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diff --git a/11346-h/11346-h.htm b/11346-h/11346-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c75fab1 --- /dev/null +++ b/11346-h/11346-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5810 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>The Saint's Tragedy</title> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">The Saint's Tragedy, by Charles Kingsley</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Saint's Tragedy, by Charles Kingsley + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Saint's Tragedy + +Author: Charles Kingsley + +Release Date: February 27, 2004 [eBook #11346] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: US-ASCII + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h1>THE SAINT’S TRAGEDY</h1> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h2>PREFACE BY THE REV. F. D. MAURICE, M.A. (1848)</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The writer of this play does not differ with his countrymen generally, +as to the nature and requirements of a Drama. He has learnt from +our Great Masters that it should exhibit human beings engaged in some +earnest struggle, certain outward aspects of which may possibly be a +spectacle for the amusement of idlers, but which in itself is for the +study and the sympathy of those who are struggling themselves. +A Drama, he feels, should not aim at the inculcation of any definite +maxim; the moral of it lies in the action and the character. It +must be drawn out of them by the heart and experience of the reader, +not forced upon him by the author. The men and women whom he presents +are not to be his spokesmen; they are to utter themselves freely in +such language, grave or mirthful, as best expresses what they feel and +what they are. The age to which they belong is not to be contemplated +as if it were apart from us; neither is it to be measured by our rules; +to be held up as a model; to be condemned for its strangeness. +The passions which worked in it must be those which are working in ourselves. +To the same eternal laws and principles are we, and it, amenable. +By beholding these a poet is to raise himself, and may hope to raise +his readers, above antiquarian tastes and modern conventions. +The unity of the play cannot be conferred upon it by any artificial +arrangements; it must depend upon the relation of the different persons +and events to the central subject. No nice adjustments of success +and failure to right and wrong must constitute its poetical justice; +the conscience of the readers must be satisfied in some deeper way than +this, that there is an order in the universe, and that the poet has +perceived and asserted it.</p> +<p>Long before these principles were reduced into formal canons of orthodoxy, +even while they encountered the strong opposition of critics, they were +unconsciously recognised by Englishmen as sound and national. +Yet I question whether a clergyman writing in conformity with them might +not have incurred censure in former times, and may not incur it now. +The privilege of expressing his own thoughts, sufferings, sympathies, +in any form of verse is easily conceded to him; if he liked to use a +dialogue instead of a monologue, for the purpose of enforcing a duty, +or illustrating a doctrine, no one would find fault with him; if he +produced an actual Drama for the purpose of defending or denouncing +a particular character, or period, or system of opinions, the compliments +of one party might console him for the abuse or contempt of another.</p> +<p>But it seems to be supposed that he is bound to keep in view one +or other of these ends: to divest himself of his own individuality that +he may enter into the working of other spirits; to lay aside the authority +which pronounces one opinion, or one habit of mind, to be right and +another wrong, that he may exhibit them in their actual strife; to deal +with questions, not in an abstract shape, but mixed up with the affections, +passions, relations of human creatures, is a course which must lead +him, it is thought, into a great forgetfulness of his office, and of +all that is involved in it.</p> +<p>No one can have less interest than I have in claiming poetical privileges +for the clergy; and no one, I believe, is more thoroughly convinced +that the standard which society prescribes for us, and to which we ordinarily +conform ourselves, instead of being too severe and lofty, is far too +secular and grovelling. But I apprehend the limitations of this +kind which are imposed upon us are themselves exceedingly secular, betokening +an entire misconception of the nature of our work, proceeding from maxims +and habits which tend to make it utterly insignificant and abortive. +If a man confines himself to the utterance of his own experiences, those +experiences are likely to become every day more narrow and less real. +If he confines himself to the defence of certain propositions, he is +sure gradually to lose all sense of the connection between those propositions +and his own life, or the life of man. In either case he becomes +utterly ineffectual as a teacher. Those whose education and character +are different from his own, whose processes of mind have therefore been +different, are utterly unintelligible to him. Even a cordial desire +for sympathy is not able to break through the prickly hedge of habits, +notions, and technicalities which separates them. Oftentimes the +desire itself is extinguished in those who ought to cherish it most, +by the fear of meeting with something portentous or dangerous. +Nor can he defend a dogma better than he communes with men; for he knows +not that which attacks it. He supposes it to be a set of book +arguments, whereas it is something lying very deep in the heart of the +disputant, into which he has never penetrated.</p> +<p>Hence there is a general complaint that we ‘are ignorant of +the thoughts and feelings of our contemporaries’; most attribute +this to a fear of looking below the surface, lest we should find hollowness +within; many like to have it so, because they have thus an excuse for +despising us. But surely such an ignorance is more inexcusable +in us, than in the priests of any nation: we, less than any, are kept +from the sun and air; our discipline is less than any contrived merely +to make us acquainted with the commonplaces of divinity. We are +enabled, nay, obliged, from our youth upwards, to mix with people of +our own age, who are destined for all occupations and modes of life; +to share in their studies, their enjoyments, their perplexities, their +temptations. Experience, often so dearly bought, is surely not +meant to be thrown away: whether it has been obtained without the sacrifice +of that which is most precious, or whether the lost blessing has been +restored twofold, and good is understood, not only as the opposite of +evil, but as the deliverance from it, we cannot be meant to forget all +that we have been learning. The teachers of other nations may +reasonably mock us, as having less of direct book-lore than themselves; +they should not be able to say, that we are without the compensation +of knowing a little more of living creatures.</p> +<p>A clergyman, it seems to me, should be better able than other men +to cast aside that which is merely accidental, either in his own character, +or in the character of the age to which he belongs, and to apprehend +that which is essential and eternal. His acceptance of fixed creeds, +which belong as much to one generation as another, and which have survived +amid all changes and convulsions, should raise him especially above +the temptation to exalt the fashion of his own time, or of any past +one; above the affectation of the obsolete, above slavery to the present, +and above that strange mixture of both which some display, who weep +because the beautiful visions of the Past are departed, and admire themselves +for being able to weep over them—and dispense with them. +His reverence for the Bible should make him feel that we most realise +our own personality when we most connect it with that of our fellow-men; +that acts are not to be contemplated apart from the actor; that more +of what is acceptable to the God of Truth may come forth in men striving +with infinite confusion, and often uttering words like the east-wind, +than in those who can discourse calmly and eloquently about a righteousness +and mercy, which they know only by hearsay. The belief which a +minister of God has in the eternity of the distinction between right +and wrong should especially dispose him to recognise that distinction +apart from mere circumstance and opinion. The confidence which +he must have that the life of each man, and the life of this world, +is a drama, in which a perfectly Good and True Being is unveiling His +own purposes, and carrying on a conflict with evil, which must issue +in complete victory, should make him eager to discover in every portion +of history, in every biography, a divine ‘Morality’ and +‘Mystery’—a morality, though it deals with no abstract +personages—a mystery, though the subject of it be the doings of +the most secular men.</p> +<p>The subject of this Play is certainly a dangerous one, it suggests +questions which are deeply interesting at the present time. It +involves the whole character and spirit of the Middle Ages. A +person who had not an enthusiastic admiration for the character of Elizabeth +would not be worthy to speak of her; it seems to me, that he would be +still less worthy, if he did not admire far more fervently that ideal +of the female character which God has established, and not man—which +she imperfectly realised—which often exhibited itself in her in +spite of her own more confused, though apparently more lofty, ideal; +which may be manifested more simply, and therefore more perfectly, in +the England of the nineteenth century, than in the Germany of the thirteenth. +To enter into the meaning of self-sacrifice—to sympathise with +any one who aims at it—not to be misled by counterfeits of it—not +to be unjust to the truth which may be mixed with those counterfeits—is +a difficult task, but a necessary one for any one who takes this work +in hand. How far our author has attained these ends, others must +decide. I am sure that he will not have failed from forgetting +them. He has, I believe, faithfully studied all the documents +of the period within his reach, making little use of modern narratives; +he has meditated upon the past in its connection with the present; has +never allowed his reading to become dry by disconnecting it with what +he has seen and felt, or made his partial experiences a measure for +the acts which they help him to understand. He has entered upon +his work at least in a true and faithful spirit, not regarding it as +an amusement for leisure hours, but as something to be done seriously, +if done at all; as if he was as much ‘under the Great Taskmaster’s +eye’ in this as in any other duty of his calling. In certain +passages and scenes he seemed to me to have been a little too bold for +the taste and temper of this age. But having written them deliberately, +from a conviction that morality is in peril from fastidiousness, and +that it is not safe to look at questions which are really agitating +people’s hearts merely from the outside—he has, and I believe +rightly, retained what I should from cowardice have wished him to exclude. +I have no doubt, that any one who wins a victory over the fear of opinion, +and especially over the opinion of the religious world, strengthens +his own moral character, and acquires a greater fitness for his high +service.</p> +<p>Whether Poetry is again to revive among us, or whether the power +is to be wholly stifled by our accurate notions about the laws and conditions +under which it is to be exercised, is a question upon which there is +room for great differences of opinion. Judging from the past, +I should suppose that till Poetry becomes less self-conscious, less +self-concentrated, more <i>dramatical</i> in spirit, if not in form, +it will not have the qualities which can powerfully affect Englishmen. +Not only were the Poets of our most national age dramatists, but there +seems an evident dramatical tendency in those who wrote what we are +wont to call narrative, or epic, poems. Take away the dramatic +faculty from Chaucer, and the <i>Canterbury</i> <i>Tales</i> become +indeed, what they have been most untruly called, mere versions of French +or Italian Fables. Milton may have been right in changing the +form of the <i>Paradise</i> <i>Lost</i>,—we are bound to believe +that he was right; for what appeal can there be against his genius? +But he could not destroy the essentially dramatic character of a work +which sets forth the battle between good and evil, and the Will of Man +at once the Theatre and the Prize of the conflict. Is it not true, +that there is in the very substance of the English mind, that which +naturally predisposes us to sympathy with the Drama, and this though +we are perhaps the most untheatrical of all people? The love of +action, the impatience of abstraction, the equity which leads us to +desire that every one may have a fair hearing, the reserve which had +rather detect personal experience than have it announced—tendencies +all easily perverted to evil, often leading to results the most contradictory, +yet capable of the noblest cultivation—seem to explain the fact, +that writers of this kind should have flourished so greatly among us, +and that scarcely any others should permanently interest us.</p> +<p>These remarks do not concern poetical literature alone, or chiefly. +Those habits of mind, of which I have spoken, ought to make us the best +<i>historians</i>. If Germany has a right to claim the whole realm +of the abstract, if Frenchmen understand the framework of society better +than we do, there is in the national dramas of Shakespeare an historical +secret, which neither the philosophy of the one nor the acute observation +of the other can discover. Yet these dramas are almost the only +satisfactory expression of that historical faculty which I believe is +latent in us. The zeal of our factions, a result of our national +activity, has made earnest history dishonest: our English justice has +fled to indifferent and sceptical writers for the impartiality which +it sought in vain elsewhere. This resource has failed,—the +indifferentism of Hume could not secure him against his Scotch prejudices, +or against gross unfairness when anything disagreeably positive and +vehement came in his way. Moreover, a practical people demand +movement and life, not mere judging and balancing. For a time +there was a reaction in favour of party history, but it could not last +long; already we are glad to seek in Ranke or Michelet that which seems +denied us at home. Much, no doubt, may be gained from such sources; +but I am convinced that <i>this</i> is not the produce which we are +meant generally to import; for this we may trust to well-directed native +industry. The time is, I hope, at hand, when those who are most +in earnest will feel that therefore they are most bound to be just—when +they will confess the exceeding wickedness of the desire to distort +or suppress a fact, or misrepresent a character—when they will +ask as solemnly to be delivered from the temptation to this, as to any +crime which is punished by law.</p> +<p>The clergy ought especially to lead the way in this reformation. +They have erred grievously in perverting history to their own purposes. +What was a sin in others was in them a blasphemy, because they professed +to acknowledge God as the Ruler of the world, and hereby they showed +that they valued their own conclusions above the facts which reveal +His order. They owe, therefore, a great <i>amende</i> to their +country, and they should consider seriously how they can make it most +effectually. I look upon this Play as an effort in this direction, +which I trust may be followed by many more. On this ground alone, +even if its poetical worth was less than I believe it is, I should, +as a clergyman, be thankful for its publication.</p> +<p>F. D. M.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>INTRODUCTION</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The story which I have here put into a dramatic form is one familiar +to Romanists, and perfectly and circumstantially authenticated. +Abridged versions of it, carefully softened and sentimentalised, may +be read in any Romish collection of Lives of the Saints. An enlarged +edition has been published in France, I believe by Count Montalembert, +and translated, with illustrations, by an English gentleman, which admits +certain miraculous legends, of later date, and, like other prodigies, +worthless to the student of human character. From consulting this +work I have hitherto abstained, in order that I might draw my facts +and opinions, entire and unbiassed, from the original Biography of Elizabeth, +by Dietrich of Appold, her contemporary, as given entire by Canisius.</p> +<p>Dietrich was born in Thuringia, near the scene of Elizabeth’s +labours, a few years before her death; had conversed with those who +had seen her, and calls to witness ‘God and the elect angels,’ +that he had inserted nothing but what he had either understood from +religious and veracious persons, or read in approved writings, viz. +‘<i>The</i> <i>Book</i> <i>of</i> <i>the</i> <i>Sayings</i> <i>of</i> +<i>Elizabeth’s</i> <i>Four</i> <i>Ladies</i> (<i>Guta</i>, <i>Isentrudis</i>, +<i>and</i> <i>two</i> <i>others</i>)’; ‘<i>The</i> <i>Letter</i> +<i>which</i> <i>Conrad</i> <i>of</i> <i>Marpurg</i>, <i>her</i> <i>Director</i>, +<i>wrote</i> <i>to</i> <i>Pope</i> <i>Gregory</i> <i>the</i> <i>Ninth</i>’ +(these two documents still exist); ‘<i>The</i> <i>Sermon</i> <i>of</i> +<i>Otto</i>’ (<i>de</i> <i>Ordine</i> <i>Prædic</i>), which +begins thus: ‘<i>Mulierem fortem</i>.’