! . . . Too late, the seagull is struck down:
There is blood upon the waves!
These lowering skies
Already fright the crew . . . now this omen!
Pray God the sailors do not mark the stain!
This sport is deadly.
Yseult.
Ah, she scorns the flesh!
Why lo, why lo! What, Destiny, my merlin,
What, Destiny!
[The falcon comes to her fist.
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Queen, is it only sport
That we are bound on? Have you no compassion?
Yseult.
There has been blood upon the waves before,
Duke Audret's blood: then you had no compassion;
You did not mark the stain . . .
There, take my falcon, take her,
Destroy her . . . Let her not be captive—there!
Let her not fail of her desire . . .
[She sobs over the bird and resigns it to Sir Kaherdin, waving him from her.
How wet the rain is on my cheek!
How I am left alone! . . .
Like this I was led forth,
A captive to King Mark; my Ireland left
Behind me, all I loved—my still-room, my long halls,
My free-lipped people, my fond mother left
Behind. For me no more green land, no more
Honour and youth! I found myself a captive,
Snared on the sea and destined
Then for King Mark, as now for Tristan—destined!
And now again a ship, and now the sea!
[She gazes out on the water.
How great the sea is, and how full of rumours!
How greater is the sea grown suddenly!
I am alone, and out of all this water,
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I hear a tempest puling at its birth.
Brangaena!
[There is no reply. Boatswain's voice rings out.
Boatswain.
Tempest! Braid up them sails, Strike topmast to the cap!
Yseult.
Tempest! I am alone. What could Brangaena
Do for me in these heavens?
O Tristan, Tristan,
I am alone!
And we must be together on the sea!
Kaherdin
(afar).
The furrow of the vessel is a torrent,
A whirlpool . . . Save the boat, hitch her aboard,
Over the poop!
[He passes out of sight.
Sailors.
A'heigh, a'heigh, a'heigh!
There is no boat.
The ropes slide in—no boat!
She is mid the waves.
She is under them.
She is lost.
Other Sailors.
A hungering sea!
What drip
Of the naked feet of surges as they rush
Across our planks.
This rain, this wind—this death!
Our shrouds are almost broke and blown away.
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Starboard—so-ho!
Be damned or help us!
Peace! God bless the man!
Captain's Voice.
Hold—keep her thus. Hold there!
A hand, my boys! Lash sure the helm a'lee;
We can no more! Make fast and let her drive;
Let her lie under seas and let her drive!
[The storm closes down.
Yseult.
But this is like a charm—
I stand as fearless as in Africa
Among my lions . . . I have stood thus in childhood
Quite solitary when the nights were dark.
I call these elements about me softly,
As softly as a wizard . . . They are curds!
I crush them in my hands.
Voices.
We sink, we are lost for ever.
We are dead men.
Our light is out.
Blessed and Sacred Lady,
Pray our dear Lord!
In Manus . . .
Save!
The current washes us. Alas! We drown.
[Kaherdin tears through the veil of wind and rain. He lashes her to a mast.
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Queen, for your life . . . for his!
[He is driven away by the hurricane toward the spot where the Captain and some sailors are trying to save a man, who has just been swept over.
Yseult.
It makes no change—
Only, now they have bound me, I look forth
On all that I have suffered as on spots,
And cities in a landscape. Tristan, Tristan,
I see thee as we parted on the edge
Of the forest and you led
My palfrey, and you held
The bridle ready in your hand to yield it
Back to King Mark. We parted from the forest,
Tristan, for what? For cold and poverty,
For cold and hunger, as two peasants might:
The tempest was too strong for us, the wind
Blew through your ragged cloak—you lit a fire
Sometimes in the mid-forest and sat down,
And stared at it and dreamed as a dull hunter
By any winter hearth!
. . . Here is a fire.
[She catches at the lightning.
An arrow and a momentary lamp!
Here are the winds—
And here in some sharp crevice of my heart
Is Tristan . . . now indeed I am enchantress,
And hold him to me, as I hold the wind;
And do not call upon his name, but hold him
At pleasure, at my pleasure, in a niche—
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O wind of fire!
