Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
Scenes from “Pendragon”
By William Young (1847–1920)A
[Stage discovered, dark and waiting. Lightning, thunder. The door C. is thrown violently open, and enter G
G
Am I outcast? Doth Nature too condemn me,
Adding her voice to this yet wilder storm,
Here, here, within?[Rising.]Alack! and what is this
That I have wrought? But, sure, he dare not follow,
Or if he should!—What do I fear? What then?
Ay, if he should! Is it so much I ask?
Only to know, for the last time— O friend!—
Is it so much? Or, measured but by thine,
O faultless King, is then my guilt so great
That thou should’st rise from every darkened corner
To haunt me thus? Art thou so faultless, truly?
That which I am hast thou not served to make me?
Hast thou not glory to thy mistress?—Nay
To wedded wife! For what am I to thee?
When hast thou looked upon me save with eyes that pass
Through and beyond, to her, my hated rival?
As well were I the beggar of the lanes!
Wilt thou have all?—both this world, and the next?—
Be served and feared, and yet drag after thee
Love, as a captive, but to dally with,
When grown aweary of the greater sport
Of crowns and sceptres? Nay, but if thou wilt,
Dwell with thy phantoms! Lights, there! Vivien!
I will not see him.[At door C.]Vivien!—How now?
Not yet returned! But have I then so far
Out-speeded her? Or hath some evil hap—
That scarce could be.—So! so!—What’s this I think on?—
But yester-eve with Modred did she walk,
In the long corridor—nor seemed at ease,
But when I faced them——
The great portcullis falling in its grooves!
And all without the sound of trumpet blown!
And now—the tramp— Hark! Ay—the tramp of horse!
And at full speed! O, am I then the dupe,
The very plaything of mine enemies?
A plot! a plot! Yet if he be not crazed,
Hath he not heard? Hath he, too, not been warned?
L
G
L
G
L
Nay, but too late.
G
L
G
Or else too late most truly shalt thou find it,
Forevermore.
G
V
But not to thee I answer.[To L
Sir Launcelot of the Lake, ’tis like my words
May seem to thee not over-maidenly;
But I have such a little time for choice,
And needs must say my say—and thou must hear.
Sir, I have loved thee—though without return,
As well I know—and thou hast chosen, Sir,
To seem to know it not. And now I come,
To prove to thee what woman’s love may do,
Even when scorned; for know there is but one
Can save thee from these toils, and that is I.
G
L
V
Before, behind, they lie in wait for thee—
Twelve oath-bound men, of Arthur’s trustiest,
And thou with nothing but thy naked sword.
And still, because I will not have it so—
Because I rather choose to lay on thee
The burden of a debt thou canst not pay,
Nor yet forget, one door is left unguarded.
This have I done for thee.—Ask me not how—
Thou know’st the why.[Points to door through which she has come.]
There, at the turret’s foot,
Thou’lt find my palfrey saddled. Mount, and ride,
I care not whither—Only take this with thee,
That unto Vivien thou ow’st thy life,
And unto her thy shame. And so, my lord,
Thanks, or no thanks, I am thy creditor,
Till death shall make us quits.
L
L
G
But hath she gone?
L
throws bar across door C.]
G
What wilt thou do? What, now, are bolts or bars?
But fly! She loves thee. Trust her, Launcelot.
O, save thyself!
L
Mark now my words—nor answer, but obey,
Without a question. True it is, I think,
That she doth love me. Therefore will I trust her;
And therefore, through this door which she hath opened,
’Tis thou shalt fly.
G
L
Then hear me well, and let each syllable
Of what I speak be graven on thy brain.
’Tis but three little leagues, by beaten ways,
Which well thou knowest, to a sanctuary,
But once beneath the shadow of whose towers,
Not all the violence of maddened men
Or kings can harm thee. Hast thou not, ere now,
O’er thrice that distance ridden to the death
Of fox or stag? So ride to-night, for life,
And never doubt we’ll smile at this hereafter.
To Almesbury!
G
L
There trust the abbess only with thy secret,
And bide until I come.
G
L
Here will I tarry but a little space,
To turn aside the currents of pursuit.
G
Thou—all unarmed——
L
G
L
Hast thou forgot the fords of Celidon?
Or pass of the White Horse? And dost thou think
In such a cause, free-armed, and unencumbered—
But O, what wait we for? One only kiss,
To seal my strength.
G
I dare not.
L
G
The long, long, dreary way!
L
G
Though thou art Launcelot, art thou not mortal?
In vain! in vain! Why wilt thou trouble me?
Here let me die.[Sinks to floor.]
L
Is this that Guinevere whom once I loved?—
G
L
Who with her eyes first taught me scorn of peril?
G
L
And thus I prove it. Since thou durst not choose
To win this certain safety for us both,
Why then, bide here; and here, too, will I bide,
And here be hewn in pieces at thy feet.
I swear it. Hark! They come!
G
Take, then, thy kiss![They embrace.]
L
G
L
G
That I have given it thee.
L
Thus do I answer them—May Heaven defend thee!
G
Was it for this?
L
This have we known.
G
L
G
L
G
O, Launcelot, and wilt thou let me go?
And was it but for this? No more than this?
L
G
L
G
L
[G
G
Over and under tolls the convent bell,
Like a gray shuttle through the woof of sound—
Under and over, and the flying web
Tangles and ties itself about my heart—
Tangles and lifts me heavenward, and snaps;
And through the silence, down from gloom to gloom,
I fall to utmost hell. O sisterhood
Of Almesbury, your prayers were made for saints,
Not sinners. What a fool of fools am I,
To breathe my supplications in a tongue
I know not, to a Heaven that knows not me!
“Queen among angels!” Ay, by so much more
Hath she forgot the little frets of earth
And all its voices. O conceit most vain!
That my poor plaint, of all the woful many,
Least heeded here, shall so on high prevail,
Above the clamor of the universe!
Why, e’en the daws about the turret-tops
Outshriek me; and doth not all nature go
Wrangling from dawn till even with one cry:
“Help! Save!”—And who shall answer? Who shall lay
The all-forgiving hand upon my head?
Shall ye, my sisters? Deftly though ye lift
Your skirts above the drabble of the ways,
Do I not know the plague-spots in your hearts?
The small self-righteousness, the lust, the greed,
And spite of your small station? Had ye worn
My purple, and my limbs been clad upon
With your dull hodden gray—who knows?—Or thou,
Dubric—High Saint of Britain—with thy flock
Of aping acolytes, wilt thou assure
My soul’s salvation—thou, that art not sure
Whether thine own soul yet shall pass the gates—
Dismiss my great temptation, with a waft
Of thy sleek hand, and bid me sin no more?
O, thou, the Highest, Ruler over all,
To whom alike the cowl’d and crownèd dead
Must answer on that day, desert us not,
Whate’er thy gracious purposes may be,
Unto each other’s pity! That were woe
More to be dreaded than the doom of fire.
Behold how all these myriad pygmy tribes,
That swell the mingled hum from holt and glebe,
Do mock thy greatness! Whether we be clad
In serge or samite, each doth vaunt himself
The vilest of God’s creatures—save his neighbor—
Sins while ’tis summer—pranks about the fields,
And ere the winter of his life doth learn
His proper “Miserere,” which he chirps
Like a belated cricket i’ the sedge,
And dreams that straightway from the gates of bliss,
Above the desert spaces of the wind,
The whirlwind, and the thunder, and the storm
Of prayers and curses blown about the world,
All Heaven stoops to listen.—Nay, but this
Is heresy. Come, scoffer, to thy task![Reads.]