</p> +<p>‘Not satisfied with these,’ he ‘visited monasteries, +castles, and towns, interrogated the most aged and veracious persons, +and wrote letters, seeking for completeness and truth in all things;’ +and thus composed his biography, from which that in Surius (<i>Acta</i> +<i>Sanctorum</i>), Jacobus de Voragine, Alban Butler, and all others +which I have seen, are copied with a very few additions and many prudent +omissions.</p> +<p>Wishing to adhere strictly to historical truth, I have followed the +received account, not only in the incidents, but often in the language +which it attributes to its various characters; and have given in the +Notes all necessary references to the biography in Canisius’s +collection. My part has therefore been merely to show how the +conduct of my heroine was not only possible, but to a certain degree +necessary, for a character of earnestness and piety such as hers, working +under the influences of the Middle Age.</p> +<p>In deducing fairly, from the phenomena of her life, the character +of Elizabeth, she necessarily became a type of two great mental struggles +of the Middle Age; first, of that between Scriptural or unconscious, +and Popish or conscious, purity: in a word, between innocence and prudery; +next, of the struggle between healthy human affection, and the Manichean +contempt with which a celibate clergy would have all men regard the +names of husband, wife, and parent. To exhibit this latter falsehood +in its miserable consequences, when received into a heart of insight +and determination sufficient to follow out all belief to its ultimate +practice, is the main object of my Poem. That a most degrading +and agonising contradiction on these points must have existed in the +mind of Elizabeth, and of all who with similar characters shall have +found themselves under similar influences, is a necessity that must +be evident to all who know anything of the deeper affections of men. +In the idea of a married Romish saint, these miseries should follow +logically from the Romish view of human relations. In Elizabeth’s +case their existence is proved equally logically from the acknowledged +facts of her conduct.</p> +<p>I may here observe, that if I have in no case made her allude to +the Virgin Mary, and exhibited the sense of infinite duty and loyalty +to Christ alone, as the mainspring of all her noblest deeds, it is merely +in accordance with Dietrich’s biography. The omission of +all Mariolatry is remarkable. My business is to copy that omission, +as I should in the opposite case have copied the introduction of Virgin-worship +into the original tale. The business of those who make Mary, to +women especially, the complete substitute for the Saviour—I had +almost said, for all Three Persons of the Trinity—is to explain, +if they can, her non-appearance in this case.</p> +<p>Lewis, again, I have drawn as I found him, possessed of all virtues +but those of action; in knowledge, in moral courage, in spiritual attainment, +infinitely inferior to his wife, and depending on her to be taught to +pray; giving her higher faculties nothing to rest on in himself, and +leaving the noblest offices of a husband to be supplied by a spiritual +director. He thus becomes a type of the husbands of the Middle +Age, and of the woman-worship of chivalry. Woman-worship, ‘the +honour due to the weaker vessel,’ is indeed of God, and woe to +the nation and to the man in whom it dies. But in the Middle Age, +this feeling had no religious root, by which it could connect itself +rationally, either with actual wedlock or with the noble yearnings of +men’s spirits, and it therefore could not but die down into a +semi-sensual dream of female-saint-worship, or fantastic idolatry of +mere physical beauty, leaving the women themselves an easy prey to the +intellectual allurements of the more educated and subtle priesthood.</p> +<p>In Conrad’s case, again, I have fancied that I discover in +the various notices of his life a noble nature warped and blinded by +its unnatural exclusions from those family ties through which we first +discern or describe God and our relations to Him, and forced to concentrate +his whole faculties in the service, not so much of a God of Truth as +of a Catholic system. In his character will be found, I hope, +some implicit apology for the failings of such truly great men as Dunstan, +Becket, and Dominic, and of many more whom, if we hate, we shall never +understand, while we shall be but too likely, in our own way, to copy +them.</p> +<p>Walter of Varila, a more fictitious character, represents the ‘healthy +animalism’ of the Teutonic mind, with its mixture of deep earnestness +and hearty merriment. His dislike of priestly sentimentalities +is no anachronism. Even in his day, a noble lay-religion, founded +on faith in the divine and universal symbolism of humanity and nature, +was gradually arising, and venting itself, from time to time, as I conceive, +through many most unsuspected channels, through chivalry, through the +minne-singers, through the lay inventors, or rather importers, of pointed +architecture, through the German school of painting, through the politics +of the free towns, till it attained complete freedom in Luther and his +associate reformers.</p> +<p>For my fantastic quotations of Scripture, if they shall be deemed +irreverent, I can only say, that they were the fashion of the time, +from prince to peasant—that there is scarcely one of them with +which I have not actually met in the writings of the period—that +those writings abound with misuse of Scripture, far more coarse, arbitrary, +and ridiculous, than any which I have dared to insert—that I had +no right to omit so radical a characteristic of the Middle Age.</p> +<p>For the more coarse and homely passages with which the drama is interspersed, +I must make the same apology. I put them there because they were +there—because the Middle Age was, in the gross, a coarse, barbarous, +and profligate age—because it was necessary, in order to bring +out fairly the beauty of the central character, to show ‘the crooked +and perverse generation’ in which she was ‘a child of God +without rebuke.’ It was, in fact, the very ferocity and +foulness of the time which, by a natural revulsion, called forth at +the same time the Apostolic holiness and the Manichean asceticism of +the Mediæval Saints. The world was so bad that, to be Saints +at all, they were compelled to go out of the world. It was necessary, +moreover, in depicting the poor man’s patroness, to show the material +on which she worked; and those who know the poor, know also that we +can no more judge truly of their characters in the presence of their +benefactors, than we can tell by seeing clay in the potter’s hands +what it was in its native pit. These scenes have, therefore, been +laid principally in Elizabeth’s absence, in order to preserve +their only use and meaning.</p> +<p>So rough and common a life-picture of the Middle Age will, I am afraid, +whether faithful or not, be far from acceptable to those who take their +notions of that period principally from such exquisite dreams as the +fictions of Fouqué, and of certain moderns whose graceful minds, +like some enchanted well,</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>In whose calm depths the pure and beautiful<br />Alone are mirrored,</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>are, on account of their very sweetness and simplicity, singularly +unfitted to convey any true likeness of the coarse and stormy Middle +Age. I have been already accused, by others than Romanists, of +profaning this whole subject—<i>i.e</i>. of telling the whole +truth, pleasant or not, about it. But really, time enough has +been lost in ignorant abuse of that period, and time enough also, lately, +in blind adoration of it. When shall we learn to see it as it +was?—the dawning manhood of Europe—rich with all the tenderness, +the simplicity, the enthusiasm of youth—but also darkened, alas! +with its full share of youth’s precipitance and extravagance, +fierce passions and blind self-will—its virtues and its vices +colossal, and, for that very reason, always haunted by the twin-imp +of the colossal—the caricatured.</p> +<p>Lastly, the many miraculous stories which the biographer of Elizabeth +relates of her, I had no right, for the sake of truth, to interweave +in the plot, while it was necessary to indicate at least their existence. +I have, therefore, put such of them as seemed least absurd into the +mouth of Conrad, to whom, in fact, they owe their original publication, +and have done so, as I hope, not without a just ethical purpose.</p> +<p>Such was my idea: of the inconsistencies and short-comings of this +its realisation, no one can ever be so painfully sensible as I am already +myself. If, however, this book shall cause one Englishman honestly +to ask himself, ‘I, as a Protestant, have been accustomed to assert +the purity and dignity of the offices of husband, wife, and parent. +Have I ever examined the grounds of my own assertion? Do I believe +them to be as callings from God, spiritual, sacramental, divine, eternal? +Or am I at heart regarding and using them, like the Papist, merely as +heaven’s indulgences to the infirmities of fallen man?’—then +will my book have done its work.</p> +<p>If, again, it shall deter one young man from the example of those +miserable dilettanti, who in books and sermons are whimpering meagre +second-hand praises of celibacy—depreciating as carnal and degrading +those family ties to which they owe their own existence, and in the +enjoyment of which they themselves all the while unblushingly indulge—insulting +thus their own wives and mothers—nibbling ignorantly at the very +root of that household purity which constitutes the distinctive superiority +of Protestant over Popish nations—again my book will have done +its work.</p> +<p>If, lastly, it shall awaken one pious Protestant to recognise, in +some, at least, of the Saints of the Middle Age, beings not only of +the same passions, but of the same Lord, the same faith, the same baptism, +as themselves, <i>Protestants</i>, not the less deep and true, because +utterly unconscious and practical—mighty witnesses against the +two antichrists of their age—the tyranny of feudal caste, and +the phantoms which Popery substitutes for the living Christ—then +also will my little book indeed have done its work. C. K.</p> +<p>1848.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHARACTERS</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Elizabeth, <i>daughter</i> <i>of</i> <i>the</i> <i>King</i> <i>of</i> +<i>Hungary</i>,<br />Lewis, <i>Landgrave</i> <i>of</i> <i>Thuringia</i>, +<i>betrothed</i> <i>to</i> <i>her</i> <i>in</i> <i>childhood.<br /></i>Henry, +<i>brother</i> <i>of</i> <i>Lewis.<br /></i>Walter <i>of</i> <i>Varila</i>, +}<br />Rudolf <i>the</i> <i>Cupbearer</i>, }<br />Leutolf of <i>Erlstetten</i>, +}<br />Hartwig <i>of</i> <i>Erba</i>, } <i>Vassals</i> <i>of</i> <i>Lewis.<br /></i>Count +Hugo, }<br />Count of Saym, etc. }<br />Conrad <i>of</i> <i>Marpurg</i>, +<i>a</i> <i>Monk</i>, <i>the</i> <i>Pope’s</i> <i>Commissioner</i> +<i>for</i> <i>the</i> <i>suppression</i> <i>of</i> <i>heresy.<br /></i>Gerard, +<i>his</i> <i>Chaplain.<br /></i>Bishop of Bamberg, <i>uncle</i> <i>of</i> +<i>Elizabeth</i>, <i>etc</i>. <i>etc.<br /></i>Sophia, <i>Dowager</i> +<i>Landgravine.<br /></i>Agnes, <i>her</i> <i>daughter</i>, <i>sister</i> +<i>of</i> <i>Lewis.<br /></i>Isentrudis, <i>Elizabeth’s</i> <i>nurse.<br /></i>Guta, +<i>her</i> <i>favourite</i> <i>maiden.<br /></i>Etc. etc. etc</p> +<p>The Scene lies principally in Eisenach, and the Wartburg; changing +afterwards to Bamberg, and finally to Marpurg.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>PROEM</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(EPIMETHEUS)</p> +<p>I</p> +<p>Wake again, Teutonic Father-ages,<br /> Speak again, +beloved primæval creeds;<br />Flash ancestral spirit from your +pages,<br /> Wake the greedy age to noble deeds.</p> +<p>II</p> +<p>Tell us, how of old our saintly mothers<br /> Schooled +themselves by vigil, fast, and prayer,<br />Learnt to love as Jesus +loved before them,<br /> While they bore the cross +which poor men bear.</p> +<p>III</p> +<p>Tell us how our stout crusading fathers<br /> Fought +and died for God, and not for gold;<br />Let their love, their faith, +their boyish daring,<br /> Distance-mellowed, gild +the days of old.</p> +<p>IV</p> +<p>Tell us how the sexless workers, thronging,<br /> Angel-tended, +round the convent doors,<br />Wrought to Christian faith and holy order<br /> Savage +hearts alike and barren moors.</p> +<p>V</p> +<p>Ye who built the churches where we worship,<br /> Ye +who framed the laws by which we move,<br />Fathers, long belied, and +long forsaken,<br /> Oh! forgive the children of your +love!</p> +<p>(PROMETHEUS)</p> +<p>I</p> +<p>Speak! but ask us not to be as ye were!<br /> All +but God is changing day by day.<br />He who breathes on man the plastic +spirit<br /> Bids us mould ourselves its robe of clay.</p> +<p>II</p> +<p>Old anarchic floods of revolution,<br /> Drowning +ill and good alike in night,<br />Sink, and bare the wrecks of ancient +labour,<br /> Fossil-teeming, to the searching light.</p> +<p>III</p> +<p>There will we find laws, which shall interpret,<br /> Through +the simpler past, existing life;<br />Delving up from mines and fairy +caverns<br /> Charmed blades, to cut the age’s +strife.</p> +<p>IV</p> +<p>What though fogs may stream from draining waters?<br /> We +will till the clays to mellow loam;<br />Wake the graveyard of our fathers’ +spirits;<br /> Clothe its crumbling mounds with blade +and bloom.</p> +<p>V.</p> +<p>Old decays but foster new creations;<br /> Bones +and ashes feed the golden corn;<br />Fresh elixirs wander every moment,<br /> Down +the veins through which the live past feeds its child, the live unborn.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>ACT I</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE I. A.D. 1220</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The Doorway of a closed Chapel in the Wartburg. Elizabeth sitting +on the Steps.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Baby Jesus, who dost lie<br />Far above that stormy +sky,<br />In Thy mother’s pure caress,<br />Stoop and save the +motherless.</p> +<p>Happy birds! whom Jesus leaves<br />Underneath His sheltering eaves;<br />There +they go to play and sleep,<br />May not I go in to weep?</p> +<p>All without is mean and small,<br />All within is vast and tall;<br />All +without is harsh and shrill,<br />All within is hushed and still.</p> +<p>Jesus, let me enter in,<br />Wrap me safe from noise and sin.<br />Let +me list the angels’ songs,<br />See the picture of Thy wrongs;</p> +<p>Let me kiss Thy wounded feet,<br />Drink Thine incense, faint and +sweet,<br />While the clear bells call Thee down<br />From Thine everlasting +throne.</p> +<p>At thy door-step low I bend,<br />Who have neither kin nor friend;<br />Let +me here a shelter find,<br />Shield the shorn lamb from the wind.</p> +<p>Jesu, Lord, my heart will break:<br />Save me for Thy great love’s +sake!</p> +<p>[<i>Enter</i> Isentrudis.]</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Aha! I had missed my little bird from the +nest,<br />And judged that she was here. What’s this? fie, +tears?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Go! you despise me like the rest.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Despise you?<br />What’s here? King +Andrew’s child? St. John’s sworn maid?<br />Who dares +despise you? Out upon these Saxons!<br />They sang another note +when I was younger,<br />When from the rich East came my queenly pearl,<br />Lapt +on this fluttering heart, while mighty heroes<br />Rode by her side, +and far behind us stretched<br />The barbs and sumpter mules, a royal +train,<br />Laden with silks and furs, and priceless gems,<br />Wedges +of gold, and furniture of silver,<br />Fit for my princess.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Hush now, I’ve heard all, nurse,<br />A +thousand times.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Oh, how their hungry mouths<br />Did water at +the booty! Such a prize,<br />Since the three Kings came wandering +into Cöln,<br />They ne’er saw, nor their fathers;—well +they knew it!<br />Oh, how they fawned on us! ‘Great Isentrudis!’<br />‘Sweet +babe!’ The Landgravine did thank her saints<br />As if you, +or your silks, had fallen from heaven;<br />And now she wears your furs, +and calls us gipsies.<br />Come tell your nurse your griefs; we’ll +weep together,<br />Strangers in this strange land.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I am most friendless.<br />The Landgravine and +Agnes—you may see them<br />Begrudge the food I eat, and call +me friend<br />Of knaves and serving-maids; the burly knights<br />Freeze +me with cold blue eyes: no saucy page<br />But points and whispers, +‘There goes our pet nun;<br />Would but her saintship leave her +gold behind,<br />We’d give herself her furlough.’ +Save me! save me!<br />All here are ghastly dreams; dead masks of stone,<br />And +you and I, and Guta, only live:<br />Your eyes alone have souls. +I shall go mad!<br />Oh that they would but leave me all alone<br />To +teach poor girls, and work within my chamber,<br />With mine own thoughts, +and all the gentle angels<br />Which glance about my dreams at morning-tide!<br />Then +I should be as happy as the birds<br />Which sing at my bower window. +Once I longed<br />To be beloved,—now would they but forget me!<br />Most +vile I must be, or they could not hate me!</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. They are of this world, thou art not, poor child,<br />Therefore +they hate thee, as they did thy betters.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. But, Lewis, nurse?</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. He, child? he is thy knight;<br />Espoused from +childhood: thou hast a claim upon him.<br />One that thou’lt need, +alas!—though, I remember—<br />’Tis fifteen years +agone—when in one cradle<br />We laid two fair babes for a marriage +token;<br />And when your lips met, then you smiled, and twined<br />Your +little limbs together.—Pray the Saints<br />That token stand!