Tristan, no more in a far country—now
Swept inward on my heart, and we together,
Deaf to all noise, at the still roots of fire,
Where they branch living up, at the mid core
Of whirlwind, where the winds are intercoiled
To break forth to their quarter! Wind of fire!
[Brangaena is revealed in a cleft of light.
Brangaena.
What is this singing through the wind?
(A clear laugh is heard.)
Where is she?
Yseult.
No eagle rides so high;
No moon so fast flees through the clouds;
Tristan, no little leaf upon the stream
Voyages on so buoyantly—the wind
Couches me on her plumes . . . This travelling
Is of Love's very pace. O wind of fire!
Brangaena.
I have not heard her voice so jubilant
Since she sang free across the Irish lakes.
[Kaherdin, driven against her by the wind, touches her ear with his lips.
Kaherdin.
The wheel still stands . . . Three men are overboard.
[He is blown from her.
Brangaena.
Each quite alone in the tides, then at the base
Of the fathoms, still alone! And she must die
In these waters—these deep graves; go down to death!
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O loved, you will not reach the shore—desist!
The sea will overtake us . . . how it runs!
The lightning—hoh!—will drink our life!
You will not reach Sir Tristan; never more
Will you look upon his face.
Yseult.
Brangaena! Close,
Knot yourself in my arms! . . .
[They clasp: Yseult strokes Brangaena's head.
These voyages
Are very prosperous. You brought me fortune
On that dear voyage. I had drunk with Mark,
Except you had been faithless in your charge,
And on your bed-shelf laid the little phial:
But I have drunk with Tristan. Every breath
That I would breathe again—all of my years
That is not with the dust is of your sweet
And reckless error.
Cleave to me, beloved,
Adventure with me!
Brangaena.
Pray! We are near death.
Let me not lose you . . . Pray!
Yseult
(shaking her head).
I had drunk with Mark,
Save for your error: I have drunk with Tristan.
Brangaena.
Consider but the moment. Loved, the corpses
Are washing past . . . See, see!
Yseult.
The storm has sundered wide away. How light
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I am cut sharp,
These ropes against my heart . . .
Brangaena, go,
Fetch me Sir Kaherdin, for the great wind
Is folding up its pinions, for the sky
Is massing thunderous . . .
The sum is scorching, and I feel the knots.
[Brangaena leaves her.
Am I deserted?
My envoys fled? This silence has no clefts
For the rock-pigeons . . . Brittany in sight,
So close at hand, so close—a monument
It looks—and I would sail away from it:
A foreign shore; the ships
Are painted different, like flowers
Of another country. This is not the land
He promised me. Alack, I am the fool.
And what now is my errand? O Tintagel,
It is a tame, low coast. What do I here,
And here in majesty? Let them not dream—
Not dream . . .
I will not take the buffets of his Court.
I . . . O my fool!
[Kaherdin approaches with Brangaena.
Kaherdin
(at a distance to the sailors).
Clear down the decks, set south our wheel . . . Unroll
Our snowy sails to daylight! Wide their wings!
[Joyously approaching Yseult.
We have sighted land. . . .
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I am writhed, I cannot stir—
Oh, swift! Unknot the cords.
Kaherdin
(dazzled by her beauty).
Or shall I leave you bound, my Sovereign Huntress,
And so deliver you to Tristan—heigh?
You loosed the storm; you have cost many lives . . .
Shall I unknot you?
[He looks up at her.
Yseult
(straining from the cords).
But who is it speaks?
Kaherdin
(hastily unknotting the cord).
What can it matter,
My sorrow—who I am! Has the rope jarred?
The little smart will heal . . . I shall present you
Safe to Sir Tristan—and so beautiful! . . .
The rain has scarcely dashed your dress. Your falcon
Is cherished for you. . . . Shall I fetch your falcon?
I did not listen to your cruel word
Let her not fail of her desire. She shall not!
Nor shall lord Tristan fail of his desire.
Yseult.
Who are you? Tristan's friend?
But I have never heard him name your name.
Kaherdin.
Nor had he uttered yours until the morning
I stepped aboard my vessel.
