once written down as the poet of licence and immorality, the facts
have to be altered to suit the theory.

Tristan's crime is indeed in the eyes of a chivalrous soul a far
blacker one than that of adultery. He has betrayed his friend, his
sovereign, his kinsman, his benefactor, and has broken his faith
towards the woman who trusted him. He is so completely overcome with
love for the woman whom he himself has brought to be the bride of his
uncle, that no going back is possible. But one course is yet open to
him to save his honour. He may die; and he accordingly seeks death
with full consciousness and determination. Three times he tries to rid
himself of life: first when he drinks the supposed poison with Isolde;
again when he drops his sword in the duel with Melot; the third time
he succeeds, when he tears off his bandages at the decisive moment,
when no escape is possible but by instant death.

Love for its own sake is not a subject for dramatic treatment.
Love-stories are the bane of love. In real life we do not talk about
our love-affairs, most men thinking that they have quite enough to do
with their own without caring to hear those of other people. Still
less do we wish to hear the vapid inanities which seem proper to that
condition poured forth on the stage. I know of no European drama of
any importance which treats of a prosperous and happy love as its
principal subject; it needs the delicate pen of a Kalidasa to make it
endurable. It does not of course follow that love is to be altogether
banished from dramatic art. The dramatist surveys the whole field of
human life and could not, if he wished, afford to neglect the most
powerful and universal of human motives. All depends upon the
treatment, and no subject is more beset with difficulties. The earlier
Greek dramatists, with their usual unerring judgment, avoided sexual