—He +calls thee love and sister,<br />And brings thee gew-gaws from the wars: +that’s much!<br />At least he’s thine if thou love him.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. If I love him?<br />What is this love? Why, +is he not my brother<br />And I his sister? Till these weary wars,<br />The +one of us without the other never<br />Did weep or laugh: what is’t +should change us now?<br />You shake your head and smile.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Go to; the chafe<br />Comes not by wearing chains, +but feeling them.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Alas! here comes a knight across the court;<br />Oh, +hide me, nurse! What’s here? this door is fast.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Nay, ’tis a friend: he brought my princess +hither,<br />Walter of Varila; I feared him once—<br />He used +to mock our state, and say, good wine<br />Should want no bush, and +that the cage was gay,<br />But that the bird must sing before he praised +it.<br />Yet he’s a kind heart, while his bitter tongue<br />Awes +these court popinjays at times to manners.<br />He will smile sadly +too, when he meets my maiden;<br />And once he said, he was your liegeman +sworn,<br />Since my lost mistress, weeping, to his charge<br />Trusted +the babe she saw no more.—God help us!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. How did my mother die, nurse?</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. She died, my child.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. But how? Why turn away?<br />Too long I’ve +guessed at some dread mystery<br />I may not hear: and in my restless +dreams,<br />Night after night, sweeps by a frantic rout<br />Of grinning +fiends, fierce horses, bodiless hands,<br />Which clutch at one to whom +my spirit yearns<br />As to a mother. There’s some fearful +tie<br />Between me and that spirit-world, which God<br />Brands with +his terrors on my troubled mind.<br />Speak! tell me, nurse! is she +in heaven or hell?</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. God knows, my child: there are masses for her +soul<br />Each day in every Zingar minster sung.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. But was she holy?—Died she in the Lord?<br /><i>Isen</i> +[weeps]. O God! my child! And if I told thee all,<br />How +couldst thou mend it?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Mend it? O my Saviour!<br />I’d die +a saint!<br />Win heaven for her by prayers, and build great minsters,<br />Chantries, +and hospitals for her; wipe out<br />By mighty deeds our race’s +guilt and shame—<br />But thus, poor witless orphan! [Weeps.]</p> +<p>[Count Walter enters.]</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Ah! my princess! accept your liegeman’s knee;<br />Down, +down, rheumatic flesh!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Ah! Count Walter! you are too tall to kneel +to little girls.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. What? shall two hundredweight of hypocrisy bow +down to his four-inch wooden saint, and the same weight of honesty not +worship his four-foot live one? And I have a jest for you, shall +make my small queen merry and wise.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. You shall jest long before she’s merry.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Ah! dowers and dowagers again! The money—root +of all evil.<br />What comes here? [A Page enters.]<br />A long-winged +grasshopper, all gold, green, and gauze? How these young pea-chicks +must needs ape the grown peacock’s frippery! Prithee, now, +how many such butterflies as you suck here together on the thistle-head +of royalty?</p> +<p><i>Page</i>. Some twelve gentlemen of us, Sir—apostles +of the blind archer, Love—owning no divinity but almighty beauty—no +faith, no hope, no charity, but those which are kindled at her eyes.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Saints! what’s all this?</p> +<p><i>Page</i>. Ah, Sir! none but countrymen swear by the saints +nowadays: no oaths but allegorical ones, Sir, at the high table; as +thus,—‘By the sleeve of beauty, Madam;’ or again, +‘By Love his martyrdoms, Sir Count;’ or to a potentate, +‘As Jove’s imperial mercy shall hear my vows, High Mightiness.’</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Where did the evil one set you on finding all this +heathenry?</p> +<p><i>Page</i>. Oh, we are all barristers of Love’s court, +Sir; we have Ovid’s gay science conned, Sir, <i>ad</i> <i>unguentum</i>, +as they say, out of the French book.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. So? There are those come from Rome then will +whip you and Ovid out with the same rod which the dandies of Provence +felt lately to their sorrow. Oh, what blinkards are we gentlemen, +to train any dumb beasts more carefully than we do Christians! that +a man shall keep his dog-breakers, and his horse-breakers, and his hawk-breakers, +and never hire him a boy-breaker or two! that we should live without +a qualm at dangling such a flock of mimicking parroquets at our heels +a while, and then, when they are well infected, well perfumed with the +wind of our vices, dropping them off, as tadpoles do their tails, joint +by joint into the mud! to strain at such gnats as an ill-mouthed colt +or a riotous puppy, and swallow that camel of camels, a page!</p> +<p><i>Page</i>. Do you call me a camel, Sir?</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. What’s your business?</p> +<p><i>Page</i>. My errand is to the Princess here.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. To me?</p> +<p><i>Page</i>. Yes; the Landgravine expects you at high mass; +so go in, and mind you clean yourself; for every one is not as fond +as you of beggars’ brats, and what their clothes leave behind +them.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i> [strikes him]. Monkey! To whom are you speaking?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Oh, peace, peace, peace! I’ll go with +him.</p> +<p><i>Page</i>. Then be quick, my music-master’s waiting. +Corpo di Bacco! as if our elders did not teach us to whom we ought to +be rude! [Ex. Eliz. and Page.]</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. See here, Sir Saxon, how this pearl of price<br />Is +faring in your hands! The peerless image,<br />To whom this court +is but the tawdry frame,—<br />The speck of light amid its murky +baseness,—<br />The salt which keeps it all from rotting,—cast<br />To +be the common fool,—the laughing stock<br />For every beardless +knave to whet his wit on!<br />Tar-blooded Germans!—Here’s +another of them.</p> +<p>[A young Knight enters.]</p> +<p><i>Knight</i>. Heigh! Count! What? learning to +sing psalms? They are waiting<br />For you in the manage-school, +to give your judgment<br />On that new Norman mare.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Tell them I’m busy.</p> +<p><i>Knight</i>. Busy? St. Martin! Knitting stockings, +eh?<br />To clothe the poor withal? Is that your business?<br />I +passed that canting baby on the stairs;<br />Would heaven that she had +tripped, and broke her goose-neck,<br />And left us heirs <i>de</i> +<i>facto</i>. So, farewell. [Exit.]</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. A very pretty quarrel! matter enough<br />To spoil +a waggon-load of ash-staves on,<br />And break a dozen fools’ +backs across their cantlets.<br />What’s Lewis doing?</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Oh—befooled,—<br />Bewitched with +dogs and horses, like an idiot<br />Clutching his bauble, while a priceless +jewel<br />Sticks at his miry heels.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. The boy’s no fool,—<br />As good a +heart as hers, but somewhat given<br />To hunt the nearest butterfly, +and light<br />The fire of fancy without hanging o’er it<br />The +porridge-pot of practice. He shall hear or—</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. And quickly, for there’s treason in the +wind.<br />They’ll keep her dower, and send her home with shame<br />Before +the year’s out.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Humph! Some are rogues enough for’t.<br />As +it falls out, I ride with him to-day.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Upon what business?</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Some shaveling has been telling him that there +are heretics on his land: Stadings, worshippers of black cats, baby-eaters, +and such like. He consulted me; I told him it would be time enough +to see to the heretics when all the good Christians had been well looked +after. I suppose the novelty of the thing smit him, for now nothing +will serve but I must ride with him round half a dozen hamlets, where, +with God’s help, I will show him a mansty or two, that shall astonish +his delicate chivalry.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Oh, here’s your time! Speak to him, +noble Walter.<br />Stun his dull ears with praises of her grace;<br />Prick +his dull heart with shame at his own coldness.<br />Oh right us, Count.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. I will, I will: go in<br />And dry your eyes. +[Exeunt separately.]</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE II</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>A Landscape in Thuringia. Lewis and Walter riding.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. So all these lands are mine; these yellow meads—<br />These +village greens, and forest-fretted hills,<br />With dizzy castles crowned. +Mine! Why that word<br />Is rich in promise, in the action bankrupt.<br />What +faculty of mine, save dream-fed pride,<br />Can these things fatten? +Mass! I had forgot:<br />I have a right to bark at trespassers.<br />Rare +privilege! While every fowl and bush,<br />According to its destiny +and nature<br />(Which were they truly mine, my power could alter),<br />Will +live, and grow, and take no thought of me.<br />Those firs, before whose +stealthy-marching ranks<br />The world-old oaks still dwindle and retreat,<br />If +I could stay their poisoned frown, which cows<br />The pale shrunk underwood, +and nestled seeds<br />Into an age of sleep, ’twere something: +and those men<br />O’er whom that one word ‘ownership’ +uprears me—<br />If I could make them lift a finger up<br />But +of their own free will, I’d own my seizin.<br />But now—when +if I sold them, life and limb,<br />There’s not a sow would litter +one pig less<br />Than when men called her mine.—Possession’s +naught;<br />A parchment ghost; a word I am ashamed<br />To claim even +here, lest all the forest spirits,<br />And bees who drain unasked the +free-born flowers,<br />Should mock, and cry, ‘Vain man, not thine, +but ours.’</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Possession’s naught? Possession’s +beef and ale—<br />Soft bed, fair wife, gay horse, good steel.—Are +they naught?<br />Possession means to sit astride of the world,<br />Instead +of having it astride of you;<br />Is that naught? ’Tis the +easiest trade of all too;<br />For he that’s fit for nothing else, +is fit<br />To own good land, and on the slowest dolt<br />His state +sits easiest, while his serfs thrive best.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. How now? What need then of long discipline,<br />Not +to mere feats of arms, but feats of soul;<br />To courtesies and high +self-sacrifice,<br />To order and obedience, and the grace<br />Which +makes commands, requests, and service, favour?<br />To faith and prayer, +and pure thoughts, ever turned<br />To that Valhalla, where the virgin +saints<br />And stainless heroes tend the Queen of heaven?<br />Why +these, if I but need, like stalled ox<br />To chew the grass cut for +me?</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Why? Because<br />I have trained thee for +a knight, boy, not a ruler.<br />All callings want their proper ’prentice +time<br />But this of ruling; it comes by mother-wit;<br />And if the +wit be not exceeding great,<br />’Tis best the wit be most exceeding +small;<br />And he that holds the reins should let the horse<br />Range +on, feed where he will, live and let live.<br />Custom and selfishness +will keep all steady<br />For half a life.—Six months before you +die<br />You may begin to think of interfering.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Alas! while each day blackens with fresh clouds,<br />Complaints +of ague, fever, crumbling huts,<br />Of land thrown out to the forest, +game and keepers,<br />Bailiffs and barons, plundering all alike;<br />Need, +greed, stupidity: To clear such ruin<br />Would task the rich prime +of some noble hero—<br />But can I nothing do?</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Oh! plenty, Sir;<br />Which no man yet has done +or e’er will do.<br />It rests with you, whether the priest be +honoured;<br />It rests with you, whether the knight be knightly;<br />It +rests with you, whether those fields grow corn;<br />It rests with you, +whether those toiling peasants<br />Lift to their masters free and loyal +eyes,<br />Or crawl, like jaded hacks, to welcome graves.<br />It rests +with you—and will rest.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. I’ll crowd my court and dais with men of +God,<br />As doth my peerless namesake, King of France.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Priests, Sir? The Frenchman keeps two counsellors<br />Worth +any drove of priests.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. And who are they?</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. God and his lady-love, [aside] He’ll +open at that—</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. I could be that man’s squire.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i> [aside] Again run riot—<br />Now for another +cast, [aloud] If you’d sleep sound, Sir,<br />You’ll +let priests pray for you, but school you never.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Mass! who more fitted?</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. None, if you could trust them;<br />But they are +the people’s creatures; poor men give them<br />Their power at +the church, and take it back at the ale-house:<br />Then what’s +the friar to the starving peasant?<br />Just what the abbot is to the +greedy noble—<br />A scarecrow to lear wolves. Go ask the +church plate,<br />Safe in knights’ cellars, how these priests +are feared.<br />Bruised reeds when you most need them.—No, my +Lord;<br />Copy them, trust them never.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Copy? wherein?</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. In letting every man<br />Do what he likes, and +only seeing he does it<br />As you do your work—well. That’s +the Church secret<br />For breeding towns, as fast as you breed roe-deer;<br />Example, +but not meddling. See that hollow—<br />I knew it once all +heath, and deep peat-bog—<br />I drowned a black mare in that +self-same spot<br />Hunting with your good father: Well, he gave<br />One +jovial night, to six poor Erfurt monks—<br />Six picked-visaged, +wan, bird-fingered wights—<br />All in their rough hair shirts, +like hedgehogs starved—<br />I told them, six weeks’ work +would break their hearts:<br />They answered, Christ would help, and +Christ’s great mother,<br />And make them strong when weakest: +So they settled:<br />And starved and froze.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. And dug and built, it seems.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Faith, that’s true. See—as garden +walls draw snails,<br />They have drawn a hamlet round; the slopes are +blue,<br />Knee-deep with flax, the orchard boughs are breaking<br />With +strange outlandish fruits. See those young rogues<br />Marching +to school; no poachers here, Lord Landgrave,—<br />Too much to +be done at home; there’s not a village<br />Of yours, now, thrives +like this. By God’s good help<br />These men have made their +ownership worth something.<br />Here comes one of them.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. I would speak to him—<br />And learn his +secret.—We’ll await him here.</p> +<p>[Enter Conrad.]</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Peace to you, reverend and war-worn knight,<br />And +you, fair youth, upon whose swarthy lip<br />Blooms the rich promise +of a noble manhood.<br />Methinks, if simple monks may read your thoughts,<br />That +with no envious or distasteful eyes<br />Ye watch the labours of God’s +poor elect.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Why—we were saying, how you cunning rooks<br />Pitch +as by instinct on the fattest fallows.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. For He who feeds the ravens, promiseth<br />Our +bread and water sure, and leads us on<br />By peaceful streams in pastures +green to lie,<br />Beneath our Shepherd’s eye.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. In such a nook, now,<br />To nestle from this +noisy world—</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. And drop<br />The burden of thyself upon the threshold.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Think what rich dreams may haunt those lowly +roofs!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Rich dreams,—and more; their dreams will +find fulfilment—<br />Their discipline breeds strength—’Tis +we alone<br />Can join the patience of the labouring ox<br />Unto the +eagle’s foresight,—not a fancy<br />Of ours, but grows in +time to mighty deeds;<br />Victories in heavenly warfare: but yours, +yours, Sir,<br />Oh, choke them, choke the panting hopes of youth,<br />Ere +they be born, and wither in slow pains,<br />Cast by for the next bauble!</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. ’Tis too true!<br />I dread no toil; toil +is the true knight’s pastime—<br />Faith fails, the will +intense and fixed, so easy<br />To thee, cut off from life and love, +whose powers<br />In one close channel must condense their stream:<br />But +I, to whom this life blooms rich and busy,<br />Whose heart goes out +a-Maying all the year<br />In this new Eden—in my fitful thought<br />What +skill is there, to turn my faith to sight—<br />To pierce blank +Heaven, like some trained falconer<br />After his game, beyond all human +ken?