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Of many things that you must overcome.
There is no welcome for you on our shores;
My father had no knowledge of my sailing—
Yonder is Carhaix—underneath that cloud
Sir Tristan lies. There are so many things . . .
If you can put them all away and voyage
To Brittany, as I sailed to Tintagel,
It will be nothing, when you see Yseult—
Nothing.
Yseult.
Yseult? There is but one Yseult.
Kaherdin.
O Queen, there is Yseult of the White Hands—
Nothing! My sister—that is nothing too . . .
I gave that up in my great love for Tristan:
But she is fast his wife. . . .
Yseult
(after a long pondering).
I do not think I can touch land again,
And very certainly I cannot live
In any ceilèd house, in any palace.
Bear him down to me, we will take him in,
And we will give him tendance on the seas.
Kaherdin.
No, lady, we must do Sir Tristan's will.
He is our Prince; my father is beside him,
My sister by him—
We cannot banish these. No, you must climb
The steep, and then the stairs, and face the crowd,
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My sister's face.
[Yseult considers.
Yseult.
Then there must be procession,
And singing through the streets. I shall come royal
To visit him in state.
Kaherdin.
But he is dying.
We do not think of you and of your state;
We only think of Tristan, we so love him,
We cannot let him die—
We cannot bear to hear him moan. O lady,
Slow in compassion, will you let him die?
Yseult
(rocking in anguish).
Melt me; you do not melt!
I have not left my state of sovereignty,
And my great honour as a queen, nor left
King Mark, my husband, nor have I deserted
Tintagel, nor have broken with my own
Bitter and sweet captivity, nor made
My throne a hollow place, that I should heal
One who is but impatient of his pain.
[She turns away and looks out.
The sun is sudden bright . . . I see
Something that shines out hard; it does not stir,
Does not grow nearer; it remains a speck.
(Turning back.)
What is it?
[Kaherdin at a sign from the Sailors has left her side and is speaking with them.
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Now I see that little speck,
And note the tiny dottings on the shore,
I recollect how I have left Tintagel,
And the wide breasts of the heaving sea, to sit
Beside his bed—and presently
When he is healed, depart; for I will give him
The things he asks for . . . But my feet are held
Back at the heel: I cannot land, I cannot
Be so acclaimed—
We will sweep past the coast,
Until the ship shall enter its own kingdom,
And haven of itself. I cannot land!
[To Kaherdin, who approaches.
Sir Kaherdin, you must put back the ship.
Kaherdin.
No more commands! I cannot serve you more.
The sails hang to the masts;
And we are strait becalmed. Will this not melt you?
He is dying, our great Tristan, dying,
And yet he cannot die,
And yet he will remain without your face.
[She takes the sail and wrings it in her hands: then speaks, as if possessed, and with the actions of a mime.
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There are so many ways! Not come to you!
But I will surely come to you in sleep,
And move about the room. . . . Not tend on you!
I have seen you thus before. What, hide from me?
You were worse-featured, as a fool, a leper,
My sunken One!
There, there! I will not look . . . The fire is dead;
You must have warmth.
[She kneels as if with faggots in her hand.
Tristan, I let my mother
Nurse you before. I was as green, young wood,
Ill-furnished . . . and I let my mother nurse you!
But I am shaking now with jealousy.
Yseult's Yseult—Yea, I am Queen Yseult—
[She rises.
My raiment rustles soft. Tristan, but this
Is sweeter magic than the cup. You bless me?
You must not—that must be when you are healed.
(Shrinking).
Yes, presently
I look into your hurt . . . not so impatient,
So anxious! You must let me raise your head.
Now you must drink, Beloved . . .
[She falls back into Brangaena's arms with a shrill cry.
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Is it a vision?
Yseult.
No, no! He may be dreaming and in dreams
I must be talking to him . . . It retires!
Mute is the darkness, but more mute the sun.
I cannot labour to him any more.
Kaherdin.
The whiteness of her mouth, her face! Brangaena,
Wine for your mistress.
Yseult.
I will drink no wine!