</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. And walk into the bog beneath your feet.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. And change it to firm land by magic step!<br />Build +there cloud-cleaving spires, beneath whose shade<br />Great cities rise +for vassals; to call forth<br />From plough and loom the rank unlettered +hinds,<br />And make them saints and heroes—send them forth<br />To +sway with heavenly craft the spirit of princes;<br />Change nations’ +destinies, and conquer worlds<br />With love, more mighty than the sword; +what, Count?<br />Art thou ambitious? practical? we monks<br />Can teach +you somewhat there too.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Be it so;<br />But love you have forsworn; and +what were life<br />Without that chivalry, which bends man’s knees<br />Before +God’s image and his glory, best<br />Revealed in woman’s +beauty?</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Ah! poor worldlings!<br />Little you dream what +maddening ecstasies,<br />What rich ideals haunt, by day and night,<br />Alone, +and in the crowd, even to the death,<br />The servitors of that celestial +court<br />Where peerless Mary, sun-enthroned, reigns,<br />In whom +all Eden dreams of womanhood,<br />All grace of form, hue, sound, all +beauty strewn<br />Like pearls unstrung, about this ruined world,<br />Have +their fulfilment and their archetype.<br />Why hath the rose its scent, +the lily grace?<br />To mirror forth her loveliness, from whom,<br />Primeval +fount of grace, their livery came:<br />Pattern of Seraphs! only worthy +ark<br />To bear her God athwart the floods of time!</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Who dare aspire to her? Alas, not I!<br />To +me she is a doctrine, and a picture:—<br />I cannot live on dreams.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. She hath her train:—<br />There thou may’st +choose thy love: If world-wide lore<br />Shall please thee, and the +Cherub’s glance of fire,<br />Let Catharine lift thy soul, and +rapt with her<br />Question the mighty dead, until thou float<br />Tranced +on the ethereal ocean of her spirit.<br />If pity father passion in +thee, hang<br />Above Eulalia’s tortured loveliness;<br />And +for her sake, and in her strength, go forth<br />To do and suffer greatly. +Dost thou long<br />For some rich heart, as deep in love as weakness,<br />Whose +wild simplicity sweet heaven-born instincts<br />Alone keep sane?</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. I do, I do. I’d live<br />And die +for each and all the three.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Then go—<br />Entangled in the Magdalen’s +tresses lie;<br />Dream hours before her picture, till thy lips<br />Dare +to approach her feet, and thou shalt start<br />To find the canvas warm +with life, and matter<br />A moment transubstantiate to heaven.</p> +<p>Wal. Ay, catch his fever, Sir, and learn to take<br />An indigestion +for a troop of angels.<br />Come, tell him, monk, about your magic gardens,<br />Where +not a stringy head of kale is cut<br />But breeds a vision or a revelation.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Hush, hush, Count! Speak, strange monk, +strange words, and waken<br />Longings more strange than either.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Then, if proved,<br />As I dare vouch thee, loyal +in thy love,<br />Even to the Queen herself thy saintlier soul<br />At +length may soar: perchance—Oh, bliss too great<br />For thought—yet +possible!<br />Receive some token—smile—or hallowing touch<br />Of +that white hand, beneath whose soft caress<br />The raging world is +smoothed, and runs its course<br />To shadow forth her glory.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Thou dost tempt me—<br />That were a knightly +quest.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Ay, here’s true love.<br />Love’s heaven, +without its hell; the golden fruit<br />Without the foul husk, which +at Adam’s fall<br />Did crust it o’er with filth and selfishness.<br />I +tempt thee heavenward—from yon azure walls<br />Unearthly beauties +beckon—God’s own mother<br />Waits longing for thy choice—</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Is this a dream?</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Ay, by the Living Lord, who died for you!<br />Will +you be cozened, Sir, by these air-blown fancies,<br />These male hysterics, +by starvation bred<br />And huge conceit? Cast off God’s +gift of manhood,<br />And, like the dog in the adage, drop the true +bone<br />With snapping at the sham one in the water?<br />What were +you born a man for?</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Ay, I know it:—<br />I cannot live on dreams. +Oh for one friend,<br />Myself, yet not myself; one not so high<br />But +she could love me, not too pure to pardon<br />My sloth and meanness! +Oh for flesh and blood,<br />Before whose feet I could adore, yet love!<br />How +easy then were duty! From her lips<br />To learn my daily task;—in +her pure eyes<br />To see the living type of those heaven-glories<br />I +dare not look on;—let her work her will<br />Of love and wisdom +on these straining hinds;—<br />To squire a saint around her labour +field,<br />And she and it both mine:—That were possession!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. The flesh, fair youth—</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Avaunt, bald snake, avaunt!<br />We are past your +burrow now. Come, come, Lord Landgrave,<br />Look round, and find +your saint.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Alas! one such—<br />One such, I know, +who upward from one cradle<br />Beside me like a sister—No, thank +God! no sister!—<br />Has grown and grown, and with her mellow +shade<br />Has blanched my thornless thoughts to her own hue,<br />And +even now is budding into blossom,<br />Which never shall bear fruit, +but inward still<br />Resorb its vital nectar, self-contained,<br />And +leave no living copies of its beauty<br />To after ages. Ah! be +less, sweet maid,<br />Less than thyself! Yet no—my wife +thou might’st be,<br />If less than thus—but not the saint +thou art.<br />What! shall my selfish longings drag thee down<br />From +maid to wife? degrade the soul I worship?<br />That were a caitiff deed! +Oh, misery!<br />Is wedlock treason to that purity,<br />Which is the +jewel and the soul of wedlock?<br />Elizabeth! my saint! [Exit +Conrad.]</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. What, Sir? the Princess?<br />Ye saints in heaven, +I thank you!</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Oh, who else,<br />Who else the minutest lineament +fulfils<br />Of this my cherished portrait?</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. So—’tis well.<br />Hear me, my Lord.—You +think this dainty princess<br />Too perfect for you, eh? That’s +well again;<br />For that whose price after fruition falls<br />May +well too high be rated ere enjoyed—<br />In plain words,—if +she looks an angel now, you will be better mated than you expected, +when you find her—a woman. For flesh and blood she is, and +that young blood,—whom her childish misusage and your brotherly +love; her loneliness and your protection; her springing fancy and (for +I may speak to you as a son) your beauty and knightly grace, have so +bewitched, and as some say, degraded, that briefly, she loves you, and +briefly, better, her few friends fear, than you love her.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Loves me! My Count, that word is quickly +spoken;<br />And yet, if it be true, it thrusts me forth<br />Upon a +shoreless sea of untried passion,<br />From whence is no return.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. By Siegfried’s sword,<br />My words are true, +and I came here to say them,<br />To thee, my son in all but blood.<br />Mass, +I’m no gossip. Why? What ails the boy?</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Loves me! Henceforth let no man, peering +down<br />Through the dim glittering mine of future years,<br />Say +to himself ‘Too much! this cannot be!’<br />To-day, and +custom, wall up our horizon:<br />Before the hourly miracle of life<br />Blindfold +we stand, and sigh, as though God were not.<br />I have wandered in +the mountains, mist-bewildered,<br />And now a breeze comes, and the +veil is lifted,<br />And priceless flowers, o’er which I trod +unheeding,<br />Gleam ready for my grasp. She loves me then!<br />She +who to me was as a nightingale<br />That sings in magic gardens, rock-beleaguered,<br />To +passing angels melancholy music—<br />Whose dark eyes hung, like +far-off evening stars,<br />Through rosy-cushioned windows coldly shining<br />Down +from the cloud-world of her unknown fancy—<br />She, for whom +holiest touch of holiest knight<br />Seemed all too gross—who +might have been a saint<br />And companied with angels—thus to +pluck<br />The spotless rose of her own maidenhood<br />To give it unto +me!</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. You love her then?</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Look! if yon solid mountain were all gold,<br />And +each particular tree a band of jewels,<br />And from its womb the Niebelungen +hoard<br />With elfin wardens called me, ‘Leave thy love<br />And +be our Master’—I would turn away—<br />And know no +wealth but her.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Shall I say this to her?<br />I am no carrier pigeon, +Sir, by breed,<br />But now, between her friends and persecutors,<br />My +life’s a burden.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Persecutors! Who?<br />Alas! I guess +it—I had known my mother<br />Too light for that fair saint,—but +who else dare wink<br />When she is by? My knights?</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. To a man, my Lord.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Here’s chivalry! Well, that’s +soon brought to bar.<br />The quarrel’s mine; my lance shall clear +that stain.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Quarrel with your knights? Cut your own chair-legs +off!<br />They do but sail with the stream. Her passion, Sir,<br />Broke +shell and ran out twittering before yours did,<br />And unrequited love +is mortal sin<br />With this chaste world. My boy, my boy, I tell +you,<br />The fault lies nearer home.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. I have played the coward—<br />And in the +sloth of false humility,<br />Cast by the pearl I dared not to deserve.<br />How +laggard I must seem to her, though she love me;<br />Playing with hawks +and hounds, while she sits weeping!<br />’Tis not too late.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Too late, my royal eyas?<br />You shall strike +this deer yourself at gaze ere long—<br />She has no mind to slip +to cover.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Come—<br />We’ll back—we’ll +back; and you shall bear the message;<br />I am ashamed to speak. +Tell her I love her—<br />That I should need to tell her! +Say, my coyness<br />Was bred of worship, not of coldness.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Then the serfs<br />Must wait?</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Why not? This day to them, too, blessing +brings,<br />Which clears from envious webs their guardian angel’s +wings. [Exeunt.]</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE III</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p><i>A</i> <i>Chamber</i> <i>in</i> <i>the</i> <i>Castle</i>. +Sophia, Elizabeth, Agnes, Isentrude, etc., <i>re-entering.</i></p> +<p><i>Soph</i>. What! you will not? You hear, Dame Isentrude,<br />She +will not wear her coronet in the church,<br />Because, forsooth, the +crucifix within<br />Is crowned with thorns. You hear her.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Noble mother!<br />How could I flaunt this bauble +in His face<br />Who hung there, naked, bleeding, all for me—<br />I +felt it shamelessness to go so gay.</p> +<p><i>Soph</i>. Felt? What then? Every foolish wench +has feelings<br />In these religious days, and thinks it carnal<br />To +wash her dishes, and obey her parents—<br />No wonder they ape +you, if you ape them—<br />Go to! I hate this humble-minded +pride,<br />Self-willed submission—to your own pert fancies;<br />This +fog-bred mushroom-spawn of brain-sick wits,<br />Who make their oddities +their test for grace,<br />And peer about to catch the general eye;<br />Ah! +I have watched you throw your playmates down<br />To have the pleasure +of kneeling for their pardon.<br />Here’s sanctity—to shame +your cousin and me—<br />Spurn rank and proper pride, and decency;—<br />If +God has made you noble, use your rank,<br />If you but know how. +You Landgravine? You mated<br />With gentle Lewis? Why, +belike you’ll cowl him,<br />As that stern prude, your aunt, cowled +her poor spouse;<br />No—one Hedwiga at a time’s enough,—<br />My +son shall die no monk.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Beseech you, Madam,—<br />Weep not, my darling.</p> +<p><i>Soph</i>. Tut—I’ll speak my mind.<br />We’ll +have no saints. Thank heaven, my saintliness<br />Ne’er +troubled my good man, by day or night.<br />We’ll have no saints, +I say; far better for you,<br />And no doubt pleasanter—You know +your place—<br />At least you know your place,—to take to +cloisters,<br />And there sit carding wool, and mumbling Latin,<br />With +sour old maids, and maundering Magdalens,<br />Proud of your frost-kibed +feet, and dirty serge.<br />There’s nothing noble in you, but +your blood;<br />And that one almost doubts. Who art thou, child?</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. The daughter, please your highness,<br />Of Andreas, +King of Hungary, your better;<br />And your son’s spouse.</p> +<p><i>Soph</i>. I had forgotten, truly—<br />And you, Dame +Isentrudis, are her servant,<br />And mine: come, Agnes, leave the gipsy +ladies<br />To say their prayers, and set the Saints the fashion.</p> +<p>[Sophia and Agnes go out.]</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Proud hussy! Thou shalt set thy foot on +her neck yet, darling,<br />When thou art Landgravine.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. And when will that be?<br />No, she speaks truth! +I should have been a nun.<br />These are the wages of my cowardice,—<br />Too +weak to face the world, too weak to leave it!</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. I’ll take the veil with you.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. ’Twere but a moment’s work,—<br />To +slip into the convent there below,<br />And be at peace for ever. +And you, my nurse?</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. I will go with thee, child, where’er thou +goest.<br />But Lewis?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Ah! my brother! No, I dare not—<br />I +dare not turn for ever from this hope,<br />Though it be dwindled to +a thread of mist.<br />Oh that we two could flee and leave this Babel!<br />Oh +if he were but some poor chapel-priest,<br />In lonely mountain valleys +far away;<br />And I his serving-maid, to work his vestments,<br />And +dress his scrap of food, and see him stand<br />Before the altar like +a rainbowed saint;<br />To take the blessed wafer from his hand,<br />Confess +my heart to him, and all night long<br />Pray for him while he slept, +or through the lattice<br />Watch while he read, and see the holy thoughts<br />Swell +in his big deep eyes!—Alas! that dream<br />Is wilder than the +one that’s fading even now!<br />Who’s here? [A Page +enters.]</p> +<p><i>Page</i>. The Count of Varila, Madam, begs permission to +speak with you.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. With me? What’s this new terror?<br />Tell +him I wait him.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i> [aside]. Ah! my old heart sinks—<br />God +send us rescue! Here the champion comes.</p> +<p>[Count Walter enters.]</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Most learned, fair, and sanctimonious Princess—<br />Plague, +what comes next? I had something orthodox ready;<br />’Tis +dropped out by the way.—Mass! here’s the pith on’t.—<br />Madam, +I come a-wooing; and for one<br />Who is as only worthy of your love,<br />As +you of his; he bids me claim the spousals<br />Made long ago between +you,—and yet leaves<br />Your fancy free, to grant or pass that +claim:<br />And being that Mercury is not my planet,<br />He hath advised +himself to set herein,<br />With pen and ink, what seemed good to him,<br />As +passport to this jewelled mirror, pledge<br />Unworthy of his worship. +[Gives a letter and jewel.]</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Nunc Domine dimittis servam tuam!</p> +<p>[Elizabeth looks over the letter and casket, claps her hands and +bursts into childish laughter.]</p> +<p>Why here’s my Christmas tree come after Lent—<br />Espousals? +pledges? by our childish love?<br />Pretty words for folks to think +of at the wars,—<br />And pretty presents come of them! +Look, Guta!<br />A crystal clear, and carven on the reverse<br />The +blessed rood. He told me once—one night,<br />When we did +sit in the garden—What was I saying?</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. My fairest Princess, as ambassador,<br />What shall +I answer?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Tell him—tell him—God!<br />Have I +grown mad, or a child, within the moment?<br />The earth has lost her +gray sad hue, and blazes<br />With her old life-light; hark! yon wind’s +a song—<br />Those clouds are angels’ robes.—That +fiery west<br />Is paved with smiling faces.—I am a woman,<br />And +all things bid me love! my dignity<br />Is thus to cast my virgin pride +away;<br />And find my strength in weakness.—Busy brain!<br />Thou +keep’st pace with my heart; old lore, old fancies,<br />Buried +for years, leap from their tombs, and proffer<br />Their magic service +to my new-born spirit.<br />I’ll go—I am not mistress of +myself—<br />Send for him—bring him to me—he is mine! +[Exit.]</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Ah! blessed Saints! how changed upon the moment!<br />She +is grown taller, trust me, and her eye<br />Flames like a fresh-caught +hind’s. She that was christened<br />A brown mouse for her +stillness! Good my Lord!<br />Now shall mine old bones see the +grave in peace!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE IV</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The Bridal Feast. Elizabeth, Lewis, Sophia, and Company seated +at the Dais table. Court Minstrel and Court Fool sitting on the +Dais steps.</p> +<p><i>Min</i>. How gaily smile the heavens,<br />The light winds +whisper gay;<br />For royal birth and knightly worth<br />Are knit to +one to-day.</p> +<p><i>Fool</i> [drowning his voice]<i>.<br /></i>So we’ll flatter +them up, and we’ll cocker them up,<br />Till we turn young brains;<br />And +pamper the brach till we make her a wolf,<br />And get bit by the legs +for our pains.</p> +<p><i>Monks</i> [chanting without]<i>.<br /></i>A fastu et superbiâ<br />Domine +libera nos.</p> +<p><i>Min</i>. ’Neath sandal red and samité,<br />Are +knights and ladies set;<br />The henchmen tall stride through the hall,<br />The +board with wine is wet.</p> +<p><i>Fool</i>. Oh! merrily growls the starving hind,<br />At +my full skin;<br />And merrily howl wolf, wind, and owl,<br />While +I lie warm within.</p> +<p><i>Monks</i>. A luxu et avaritiâ<br />Domine libera nos.</p> +<p><i>Min</i>. Hark! from the bridal bower,<br />Rings out the +bridesmaid’s song;<br />‘’Tis the mystic hour of an +untried power,<br />The bride she tarries long.’</p> +<p><i>Fool</i>. She’s schooling herself and she’s +steeling herself,<br />Against the dreary day,<br />When she’ll +pine and sigh from her lattice high<br />For the knight that’s +far away.</p> +<p><i>Monks</i>. A carnis illectamentis<br />Domine libera nos.</p> +<p><i>Min</i>. Blest maid! fresh roses o’er thee<br />The +careless years shall fling;<br />While days and nights shall new delights<br />To +sense and fancy bring.</p> +<p><i>Fool</i>. Satins and silks, and feathers and lace,<br />Will +gild life’s pill;<br />In jewels and gold folks cannot grow old,<br />Fine +ladies will never fall ill.</p> +<p><i>Monks</i>. A vanitatibus sæculi<br />Domine libera +nos.</p> +<p>[Sophia descends from the Dais, leading Elizabeth. Ladies follow.]</p> +<p><i>Sophia</i> [to the Fool]. Silence, you screech-owl.—<br />Come +strew flowers, fair ladies,<br />And lead into her bower our fairest +bride,<br />The cynosure of love and beauty here,<br />Who shrines heaven’s +graces in earth’s richest casket.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I come, [aside] Here, Guta, take those monks a +fee—<br />Tell them I thank them—bid them pray for me.<br />I +am half mazed with trembling joy within,<br />And noisy wassail round. +’Tis well, for else<br />The spectre of my duties and my dangers<br />Would +whelm my heart with terror. Ah! poor self!<br />Thou took’st +this for the term and bourne of troubles—<br />And now ’tis +here, thou findest it the gate<br />Of new sin-cursed infinities of +labour,<br />Where thou must do, or die!<br />[aloud] Lead on. +I’ll follow. [Exeunt.]</p> +<p><i>Fool</i>. There, now. No fee for the fool; and yet +my prescription was as good as those old Jeremies’. But +in law, physic, and divinity, folks had sooner be poisoned in Latin, +than saved in the mother-tongue.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>ACT II</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE I. A.D. 1221-27</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Elizabeth’s Bower. Night. Lewis sleeping in an +Alcove.</p> +<p>Elizabeth lying on the Floor in the Foreground.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. No streak yet in the blank and eyeless east—<br />More +weary hours to ache, and smart, and shiver<br />On these bare boards, +within a step of bliss.<br />Why peevish? ’Tis mine own +will keeps me here—<br />And yet I hate myself for that same will:<br />Fightings +within and out! How easy ’twere, now,<br />Just to be like +the rest, and let life run—<br />To use up to the rind what joys +God sends us,<br />Not thus forestall His rod: What! and so lose<br />The +strength which comes by suffering? Well, if grief<br />Be gain, +mine’s double—fleeing thus the snare<br />Of yon luxurious +and unnerving down,<br />And widowed from mine Eden. And why widowed?<br />Because +they tell me, love is of the flesh,<br />And that’s our house-bred +foe, the adder in our bosoms,<br />Which warmed to life, will sting +us. They must know—<br />I do confess mine ignorance, O +Lord!<br />Mine earnest will these painful limbs may prove.<br />. . +. . .<br />And yet I swore to love him.—So I do<br />No more than +I have sworn. Am I to blame<br />If God makes wedlock that, which +if it be not,<br />It were a shame for modest lips to speak it,<br />And +silly doves are better mates than we?<br />And yet our love is Jesus’ +due,—and all things<br />Which share with Him divided empery<br />Are +snares and idols—‘To love, to cherish, and to obey!’<br />. +. . . .<br />O deadly riddle! Rent and twofold life!<br />O cruel +troth! To keep thee or to break thee<br />Alike seems sin! +O thou beloved tempter,</p> +<p>[Turning toward the bed.]</p> +<p>Who first didst teach me love, why on thyself<br />From God divert +thy lesson? Wilt provoke Him?<br />What if mine heavenly Spouse +in jealous ire<br />Should smite mine earthly spouse? Have I two +husbands?<br />The words are horror—yet they are orthodox!</p> +<p>[Rises and goes to the window.]</p> +<p>How many many brows of happy lovers<br />The fragrant lips of night +even now are kissing!<br />Some wandering hand in hand through arched +lanes;<br />Some listening for loved voices at the lattice;<br />Some +steeped in dainty dreams of untried bliss;<br />Some nestling soft and +deep in well-known arms,<br />Whose touch makes sleep rich life. +The very birds<br />Within their nests are wooing! So much love!<br />All +seek their mates, or finding, rest in peace;<br />The earth seems one +vast bride-bed. Doth God tempt us?<br />Is’t all a veil +to blind our eyes from him?<br />A fire-fly at the candle. ’Tis +love leads him;<br />Love’s light, and light is love: O Eden! +Eden!<br />Eve was a virgin there, they say; God knows.<br />Must all +this be as it had never been?<br />Is it all a fleeting type of higher +love?<br />Why, if the lesson’s pure, is not the teacher<br />Pure +also? Is it my shame to feel no shame?<br />Am I more clean, the +more I scent uncleanness?<br />Shall base emotions picture Christ’s +embrace?<br />Rest, rest, torn heart! Yet where? in earth or heaven?<br />Still, +from out the bright abysses, gleams our Lady’s silver footstool,<br />Still +the light-world sleeps beyond her, though the night-clouds fleet below.<br />Oh +that I were walking, far above, upon that dappled pavement,<br />Heaven’s +floor, which is the ceiling of the dungeon where we lie.<br />Ah, what +blessed Saints might meet me, on that platform, sliding silent,<br />Past +us in its airy travels, angel-wafted, mystical!<br />They perhaps might +tell me all things, opening up the secret fountains<br />Which now struggle, +dark and turbid, through their dreary prison clay.<br />Love! art thou +an earth-born streamlet, that thou seek’st the lowest hollows?<br />Sure +some vapours float up from thee, mingling with the highest blue.<br />Spirit-love +in spirit-bodies, melted into one existence—<br />Joining praises +through the ages—Is it all a minstrel’s dream?<br />Alas! +he wakes. [Lewis rises.]</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Ah! faithless beauty,<br />Is this your promise, +that whene’er you prayed<br />I should be still the partner of +your vigils,<br />And learn from you to pray? Last night I lay +dissembling<br />When she who woke you, took my feet for yours:<br />Now +I shall seize my lawful prize perforce.<br />Alas! what’s this? +These shoulders’ cushioned ice,<br />And thin soft flanks, with +purple lashes all,<br />And weeping furrows traced! Ah! precious +life-blood!<br />Who has done this?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Forgive! ’twas I—my maidens—</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. O ruthless hags!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Not so, not so—They wept<br />When I did +bid them, as I bid thee now<br />To think of nought but love.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Elizabeth!<br />Speak! I will know the +meaning of this madness!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Beloved, thou hast heard how godly souls,<br />In +every age, have tamed the rebel flesh<br />By such sharp lessons. +I must tread their paths,<br />If I would climb the mountains where +they rest.<br />Grief is the gate of bliss—why wedlock—knighthood—<br />A +mother’s joy—a hard-earned field of glory—<br />By +tribulation come—so doth God’s kingdom.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. But doleful nights, and self-inflicted tortures—<br />Are +these the love of God? Is He well pleased<br />With this stern +holocaust of health and joy?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. What! Am I not as gay a lady-love<br />As +ever clipt in arms a noble knight?<br />Am I not blithe as bird the +live-long day?<br />It pleases me to bear what you call pain,<br />Therefore +to me ’tis pleasure: joy and grief<br />Are the will’s creatures; +martyrs kiss the stake—<br />The moorland colt enjoys the thorny +furze—<br />The dullest boor will seek a fight, and count<br />His +pleasure by his wounds; you must forget, love,<br />Eve’s curse +lays suffering, as their natural lot,<br />On womankind, till custom +makes it light.<br />I know the use of pain: bar not the leech<br />Because +his cure is bitter—’Tis such medicine<br />Which breeds +that paltry strength, that weak devotion,<br />For which you say you +love me.—Ay, which brings<br />Even when most sharp, a stern and +awful joy<br />As its attendant angel—I’ll say no more—<br />Not +even to thee—command, and I’ll obey thee.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Thou casket of all graces! fourfold wonder<br />Of +wit and beauty, love and wisdom! Canst thou<br />Beatify the ascetic’s +savagery<br />To heavenly prudence? Horror melts to pity,<br />And +pity kindles to adoring shower<br />Of radiant tears! Thou tender +cruelty!<br />Gay smiling martyrdom! Shall I forbid thee?<br />Limit +thy depth by mine own shallowness?<br />Thy courage by my weakness? +Where thou darest,<br />I’ll shudder and submit. I kneel +here spell-bound<br />Before my bleeding Saviour’s living likeness<br />To +worship, not to cavil: I had dreamt of such things,<br />Dim heard in +legends, while my pitiful blood<br />Tingled through every vein, and +wept, and swore<br />’Twas beautiful, ’twas Christ-like—had +I thought<br />That thou wert such:—</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. You would have loved me still?</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. I have gone mad, I think, at every parting<br />At +mine own terrors for thee. No; I’ll learn to glory<br />In +that which makes thee glorious! Noble stains!<br />I’ll +call them rose leaves out of paradise<br />Strewn on the wreathed snows, +or rubies dropped<br />From martyrs’ diadems, prints of Jesus’ +cross<br />Too truly borne, alas!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I think, mine own,<br />I am forgiven at last?</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. To-night, my sister—<br />Henceforth I’ll +clasp thee to my heart so fast<br />Thou shalt not ’scape unnoticed.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i> [laughing] We shall see—<br />Now I must +stop those wise lips with a kiss,<br />And lead thee back to scenes +of simpler bliss.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE II</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>A Chamber in the Castle. Elizabeth—the Fool<br />Isentrudis—Guta +singing.</p> +<p>High among the lonely hills,<br />While I lay beside my sheep,<br />Rest +came down and filled my soul,<br />From the everlasting deep.</p> +<p>Changeless march the stars above,<br />Changeless morn succeeds to +even;<br />Still the everlasting hills,<br />Changeless watch the changeless +heaven.</p> +<p>See the rivers, how they run,<br />Changeless toward the changeless +sea;<br />All around is forethought sure,<br />Fixed will and stern +decree.</p> +<p>Can the sailor move the main?<br />Will the potter heed the clay?<br />Mortal! +where the spirit drives,<br />Thither must the wheels obey.</p> +<p>Neither ask, nor fret, nor strive:<br />Where thy path is, thou shall +go.<br />He who made the streams of time<br />Wafts thee down to weal +or woe.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. That’s a sweet song, and yet it does not +chime<br />With my heart’s inner voice. Where had you it, +Guta?</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. From a nun who was a shepherdess in her youth—sadly +plagued she was by a cruel stepmother, till she fled to a convent and +found rest to her soul.</p> +<p><i>Fool</i>. No doubt; nothing so pleasant as giving up one’s +will in one’s own way. But she might have learnt all that +without taking cold on the hill-tops.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Where then, Fool?</p> +<p><i>Fool</i>. At any market-cross where two or three rogues +are together, who have neither grace to mend, nor courage to say ‘I +did it.’ Now you shall see the shepherdess’ baby dressed +in my cap and bells. [Sings.]</p> +<p>When I was a greenhorn and young,<br />And wanted to be and to do,<br />I +puzzled my brains about choosing my line,<br />Till I found out the +way that things go.</p> +<p>The same piece of clay makes a tile,<br />A pitcher, a taw, or a +brick:<br />Dan Horace knew life; you may cut out a saint,<br />Or a +bench, from the self-same stick.</p> +<p>The urchin who squalls in a gaol,<br />By circumstance turns out +a rogue;<br />While the castle-bred brat is a senator born,<br />Or +a saint, if religion’s in vogue.</p> +<p>We fall on our legs in this world,<br />Blind kittens, tossed in +neck and heels:<br />’Tis Dame Circumstance licks Nature’s +cubs into shape,<br />She’s the mill-head, if we are the wheels.</p> +<p>Then why puzzle and fret, plot and dream?<br />He that’s wise +will just follow his nose;<br />Contentedly fish, while he swims with +the stream;<br />’Tis no business of his where it goes.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Far too well sung for such a saucy song.<br />So +go.</p> +<p><i>Fool</i>. Ay, I’ll go. Whip the dog out of church, +and then rate him for being no Christian. [Exit Fool.]</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Guta, there is sense in that knave’s ribaldry:<br />We +must not thus baptize our idleness,<br />And call it resignation: Which +is love?<br />To do God’s will, or merely suffer it?<br />I do +not love that contemplative life:<br />No! I must headlong into +seas of toil,<br />Leap forth from self, and spend my soul on others.<br />Oh! +contemplation palls upon the spirit,<br />Like the chill silence of +an autumn sun:<br />While action, like the roaring south-west wind,<br />Sweeps +laden with elixirs, with rich draughts<br />Quickening the wombed earth.</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. And yet what bliss,<br />When dying in the darkness +of God’s light,<br />The soul can pierce these blinding webs of +nature,<br />And float up to The Nothing, which is all things—<br />The +ground of being, where self-forgetful silence<br />Is emptiness,—emptiness +fulness,—fulness God,—<br />Till we touch Him, and like +a snow-flake, melt<br />Upon His light-sphere’s keen circumference!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Hast thou felt this?</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. In part.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Oh, happy Guta!<br />Mine eyes are dim—and +what if I mistook<br />For God’s own self, the phantoms of my +brain?<br />And who am I, that my own will’s intent<br />Should +put me face to face with the living God?<br />I, thus thrust down from +the still lakes of thought<br />Upon a boiling crater-field of labour.<br />No! +He must come to me, not I to Him;<br />If I see God, beloved, I must +see Him<br />In mine own self:—</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. Thyself?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Why start, my sister?<br />God is revealed in +the crucified:<br />The crucified must be revealed in me:—<br />I +must put on His righteousness; show forth<br />His sorrow’s glory; +hunger, weep with Him;<br />Writhe with His stripes, and let this aching +flesh<br />Sink through His fiery baptism into death,<br />That I may +rise with Him, and in His likeness<br />May ceaseless heal the sick, +and soothe the sad,<br />And give away like Him this flesh and blood<br />To +feed His lambs—ay—we must die with Him<br />To sense—and +love—</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. To love? What then becomes<br />Of marriage +vows?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I know it—so speak not of them.<br />Oh! +that’s the flow, the chasm in all my longings,<br />Which I have +spanned with cobweb arguments,<br />Yet yawns before me still, where’er +I turn,<br />To bar me from perfection; had I given<br />My virgin all +to Christ! I was not worthy!<br />I could not stand alone!</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. Here comes your husband.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. He comes! my sun! and every thrilling vein<br />Proclaims +my weakness.</p> +<p>[Lewis enters.]