She dare not bring me wine upon the sea;
She dare not with her woman's hands approach
Mine with the cup.
[Brangaena trembles.
Kaherdin.
Queen, Queen, but you will faint.
Yseult.
I shall not faint.
[Raising herself heavily and looking round on the blue spaces.
Think of the draught; think of that summer sea,
The summits of the sea!
Look yonder! In no foam a porpoise rolls . . .
[Pressing to the side of the vessel.
Tristan had turned
Away from me, dumb in the over-measure
And the extravagance of his desire,
Having drained the magic draught . . .
I followed him . . .
How should I? Drawn on forward, as a tide.
He heard me . . . and I heard my steps . . .
[She laughs as if she were alone.
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The bay a porpoise rolled for the sun's joy.
As still a noon as this—the elements
So wreathed together, as before us now,
And the still sea that beat up as a sun.
Brangaena, you
Cast down the cup into a void like this,
Into low, breezeless sea!
Brangaena.
Peace, peace!
Turn from the blaze, kneel down with me and pray.
Yseult.
Brangaena, in a calm? . . .
This moves me you can pray.
[She gazes out on the water.
Power of the Sea!
It is a wall against me. Far away
Is Tristan, for a calm divides far more
Than leagues of air—
I shall not move to him, till, as a chapel
Wafted of angels, I am slided down
To lay my tomb beside him, in his tomb.
[She moves down the vessel, looking in the water: Kaherdin follows her anxiously. Brangaena kneels and prays.
The ocean only of its movement heaves,
Not onward to the shore . . . We must take temper
Of our condition, show its loveliness,
Who are within the firmament as spirits
Within a pearl . . .
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We must beguile the time.
[Turning and speaking shrilly in Kaherdin's ear.
Speak to me of Sir Tristan. He was young
When first my mother tended him, his hair
Deep as a bud is deeper than the flower:
His beauty startled me.
Is his hair grown again,
The beautiful, deep russet, deepening hair?
[Kaherdin weeps. She lays her hand on his shoulder.
You know he travelled to me as a fool;
And once he travelled to me as a leper:
These images are blocked against the sun.
Have mercy on me, Kaherdin!
Kaherdin.
Behold!
The sea is as a web we cannot pierce:
There is no comfort there, no mercy there.
But what of that?
For he is white and blemished as a leper,
For he is wild and crazy as a fool;
And, if the calm should break, he would affright you
With his wild looks. His hair is colourless,
Is dead, his visage
Measled with venom. Queen, you would not know him—
How should you, if you think but of his beauty?
[Yseult wrings her hands and turns from Kaherdin.
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. . . We must beguile the time.
[She retraces her steps and disturbs Brangaena at her prayer.
Tell me, Brangaena, of the roots you plucked . . .
He is wasted; Kaherdin
Tells me he is sore-wasted. As a bird
Beating about my head I take this knowledge.
. . . You see the vessel
Stands still for ever. Let me hear the charms.
Brangaena.
Loved, wherefore? But the roots I have forgotten.
I am so sleepy. Is it for my torture
You question me?
Yseult.
The roots, the squealing mandrake—
It must be painted all upon your brain.
. . . You see the vessel
Stands still forever. Let me hear the charms,
The incantations—sing to me some snatches
Of the invocation, of the stirring-tune,
The benison. Remember
You were preparing for my wedding-night.
Did you not laugh and jest and kiss together?
I thirst as a parched honeycomb—
The little, ribald rhymes, the lullabies,
The couplets, the forbidding! Queen Yseult,
How looked she on that day?
A child, I heard
Your footsteps plodding in the upper room,
And roused and fed my dogs.
Brangaena.
A child. Let be!
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I had no waking
From childhood and no waking into love;
It was all thrust on me.
Brangaena.
Your lady-mother
Was clad that day in a deep brown, with spots
And currents in the web.
Yseult.
But of the philtre!
Was there no burthen to the ritual,
Among the spurting juices
Of the alembic and the magic wheel—
No music for the shredding of the herbs?
Brangaena.
Your mother did not sing.
Yseult.
The deep-brown robe,
No music?
[She sighs deeply.