</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Good news, my Princess; in the street below<br />Conrad, +the man of God from Marpurg, stands<br />And from a bourne-stone to +the simple folk<br />Does thunder doctrine, preaching faith, repentance,<br />And +dread of all foul heresies; his eyes<br />On heaven still set, save +when with searching frown<br />He lours upon the crowd, who round him +cower<br />Like quails beneath the hawk, and gape, and tremble,<br />Now +raised to heaven, now down again to hell.<br />I stood beside and heard; +like any doe’s<br />My heart did rise and fall.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Oh, let us hear him!<br />We too need warning; +shame, if we let pass,<br />Unentertained, God’s angels on their +way.<br />Send for him, brother.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Let a knight go down<br />And say to the holy +man, the Landgrave Lewis<br />With humble greetings prays his blessedness<br />To +make these secular walls the spirit’s temple<br />At least to-night.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Now go, my ladies, both—<br />Prepare fit +lodgings,—let your courtesies<br />Retain in our poor courts the +man of God.</p> +<p>[Exeunt. Lewis and Elizabeth are left alone.]</p> +<p>Now hear me, best beloved:—I have marked this man:<br />And +that which hath scared others, draws me towards him:<br />He has the +graces which I want; his sternness<br />I envy for its strength; his +fiery boldness<br />I call the earnestness which dares not trifle<br />With +life’s huge stake; his coldness but the calm<br />Of one who long +hath found, and keeps unwavering,<br />Clear purpose still; he hath +the gift which speaks<br />The deepest things most simply; in his eye<br />I +dare be happy—weak I dare not be.<br />With such a guide,—to +save this little heart—<br />The burden of self-rule—Oh—half +my work<br />Were eased, and I could live for thee and thine,<br />And +take no thought of self. Oh, be not jealous,<br />Mine own, mine +idol! For thy sake I ask it—<br />I would but be a mate +and help more meet<br />For all thy knightly virtues.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. ’Tis too true!<br />I have felt it long; +we stand, two weakling children,<br />Under too huge a burden, while +temptations<br />Like adders swarm up round: I must be led—<br />But +thou alone shall lead me.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I? beloved!<br />This load more? Strengthen, +Lord, the feeble knees!</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Yes! thou, my queen, who making thyself once +mine,<br />Hast made me sevenfold thine; I own thee guide<br />Of my +devotions, mine ambition’s lodestar,<br />The Saint whose shrine +I serve with lance and lute;<br />If thou wilt have a ruler, let him +be,<br />Through thee, the ruler of thy slave. [Kneels to her.]</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Oh, kneel not—<br />But grant my prayer—If +we shall find this man,<br />As well I know him, worthy, let him be<br />Director +of my conscience and my actions<br />With all but thee—Within +love’s inner shrine<br />We shall be still alone—But joy! +here comes<br />Our embassy, successful.</p> +<p>[Enter Conrad, with Count Walter, Monks, Ladies, etc.]</p> +<p><i>Conrad</i>. Peace to this house.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Hail to your holiness.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. The odour of your sanctity and might,<br />With +balmy steam and gales of Paradise,<br />Forestalls you hither.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Bless us doubly, master,<br />With holy doctrine, +and with holy prayers.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Children, I am the servant of Christ’s servants—<br />And +needs must yield to those who may command<br />By right of creed; I +do accept your bounty—<br />Not for myself, but for that priceless +name,<br />Whose dread authority and due commission,<br />Attested by +the seal of His vicegerent,<br />I bear unworthy here; through my vile +lips<br />Christ and His vicar thank you; on myself—<br />And +these, my brethren, Christ’s adopted poor—<br />A menial’s +crust, and some waste nook, or dog-hutch,<br />Wherein the worthless +flesh may nightly hide,<br />Are best bestowed.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. You shall be where you will—<br />Do what +you will; unquestioned, unobserved,<br />Enjoy, refrain; silence and +solitude,<br />The better part which such like spirits choose,<br />We +will provide; only be you our master,<br />And we your servants, for +a few short days:<br />Oh, blessed days!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Ah, be not hasty, madam;<br />Think whom you welcome; +one who has no skill<br />To wink and speak smooth things; whom fear +of God<br />Constrains to daily wrath; who brings, alas!<br />A sword, +not peace: within whose bones the word<br />Burns like a pent-up fire, +and makes him bold<br />If aught in you or yours shall seem amiss,<br />To +cry aloud and spare not; let me go—<br />To pray for you—as +I have done long time,<br />Is sweeter than to chide you.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Then your prayers<br />Shall drive home your rebukes; +for both we need you—<br />Our snares are many, and our sins are +more.<br />So say not nay—I’ll speak with you apart.</p> +<p>[Elizabeth and Conrad retire.]</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i> [aside]. Well, Walter mine, how like you the good +legate?</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Walter has seen nought of him but his eye;<br />And +that don’t please him.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. How so, sir! that face<br />Is pure and meek—a +calm and thoughtful eye.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. A shallow, stony, steadfast eye; that looks at +neither man nor beast in the face, but at something invisible a yard +before him, through you and past you, at a fascination, a ghost of fixed +purposes that haunts him, from which neither reason nor pity will turn +him. I have seen such an eye in men possessed—with devils, +or with self: sleek, passionless men, who are too refined to be manly, +and measure their grace by their effeminacy; crooked vermin, who swarm +up in pious times, being drowned out of their earthly haunts by the +spring-tide of religion; and so making a gain of godliness, swim upon +the first of the flood, till it cast them ashore on the firm beach of +wealth and station. I always mistrust those wall-eyed saints.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Beware, Sir Count; your keen and worldly wit<br />Is +good for worldly uses, not to tilt<br />Withal at holy men and holy +things.<br />He pleases well the spiritual sense<br />Of my most peerless +lady, whose discernment<br />Is still the touchstone of my grosser fancy:<br />He +is her friend, and mine: and you must love him<br />Even for our sakes +alone, [to a bystander] A word with you, sir.</p> +<p>[In the meantime Elizabeth and Conrad are talking together.]</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I would be taught—</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. It seems you claim some knowledge,<br />By choosing +thus your teacher.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I would know more—</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Go then to the schools—and be no wiser, madam;<br />And +let God’s charge here run to waste, to seek<br />The bitter fruit +of knowledge—hunt the rainbow<br />O’er hill and dale, while +wisdom rusts at home.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I would be holy, master—</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Be so, then.<br />God’s will stands fair: +’tis thine which fails, if any.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I would know how to rule—</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Then must thou learn<br />The needs of subjects, +and be ruled thyself.<br />Sink, if thou longest to rise; become most +small—<br />The strength which comes by weakness makes thee great.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I will.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. What, still at lessons? Come, my fairest +sister,<br />Usher the holy man unto his lodgings. [Exeunt.]</p> +<p><i>Wal</i> [alone]. So, so, the birds are limed:—Heaven +grant that we do not soon see them stowed in separate cages. Well, +here my prophesying ends. I shall go to my lands, and see how +much the gentlemen my neighbours have stolen off them the last week,—Priests? +Frogs in the king’s bedchamber! What says the song?</p> +<p>I once had a hound, a right good hound,<br />A hound both fleet and +strong:<br />He ate at my board, and he slept by my bed,<br />And ran +with me all the day long.<br />But my wife took a priest, a shaveling +priest,<br />And ‘such friendships are carnal,’ quoth he.<br />So +my wife and her priest they drugged the poor beast,<br />And the rat’s +bane is waiting for me.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE III</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The Gateway of a Convent. Night.</p> +<p>Enter Conrad.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. This night she swears obedience to me! Wondrous +Lord!<br />How hast Thou opened a path, where my young dreams<br />May +find fulfilment: there are prophecies<br />Upon her, make me bold. +Why comes she not?<br />She should be here by now. Strange, how +I shrink—<br />I, who ne’er yet felt fear of man or fiend.<br />Obedience +to my will! An awful charge!<br />But yet, to have the training +of her sainthood;<br />To watch her rise above this wild world’s +waves<br />Like floating water-lily, towards heaven’s light<br />Opening +its virgin snows, with golden eye<br />Mirroring the golden sun; to +be her champion,<br />And war with fiends for her; that were a ‘quest’;<br />That +were true chivalry; to bring my Judge<br />This jewel for His crown; +this noble soul,<br />Worth thousand prudish clods of barren clay,<br />Who +mope for heaven because earth’s grapes are sour—<br />Her, +full of youth, flushed with the heart’s rich first-fruits,<br />Tangled +in earthly pomp—and earthly love.<br />Wife? Saint by her +face she should be: with such looks<br />The queen of heaven, perchance, +slow pacing came<br />Adown our sleeping wards, when Dominic<br />Sank +fainting, drunk with beauty:—she is most fair!<br />Pooh! +I know nought of fairness—this I know,<br />She calls herself +my slave, with such an air<br />As speaks her queen, not slave; that +shall be looked to—<br />She must be pinioned or she will range +abroad<br />Upon too bold a wing; ’t will cost her pain—<br />But +what of that? there are worse things than pain—<br />What! not +yet here? I’ll in, and there await her<br />In prayer before +the altar: I have need on’t:<br />And shall have more before this +harvest’s ripe.</p> +<p>[As Conrad goes out, Elizabeth, Isentrudis, and Guta enter.]</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I saw him just before us: let us onward;<br />We +must not seem to loiter.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Then you promise<br />Exact obedience to his sole +direction<br />Henceforth in every scruple?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. In all I can,<br />And be a wife.</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. Is it not a double bondage?<br />A husband’s +will is clog enough. Be sure,<br />Though free, I crave more freedom.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. So do I—<br />This servitude shall free +me—from myself.<br />Therefore I’ll swear.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. To what?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I know not wholly:<br />But this I know, that +I shall swear to-night<br />To yield my will unto a wiser will;<br />To +see God’s truth through eyes which, like the eagle’s,<br />From +higher Alps undazzled eye the sun.<br />Compelled to discipline from +which my sloth<br />Would shrink, unbidden,—to deep devious paths<br />Which +my dull sight would miss, I now can plunge,<br />And dare life’s +eddies fearless.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. You will repent it.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I do repent, even now. Therefore I’ll +swear.<br />And bind myself to that, which once being light,<br />Will +not be less right, when I shrink from it.<br />No; if the end be gained—if +I be raised<br />To freer, nobler use, I’ll dare, I’ll welcome<br />Him +and his means, though they were racks and flames.<br />Come, ladies, +let us in, and to the chapel. [Exeunt.]</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE IV</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>A Chamber. Guta, Isentrudis, and a Lady.</p> +<p><i>Lady</i>. Doubtless she is most holy—but for wisdom—<br />Say +if ’tis wise to spurn all rules, all censures,<br />And mountebank +it in the public ways<br />Till she becomes a jest?</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. How’s this?</p> +<p><i>Lady</i>. For one thing—<br />Yestreen I passed her +in the open street,<br />Following the vocal line of chanting priests,<br />Clad +in rough serge, and with her soft bare feet<br />Wooing the ruthless +flints; the gaping crowd<br />Unknowing whom they held, did thrust and +jostle<br />Her tender limbs; she saw me as she passed—<br />And +blushed and veiled her face, and smiled withal.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Oh, think, she’s not seventeen yet.</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. Why expect<br />Wisdom with love in all? +Each has his gift—<br />Our souls are organ pipes of diverse stop<br />And +various pitch; each with its proper notes<br />Thrilling beneath the +self-same breath of God.<br />Though poor alone, yet joined, they’re +harmony.<br />Besides these higher spirits must not bend<br />To common +methods; in their inner world<br />They move by broader laws, at whose +expression<br />We must adore, not cavil: here she comes—<br />The +ministering Saint, fresh from the poor of Christ.</p> +<p>[Elizabeth enters without cloak or shoes, carrying an empty basket.]</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. What’s here, my Princess? Guta, fetch +her robes!<br />Rest, rest, my child!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i> [throwing herself on a seat] Oh! I have seen +such things!<br />I shudder still; your gay looks dazzle me;<br />As +those who long in hideous darkness pent<br />Blink at the daily light; +this room’s too bright!<br />We sit in a cloud, and sing, like +pictured angels,<br />And say, the world runs smooth—while right +below<br />Welters the black fermenting heap of life<br />On which our +state is built: I saw this day<br />What we might be, and still be Christian +women:<br />And mothers too—I saw one, laid in childbed<br />These +three cold weeks upon the black damp straw;<br />No nurses, cordials, +or that nice parade<br />With which we try to balk the curse of Eve—<br />And +yet she laughed, and showed her buxom boy,<br />And said, Another week, +so please the Saints,<br />She’d be at work a-field. Look +here—and here—</p> +<p>[Pointing round the room.]</p> +<p>I saw no such things there; and yet they lived.<br />Our wanton accidents +take root, and grow<br />To vaunt themselves God’s laws, until +our clothes,<br />Our gems, and gaudy books, and cushioned litters<br />Become +ourselves, and we would fain forget<br />There live who need them not. +[Guta offers to robe her.]<br />Let be, beloved—<br />I will taste +somewhat this same poverty—<br />Try these temptations, grudges, +gnawing shames,<br />For which ’tis blamed; how probe an unfelt +evil?<br />Would’st be the poor man’s friend? Must +freeze with him—<br />Test sleepless hunger—let thy crippled +back<br />Ache o’er the endless furrow; how was He,<br />The blessed +One, made perfect? Why, by grief—<br />The fellowship of +voluntary grief—<br />He read the tear-stained book of poor men’s +souls,<br />As I must learn to read it. Lady! lady!<br />Wear +but one robe the less—forego one meal—<br />And thou shalt +taste the core of many tales<br />Which now flit past thee, like a minstrel’s +songs,<br />The sweeter for their sadness.</p> +<p><i>Lady</i>. Heavenly wisdom!<br />Forgive me!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. How? What wrong is mine, fair dame?</p> +<p><i>Lady</i>. I thought you, to my shame—less wise than +holy.<br />But you have conquered: I will test these sorrows<br />On +mine own person; I have toyed too long<br />In painted pinnace down +the stream of life,<br />Witched with the landscape, while the weary +rowers<br />Faint at the groaning oar: I’ll be thy pupil.<br />Farewell. +Heaven bless thy labours and thy lesson.</p> +<p>[Exit.]</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. We are alone. Now tell me, dearest lady,<br />How +came you in this plight?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Oh! chide not, nurse—<br />My heart is full—and +yet I went not far—<br />Even here, close by, where my own bower +looks down<br />Upon that unknown sea of wavy roofs,<br />I turned into +an alley ’neath the wall—<br />And stepped from earth to +hell.—The light of heaven,<br />The common air, was narrow, gross, +and dun;<br />The tiles did drop from the eaves; the unhinged doors<br />Tottered +o’er inky pools, where reeked and curdled<br />The offal of a +life; the gaunt-haunched swine<br />Growled at their christened playmates +o’er the scraps.<br />Shrill mothers cursed; wan children wailed; +sharp coughs<br />Rang through the crazy chambers; hungry eyes<br />Glared +dumb reproach, and old perplexity,<br />Too stale for words; o’er +still and webless looms<br />The listless craftsmen through their elf-locks +scowled;<br />These were my people! all I had, I gave—<br />They +snatched it thankless (was it not their own?<br />Wrung from their veins, +returning all too late?);<br />Or in the new delight of rare possession,<br />Forgot +the giver; one did sit apart,<br />And shivered on a stone; beneath +her rags<br />Nestled two impish, fleshless, leering boys,<br />Grown +old before their youth; they cried for bread—<br />She chid them +down, and hid her face and wept;<br />I had given all—I took my +cloak, my shoes<br />(What could I else? ’Twas but a moment’s +want<br />Which she had borne, and borne, day after day),<br />And clothed +her bare gaunt arms and purpled feet,<br />Then slunk ashamed away to +wealth and honour.</p> +<p>[Conrad enters.]</p> +<p>What! Conrad? unannounced! This is too bold!<br />Peace! +I have lent myself—and I must take<br />The usury of that loan: +your pleasure, master?</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Madam, but yesterday, I bade your presence,<br />To +hear the preached word of God; I preached—<br />And yet you came +not.—Where is now your oath?<br />Where is the right to bid, you +gave to me?<br />Am I your ghostly guide? I asked it not.<br />Of +your own will you tendered that, which, given,<br />Became not choice, +but duty.—What is here?<br />Think not that alms, or lowly-seeming +garments,<br />Self-willed humilities, pride’s decent mummers,<br />Can +raise above obedience; she from God<br />Her sanction draws, while these +we forge ourselves,<br />Mere tools to clear her necessary path.<br />Go +free—thou art no slave: God doth not own<br />Unwilling service, +and His ministers<br />Must lure, not drag in leash; henceforth I leave +thee:<br />Riot in thy self-willed fancies; pick thy steps<br />By thine +own will-o’-the-wisp toward the pit;<br />Farewell, proud girl. +[Exit Conrad.]</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. O God! What have I done?<br />I have cast +off the clue of this world’s maze,<br />And, like an idiot, let +my boat adrift<br />Above the waterfall!—I had no message—<br />How’s +this?</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. We passed it by, as matter of no moment<br />Upon +the sudden coming of your guests.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. No moment! ’Tis enough to have driven +him forth—<br />And that’s enough to damn me: I’ll +not chide you—<br />I can see nothing but my loss; I’ll +to him—<br />I’ll go in sackcloth, bathe his feet with tears—<br />And +know nor sleep nor food till I am forgiven—<br />And you must +with me, ladies. Come and find him.</p> +<p>[Exeunt.]</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE V</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>A Hall in the Castle. In the background a Group of diseased +and deformed Beggars; Conrad entering, Elizabeth comes forward to meet +him.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. What dost thou, daughter?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Ah, my honoured master!<br />That name speaks +pardon, sure.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. What dost thou, daughter?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I have been washing these poor people’s +feet.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. A wise humiliation.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. So I meant it—<br />And use it as a penance +for my pride;<br />And yet, alas, through my own vulgar likings<br />Or +stubborn self-conceit, ’tis none to me.<br />I marvel how the +Saints thus tamed their spirits:<br />Sure to be humbled by such toil, +but proves,<br />Not cures, our lofty mind.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Thou speakest well—<br />The knave who serves +unto another’s needs<br />Knows himself abler than the man who +needs him;<br />And she who stoops, will not forget, that stooping<br />Implies +a height to stoop from.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Could I see<br />My Saviour in His poor!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Thou shall hereafter:<br />But now to wash Christ’s +feet were dangerous honour<br />For weakling grace; would you be humble, +daughter,<br />You must look up, not down, and see yourself<br />A paltry +atom, sap-transmitting vein<br />Of Christ’s vast vine; the pettiest +joint and member<br />Of His great body; own no strength, no will,<br />Save +that which from the ruling head’s command<br />Through me, as +nerve, derives; let thyself die—<br />And dying, rise again to +fuller life.<br />To be a whole is to be small and weak—<br />To +be a part is to be great and mighty<br />In the one spirit of the mighty +whole—<br />The spirit of the martyrs and the saints—<br />The +spirit of the queen, on whose towered neck<br />We hang, blest ringlets!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Why! thine eyes flash fire!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. But hush! such words are not for courts and halls—<br />Alone +with God and me, thou shalt hear more.</p> +<p>[Exit Conrad.]</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. As when rich chanting ceases suddenly—<br />And +the rapt sense collapses!—Oh that Lewis<br />Could feed my soul +thus! But to work—to work—<br />What wilt thou, little +maid? Ah, I forgot thee—<br />Thy mother lies in childbed—Say, +in time<br />I’ll bring the baby to the font myself.<br />It knits +them unto me, and me to them,<br />That bond of sponsorship—How +now, good dame—<br />Whence then so sad?</p> +<p><i>Woman</i>. An’t please your nobleness,<br />My neighbour +Gretl is with her husband laid<br />In burning fever.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I will come to them.</p> +<p><i>Woman</i>. Alack, the place is foul for such as you;<br />And +fear of plague has cleared the lane of lodgers;<br />If you could send—</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. What? where I am afraid<br />To go myself, send +others? That’s strange doctrine.<br />I’ll be with +you anon. [Goes up into the Hall.]</p> +<p>[Isentrudis enters with a basket.]</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Why, here’s a weight—these cordials +now, and simples,<br />Want a stout page to bear them: yet her fancy<br />Is +still to go alone, to help herself.—<br />Where will ’t +all end? In madness, or the grave?<br />No limbs can stand these +drudgeries: no spirit<br />The fretting harrow which this ruffian priest<br />Calls +education—<br />Ah! here comes our Count.</p> +<p>[Count Walter enters as from a journey.]</p> +<p>Too late, sir, and too seldom—Where have you been<br />These +four months past, while we are sold for bond-slaves<br />Unto a peevish +friar?</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Why, my fair rosebud—<br />A trifle overblown, +but not less sweet—<br />I have been pining for you, till my hair<br />Is +as gray as any badger’s.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. I’ll not jest.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. What? has my wall-eyed Saint shown you his temper?</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. The first of his peevish fancies was, that she +should eat nothing which was not honestly and peaceably come by.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Why, I heard that you too had joined that sect.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. And more fool I. But ladies are bound to +set an example—while they are not bound to ask where everything +comes from: with her, poor child, scruples and starvation were her daily +diet; meal after meal she rose from table empty, unless the Landgrave +nodded and winked her to some lawful eatable; till she that used to +take her food like an angel, without knowing it, was thinking from morning +to night whether she might eat this, that, or the other.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Poor Eves! if the world leaves you innocent, the +Church will not. Between the devil and the director, you are sure +to get your share of the apples of knowledge.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. True enough. She complained to Conrad of +her scruples, and he told her, that by the law was the knowledge of +sin.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. But what said Lewis?</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. As much bewitched as she, sir. He has told +her, and more than her, that were it not for the laughter and ill-will +of his barons, he would join her in the same abstinence. But all +this is child’s play to the friar’s last outbreak.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Ah! the sermon which you all forgot, when the Marchioness +of Misnia came suddenly? I heard that war had been proclaimed +on that score; but what terms of peace were concluded?</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Terms of peace! Do you call it peace to +be delivered over to his nuns’ tender mercies, myself and Guta, +as well as our lady,—as if we had been bond-slaves and blackamoors?</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. You need not have submitted.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. What! could I bear to see my poor child wandering +up and down, wringing her hands like a mad woman—I who have lived +for no one else this sixteen years? Guta talked sentiment—called +it a glorious cross, and so forth.—I took it as it came.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. And got no quarter, I’ll warrant.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Don’t talk of it—my poor back tingles +at the thought.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. The sweet Saints think every woman of the world +no better than she should be; and without meaning to be envious, owe +you all a grudge for past flirtations. As I am a knight, now it’s +over, I like you all the better for it.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. What?</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. When I see a woman who will stand by her word, +and two who will stand by their mistress. And the monk, too—there’s +mettle in him. I took him for a canting carpet-haunter; but be +sure, the man who will bully his own patrons has an honest purpose in +him, though it bears strange fruit on this wicked hither-side of the +grave. Now, my fair nymph of the birchen-tree, use your interest +to find me supper and lodging; for your elegant squires of the trencher +look surly on me here: I am the prophet who has no honour in his own +country. [Exeunt.]</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE VI</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Dawn. A rocky path leading to a mountain Chapel. A Peasant +sitting on a stone with dog and cross-bow.</p> +<p>Peasant [singing].</p> +<p>Over the wild moor, in reddest dawn of morning,<br />Gaily the huntsman +down green droves must roam:<br />Over the wild moor, in grayest wane +of evening,<br />Weary the huntsman comes wandering home;<br />Home, +home,<br />If he has one. Who comes here?</p> +<p>[A Woodcutter enters with a laden ass.]</p> +<p>What art going about?</p> +<p><i>Woodcutter</i>. To warm other folks’ backs.</p> +<p><i>Peas</i>. Thou art in the common lot—Jack earns and +Gill spends—therein lies the true division of labour. What’s +thy name?</p> +<p><i>Woodc</i>. Be’est a keeper, man, or a charmer, that +dost so catechise me?</p> +<p><i>Peas</i>. Both—I am a keeper, for I keep all I catch; +and a charmer, for I drive bad spirits out of honest men’s turnips.</p> +<p><i>Woodc</i>. Mary sain us, what be they like?</p> +<p><i>Peas</i>. Four-legged kitchens of leather, cooking farmers’ +crops into butcher’s meat by night, without leave or licence.</p> +<p><i>Woodc</i>. By token, thou’rt a deer-stealer?</p> +<p><i>Peas</i>. Stealer, quoth he? I have dominion. +I do what I like with mine own.</p> +<p><i>Woodc</i>. Thine own?</p> +<p><i>Peas</i>. Yea, marry—for, saith the priest, man has +dominion over the beast of the field and the fowl of the air: so I, +being as I am a man, as men go, have dominion over the deer in my trade, +as you have in yours over sleep-mice and woodpeckers.</p> +<p><i>Woodc</i>. Then every man has a right to be a poacher.</p> +<p><i>Peas</i>. Every man has his gift, and the tools go to him +that can use them. Some are born workmen; some have souls above +work. I’m one of that metal. I was meant to own land, +and do nothing; but the angel that deals out babies’ souls, mistook +the cradles, and spoilt a gallant gentleman! Well—I forgive +him! there were many born the same night—and work wears the wits.</p> +<p><i>Woodc</i>. I had sooner draw in a yoke than hunt in a halter.<br />Hadst +best repent and mend thy ways.</p> +<p><i>Peas</i>. The way-warden may do that: I wear out no ways, +I go across country. Mend! saith he? Why I can but starve +at worst, or groan with the rheumatism, which you do already. +And who would reek and wallow o’ nights in the same straw, like +a stalled cow, when he may have his choice of all the clean holly bushes +in the forest? Who would grub out his life in the same croft, +when he has free-warren of all fields between this and Rhine? +Not I. I have dirtied my share of spades myself; but I slipped +my leash and went self-hunting.</p> +<p><i>Woodc</i>. But what if thou be caught and brought up before +the Prince?</p> +<p><i>Peas</i>. He don’t care for game. He has put +down his kennel, and keeps a tame saint instead: and when I am driven +in, I shall ask my pardon of her in St. John’s name. They +say that for his sake she’ll give away the shoes off her feet.</p> +<p><i>Woodc</i>. I would not stand in your shoes for all the top +and lop in the forest. Murder! Here comes a ghost! +Run up the bank—shove the jackass into the ditch.</p> +<p>[A white figure comes up the path with lights.]</p> +<p><i>Peas</i>. A ghost or a watchman, and one’s as bad +as the other—so we may take to cover for the time.</p> +<p>[Elizabeth enters, meanly clad, carrying her new-born infant; Isentrudis +following with a taper and gold pieces on a salver. Elizabeth +passes, singing.]</p> +<p>Deep in the warm vale the village is sleeping,<br />Sleeping the +firs on the bleak rock above;<br />Nought wakes, save grateful hearts, +silently creeping<br />Up to the Lord in the might of their love.</p> +<p>What Thou hast given to me, Lord, here I bring Thee,<br />Odour, +and light, and the magic of gold;<br />Feet which must follow Thee, +lips which must sing Thee,<br />Limbs which must ache for Thee ere they +grow old.</p> +<p>What Thou hast given to me, Lord, here I tender,<br />Life of mine +own life, the fruit of my love;<br />Take him, yet leave him me, till +I shall render<br />Count of the precious charge, kneeling above.</p> +<p>[They pass up the path. The Peasants come out.]</p> +<p><i>Peas</i>. No ghost, but a mighty pretty wench, with a mighty +sweet voice.</p> +<p><i>Woodc</i>. Wench, indeed? Where be thy manners? +’Tis her Ladyship—the Princess.</p> +<p><i>Peas</i>. The Princess! Ay, I thought those little +white feet were but lately out of broadcloth—still, I say, a mighty +sweet voice—I wish she had not sung so sweetly—it makes +things to arise in a body’s head, does that singing: a wonderful +handsome lady! a royal lady!</p> +<p><i>Woodc</i>. But a most unwise one. Did ye mind the +gold? If I had such a trencherful, it should sleep warm in a stocking, +instead of being made a brother to owls here, for every rogue to snatch +at.</p> +<p><i>Peas</i>. Why, then? who dare harm such as her, man?</p> +<p><i>Woodc</i>. Nay, nay, none of us, we are poor folks, we fear +God and the king. But if she had met a gentleman now—heaven +help her! Ah! thou hast lost a chance—thou might’st +have run out promiscuously, and down on thy knees, and begged thy pardon +for the newcomer’s sake. There was a chance, indeed.</p> +<p><i>Peas</i>. Pooh, man, I have done nothing but lose chances +all my days. I fell into the fire the day I was christened, and +ever since I am like a fresh-trimmed fir-tree; every foul feather sticks +to me.</p> +<p><i>Woodc</i>. Go, shrive thyself, and the priest will scrub +off thy turpentine with a new haircloth; and now, good-day, the maids +are a-waiting for their firewood.</p> +<p><i>Peas</i>. A word before you go—Take warning by me—avoid +that same serpent, wisdom—Pray to the Saints to make you a blockhead—Never +send your boys to school—For Heaven knows, a poor man that will +live honest, and die in his bed, ought to have no more scholarship than +a parson, and no more brains than your jackass.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE VII</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The Gateway of a Castle. Elizabeth and her suite standing at +the top of a flight of steps. Mob below.</p> +<p><i>Peas</i>. Bread! Bread! Bread! give us bread; +we perish.</p> +<p><i>1st</i> <i>Voice</i>. Ay, give, give, give! God knows, +we’re long past earning.</p> +<p><i>2d</i> <i>Voice</i>. Our skeleton children lie along in +the roads—</p> +<p><i>3d</i> <i>Voice</i>. Our sheep drop dead about the frozen +leas—</p> +<p><i>4th</i> <i>Voice</i>. Our harness and our shoes are boiled +for food—</p> +<p><i>Old</i> <i>Man’s</i> <i>Voice</i>. Starved, withered, +autumn hay that thanks the scythe!<br />Send out your swordsmen, mow +the dry bents down,<br />And make this long death short—we’ll +never struggle.</p> +<p><i>All</i>. Bread! Bread!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Ay, bread—Where is it, knights and servants?<br />Why +butler, seneschal, this food forthcomes not!</p> +<p><i>Butler</i>. Alas, we’ve eaten all ourselves: heaven +knows<br />The pages broke the buttery hatches down—<br />The +boys were starved almost.</p> +<p><i>Voice</i> <i>below</i>. Ay, she can find enough to feast +her minions.</p> +<p><i>Woman’s</i> <i>Voice</i>. How can she know what ’tis, +for months and months<br />To stoop and straddle in the clogging fallows,<br />Bearing +about a living babe within you?<br />And then at night to fat yourself +and it<br />On fir-bark, madam, and water.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. My good dame—<br />That which you bear, +I bear: for food, God knows,<br />I have not tasted food this live-long +day—<br />Nor will till you are served. I sent for wheat<br />From +Köln and from the Rhine-land, days ago:<br />O God! why comes it +not?</p> +<p>[Enter from below, Count Walter, with a Merchant.]