Brangaena.
. . . Stay, there was
A music: I can give it you no more
Than the smell, the fresh smell of the herbs and flowers
As they were bruised that day . . . There is a music
Comes from the pain,
As it were startled and escaped. . . .
Yseult.
No pain!
[She looks down more wistfully into the water.
Enumerate the flowers,
The flowers, the spices. Did you pluck the flowers?
Tell me their names,
And how the sweet brew thickened from the cast,
And drenchèd leaves.
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No, no! I am too old,
And all that I remember of that day
Is that I pledged my faith. I cannot choose . . .
Yet, if I must—She bade me fetch sea-holly,
With poppies of the sand.
It was a marvel
To see her nip the little seeds and count them,
The innumerous, eyed seeds, and count them over
As clean as they were pearls.
Yseult.
You are smiling—ha!
At last a smile!
Brangaena.
‘And where the sphinx-moth hives,
Brangaena, rest you in the furzy wood,
And look for the long-throated,
Blandishing honeysuckle, that no bee
Can ever fathom—honey for my child,
And for her lover sweetness
So haunting, so reserved, even from his grave
He will desire her; she shall be desired
While she draws breath and even from her grave.’
Yseult
(who has been looking down intently into the water).
Brangaena,
There is a music rising
From the sea and from the wedges of the rocks,
And from the sluices of these hollow homes,
I hear it—dolorous—
From the edges and the sliding parapets.
Would I were nearer—such a fringe of sound!
I would descend,
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Is it the Sirens?
[Brangaena draws her violently away.
Brangaena.
Oh, come back!
What should I hear? My faculties are dulled.
What should I know? Have pity on me, turn
Away from these deceits. I lose you, sweet,
If you bend down so far. It is the Sirens!
And I am loosing hold. In pity come!
My arms relax—in pity,
Come back to me! Loved, pray!
[She sinks back, her arms stretched to Yseult.
Yseult
(laughing).
It is the Sirens, if you are so childish;
It is the music sunken in the sea.
A multitude
Remote and singing—yet a drop
At the bottom of the flood that has one voice!
No, do not fear!
I must go down to it. Do not be scared,
Do not betray me any more.
[Yseult dips her hands in the water and bathes her forehead; then nestles in Brangaena's arms.
Now I can sleep.
Brangaena
(with growing terror).
No! Should you sleep,
These sounds you hear . . . Rouse, love, arouse yourself!
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Sleeping and waking are but as the shores
Of the peace that washes them on either side.
. . . I never saw the orchard
So bright before and laden with such fruits—
Apples, and little, gadding cucumbers,
And vetches up the trees . . . Oh, see!
But not with his disparkled hair,
Not stained and hurt—he is come down to his pleasance,
And, my sad knight, he smiles!
Brangaena.
Child, these are dreams . . .
Yseult! Yseult!
Yseult.
I am awake.
Brangaena.
What do you hear, what spell is on you?
Yseult.
Now
It is the thrush's voice—ah, inland, deep,
Sprung from the forest. . . .
Brangaena.
Then a dream—
Not from the sea! Then this is but a dream
Of the great Morais Forest and the whistling
Between the branches of the summer birds.
Yseult.
No, no: this music,
I often heard it at my casement. Then
It broke my heart, so wildly
It sang of summer. It is Tristan sings,
Calling me to him for my death—the whistle
Of a bird lost at sea. It is Tristan, hark!
Kiss me, Brangaena . . . For you see the calm
Is very wide, the landmark but a cry. . . .
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Why do you rise? Where would you go?
[Yseult moves a little way; then turns back as if from sight of a desert.
Yseult.
Kiss me, Brangaena. Let me feel your hands!
[Brangaena, with a piercing cry, falls.
Her flesh is warm—it tingles on my flesh.
[She looks round helplessly, trying to touch things.
I have chilled the music and the breath of it
Cannot flow back . . . Yet I am firm and sound;
And the ship is sailing on—
[She starts in terror at the sudden heave of the ship and lays her hand on the wheel; as Kaherdin and the helmsman spring forward, she fronts them white as a statue, and motionless.
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