</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Stand back; you’ll choke me, rascals:<br />Archers, +bring up those mules. Here comes the corn—<br />Here comes +your guardian angel, plenty-laden,<br />With no white wings, but good +white wheat, my boys,<br />Quarters on quarters—if you’ll +pay for it.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Oh! give him all he asks.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. The scoundrel wants<br />Three times its value.</p> +<p><i>Merchant</i>. Not a penny less—<br />I bought it on +speculation—I must live—<br />I get my bread by buying corn +that’s cheap,<br />And selling where ’tis dearest. +Mass, you need it,<br />And you must pay according to your need.</p> +<p><i>Mob</i>. Hang him! hang all regraters—hang the forestalling +dog!</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Driver, lend here the halter off that mule.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Nay, Count; the corn is his, and his the right<br />To +fix conditions for his own.</p> +<p><i>Mer</i>. Well spoken!<br />A wise and royal lady! +She will see<br />The trade protected. Why, I kept the corn<br />Three +months on venture. Now, so help me Saints,<br />I am a loser by +it, quite a loser—<br />So help me Saints, I am.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. You will not sell it<br />Save at a price which, +by the bill you tender,<br />Is far beyond our means. Heaven knows, +I grudge not—<br />I have sold my plate, have pawned my robes +and jewels.<br />Mortgaged broad lands and castles to buy food—<br />And +now I have no more.—Abate, or trust<br />Our honour for the difference.</p> +<p><i>Mer</i>. Not a penny—<br />I trust no nobles. +I must make my profit—<br />I’ll have my price, or take +it back again.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Most miserable, cold, short-sighted man,<br />Who +for thy selfish gains dost welcome make<br />God’s wrath, and +battenest on thy fellows’ woes,<br />What? wilt thou turn from +heaven’s gate, open to thee,<br />Through which thy charity may +passport be,<br />And win thy long greed’s pardon? Oh, for +once<br />Dare to be great; show mercy to thyself!<br />See how that +boiling sea of human heads<br />Waits open-mouthed to bless thee: speak +the word,<br />And their triumphant quire of jubilation<br />Shall pierce +God’s cloudy floor with praise and prayers,<br />And drown the +accuser’s count in angels’ ears.</p> +<p>[In the meantime Walter, etc., have been throwing down the wheat +to the mob.]</p> +<p><i>Mob</i>. God bless the good Count!—Bless the holy +Princess—<br />Hurrah for wheat—Hurrah for one full stomach.</p> +<p><i>Mer</i>. Ah! that’s my wheat! treason, my wheat, my +money!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Where is the wretch’s wheat?</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Below, my lady;<br />We counted on the charm of +your sweet words,<br />And so did for him what, your sermon ended,<br />He +would have done himself.</p> +<p><i>Knight</i>. ’Twere rude to doubt it.</p> +<p><i>Mer</i>. Ye rascal barons!<br />What! Are we burghers +monkeys for your pastime?<br />We’ll clear the odds. [Seizes +Walter.]</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Soft, friend—a worm will turn.</p> +<p><i>Voices</i> <i>below</i>. Throw him down.</p> +<p><i>Wal</i>. Dost hear that, friend?<br />Those pups are keen-toothed; +they have eat of late<br />Worse bacon to their bread than thee. +Come, come,<br />Put up thy knife; we’ll give thee market-price—<br />And +if thou must have more—why, take it out<br />In board and lodging +in the castle dungeon.</p> +<p>[Walter leads him out; the Mob, etc., disperse.]</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Now then—there’s many a one lies faint +at home—<br />I’ll go to them myself.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. What now? start forth<br />In this most bitter +frost, so thinly clad?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Tut, tut, I wear my working dress to-day,<br />And +those who work, robe lightly—</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Nay, my child,<br />For once keep up your rank.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Then I had best<br />Roll to their door in lacqueyed +equipage,<br />And dole my halfpence from my satin purse—<br />I +am their sister—I must look like one.<br />I am their queen—I’ll +prove myself the greatest<br />By being the minister of all. So +come—<br />Now to my pastime, [aside] And in happy toil<br />Forget +this whirl of doubt—We are weak, we are weak,<br />Only when still: +put thou thine hand to the plough,<br />The spirit drives thee on.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. You live too fast!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Too fast? We live too slow—our gummy +blood<br />Without fresh purging airs from heaven, would choke<br />Slower +and slower, till it stopped and froze.<br />God! fight we not within +a cursed world,<br />Whose very air teems thick with leagued fiends—<br />Each +word we speak has infinite effects—<br />Each soul we pass must +go to heaven or hell—<br />And this our one chance through eternity<br />To +drop and die, like dead leaves in the brake,<br />Or like the meteor +stone, though whelmed itself,<br />Kindle the dry moors into fruitful +blaze—<br />And yet we live too fast!<br />Be earnest, earnest, +earnest; mad, if thou wilt:<br />Do what thou dost as if the stake were +heaven,<br />And that thy last deed ere the judgment-day.<br />When +all’s done, nothing’s done. There’s rest above—<br />Below +let work be death, if work be love! [Exeunt.]</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE VIII</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>A Chamber in the Castle. Counts Walter, Hugo, etc., Abbot, +and Knights.</p> +<p><i>Count</i> <i>Hugo</i>. I can’t forget it, as I am +a Christian man. To ask for a stoup of beer at breakfast, and +be told there was no beer allowed in the house—her Ladyship had +given all the malt to the poor.</p> +<p><i>Abbot</i>. To give away the staff of life, eh?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Hugo</i>. The life itself, Sir, the life itself. +All that barley, that would have warmed many an honest fellow’s +coppers, wasted in filthy cakes.</p> +<p><i>Abbot</i>. The parent of seraphic ale degraded into plebeian +dough! Indeed, Sir, we have no right to lessen wantonly the amount +of human enjoyment!</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i>. In heaven’s name, what would you +have her do, while the people were eating grass?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Hugo</i>. Nobody asked them to eat it; nobody +asked them to be there to eat it; if they will breed like rabbits, let +them feed like rabbits, say I—I never married till I could keep +a wife.</p> +<p><i>Abbot</i>. Ah, Count Walter! How sad to see a man +of your sense so led away by his feelings! Had but this dispensation +been left to work itself out, and evolve the blessing implicit in all +heaven’s chastenings! Had but the stern benevolences of +providence remained undisturbed by her ladyship’s carnal tenderness—what +a boon had this famine been!</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i>. How then, man?</p> +<p><i>Abbot</i>. How many a poor soul would be lying—Ah, +blessed thought!—in Abraham’s bosom; who must now toil on +still in this vale of tears!—Pardon this pathetic dew—I +cannot but feel as a Churchman.</p> +<p><i>3d</i> <i>Count</i>. Look at it in this way, Sir. +There are too many of us—too many—Where you have one job +you have three workmen. Why, I threw three hundred acres into +pasture myself this year—it saves money, and risk, and trouble, +and tithes.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i>. What would you say to the Princess, who +talks of breaking up all her parks to wheat next year?</p> +<p><i>3d</i> <i>Count</i>. Ask her to take on the thirty families, +who were just going to tramp off those three hundred acres into the +Rhine-land, if she had not kept them in both senses this winter, and +left them on my hands—once beggars, always beggars.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Hugo</i>. Well, I’m a practical man, and +I say, the sharper the famine, the higher are prices, and the higher +I sell, the more I can spend; so the money circulates, Sir, that’s +the word—like water—sure to run downwards again; and so +it’s as broad as it’s long; and here’s a health—if +there was any beer—to the farmers’ friends, ‘A bloody +war and a wet harvest.’</p> +<p><i>Abbot</i>. Strongly put, though correctly. For the +self-interest of each it is which produces in the aggregate the happy +equilibrium of all.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i>. Well—the world is right well made, +that’s certain; and He who made the Jews’ sin our salvation +may bring plenty out of famine, and comfort out of covetousness. +But look you, Sirs, private selfishness may be public weal, and yet +private selfishness be just as surely damned, for all that.</p> +<p><i>3d</i> <i>Count</i>. I hold, Sir, that every alms is a fresh +badge of slavery.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i>. I don’t deny it.</p> +<p><i>3d</i> <i>Count</i>. Then teach them independence.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i>. How? By tempting them to turn thieves, +when begging fails? By keeping their stomachs just at desperation-point? +By starving them out here, to march off, starving all the way, to some +town, in search of employment, of which, if they find it, they know +no more than my horse? Likely! No, Sir, to make men of them, +put them not out of the reach, but out of the need, of charity.</p> +<p><i>3d</i> <i>Count</i>. And how, prithee? By teaching +them, like our fair Landgravine, to open their mouth for all that drops? +Thuringia is become a kennel of beggars in her hands.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i>. In hers? In ours, Sir!</p> +<p><i>Abbot</i>. Idleness, Sir, deceit, and immorality, are the +three children of this same barbarous self-indulgence in almsgiving. +Leave the poor alone. Let want teach them the need of self-exertion, +and misery prove the foolishness of crime.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i>. How? Teach them to become men by +leaving them brutes?</p> +<p><i>Abbot</i>. Oh, Sir, there we step in, with the consolations +and instructions of the faith.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i>. Ay, but while the grass is growing the +steed is starving; and in the meantime, how will the callow chick Grace +stand against the tough old game-cock Hunger?</p> +<p><i>3d</i> <i>Count</i>. Then how, in the name of patience, +would you have us alter things?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i>. We cannot alter them, Sir—but they +will be altered, never fear.</p> +<p><i>Omnes</i>. How? How?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i>. Do you see this hour-glass?—Here’s +the state:<br />This air stands for the idlers;—this sand for +the workers.<br />When all the sand has run to the bottom, God in heaven +just turns the hour-glass, and then—</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Hugo</i>. The world’s upside down.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i>. And the Lord have mercy upon us!</p> +<p><i>Omnes</i>. On us? Do you call us the idlers?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i>. Some dare to do so—But fear not—In +the fulness of time, all that’s lightest is sure to come to the +top again.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Hugo</i>. But what rascal calls us idlers?</p> +<p><i>Omnes</i>. Name, name.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i>. Why, if you ask me—I heard +a shrewd sermon the other day on that same idleness and immorality text +of the Abbot’s.—’Twas Conrad, the Princess’s +director, preached it. And a fashionable cap it is, though it +will fit more than will like to wear it. Shall I give it you? +Shall I preach?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Hugo</i>. A tub for Varila! Stand on the +table, now, toss back thy hood like any Franciscan, and preach away.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i>. Idleness, quoth he [Conrad, mind you],—idleness +and immorality? Where have they learnt them, but from your nobles? +There was a saucy monk for you. But there’s worse coming. +Religion? said he, how can they respect it, when they see you, ‘their +betters,’ fattening on church lands, neglecting sacraments, defying +excommunications, trading in benefices, hiring the clergy for your puppets +and flatterers, making the ministry, the episcopate itself, a lumber-room +wherein to stow away the idiots and spendthrifts of your families, the +confidants of your mistresses, the cast-off pedagogues of your boys?</p> +<p><i>Omnes</i>. The scoundrel!</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i>. Was he not?—But hear again—Immorality? +roars he; and who has corrupted them but you? Have you not made +every castle a weed-bed, from which the newest corruptions of the Court +stick like thistle-down, about the empty heads of stable-boys and serving +maids? Have you not kept the poor worse housed than your dogs +and your horses, worse fed than your pigs and your sheep? Is there +an ancient house among you, again, of which village gossips do not whisper +some dark story of lust and oppression, of decrepit debauchery, of hereditary +doom?</p> +<p><i>Omnes</i>. We’ll hang this monk.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i>. Hear me out, and you’ll burn him. +His sermon was like a hailstorm, the tail of the shower the sharpest. +Idleness? he asked next of us all: how will they work, when they see +you landlords sitting idle above them, in a fool’s paradise of +luxury and riot, never looking down but to squeeze from them an extra +drop of honey—like sheep-boys stuffing themselves with blackberries +while the sheep are licking up flukes in every ditch? And now +you wish to leave the poor man in the slough, whither your neglect and +your example have betrayed him, and made his too apt scholarship the +excuse for your own remorseless greed! As a Christian, I am ashamed +of you all; as a Churchman, doubly ashamed of those prelates, hired +stalking-horses of the rich, who would fain gloss over their own sloth +and cowardice with the wisdom which cometh not from above, but is earthly, +sensual, devilish; aping the artless cant of an aristocracy who made +them—use them—and despise them. That was his sermon.</p> +<p><i>Abbot</i>. Paul and Barnabas! What an outpouring of +the spirit!—Were not his hoodship the Pope’s legate, now—accidents +might happen to him, going home at night; eh, Sir Hugo?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Hugo</i>. If he would but come my way!<br />For +‘the mule it was slow, and the lane it was dark,<br />When out +of the copse leapt a gallant young spark.<br />Says, ’Tis not +for nought you’ve been begging all day:<br />So remember your +toll, since you travel our way.’</p> +<p><i>Abbot</i>. Hush! Here comes the Landgrave.</p> +<p>[Lewis enters.]</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Good morrow, gentles. Why so warm, Count +Walter?<br />Your blessing, Father Abbot: what deep matters<br />Have +called our worships to this conference?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Hugo</i> [aside]. Up, Count; you are spokesman.</p> +<p><i>3d</i> <i>Count</i>. Exalted Prince,<br />Whose peerless +knighthood, like the remeant sun,<br />After too long a night, regilds +our clay,<br />Late silvered by the reflex lunar beams<br />Of your +celestial lady’s matron graces—</p> +<p><i>Abbot</i> [aside]. Ut vinum optimum amati mei<br />Dulciter +descendens!</p> +<p><i>3</i> <i>Count</i>. Think not we mean to praise or disapprove—<br />The +acts of saintly souls must only plead<br />In foro conscientiæ: +grosser minds,<br />Whose humbler aim is but the public weal,<br />Know +of no mesh which holds them: yet, great Prince,<br />Some dare not see +their sovereign’s strength postponed<br />To private grace, and +sigh, that generous hearts,<br />And ladies’ tenderness, too oft +forgetting<br />That wisdom is the highest charity,<br />Will interfere, +in pardonable haste,<br />With heaven’s stern providence.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. We see your drift.<br />Go, sirrah [to a Page]; +pray the Princess to illumine<br />Our conclave with her beauties. +’Tis our manner<br />To hear no cause, of gentle or of simple,<br />Unless +the accused and the accuser both<br />Meet face to face.</p> +<p><i>3d</i> <i>Count</i>. Excuse, high-mightiness,—<br />We +bring no accusation; facts, your Highness,<br />Wait for your sentence, +not our præjudicium.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Give us the facts, then, Sir; in the lady’s +presence,<br />Her nearness to ourselves—perchance her reasons—<br />May +make them somewhat dazzling.</p> +<p><i>Abbot</i>. Nay, my Lord;<br />I, as a Churchman, though +with these your nobles<br />Both in commission and opinion one,<br />Am +yet most loth, my Lord, to set my seal<br />To aught which this harsh +world might call complaint<br />Against a princely saint—a chosen +vessel—<br />An argosy celestial—in whom error<br />Is but +the young luxuriance of her grace.<br />The Count of Varila, as bound +to neither,<br />For both shall speak, and all which late has passed<br />Upon +the matter of this famine open.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i>. Why, if I must speak out—then I’ll +confess<br />To have stood by, and seen the Landgravine<br />Do most +strange deeds; and in her generation<br />Show no more wit than other +babes of light.<br />First, she has given away, to starving rascals,<br />The +stores of grain she might have sold, good lack!<br />For any price she +asked; has pawned your jewels,<br />And mortgaged sundry farms, and +all for food.<br />Has sunk vast sums in fever-hospitals,<br />For rogues +whom famine sickened—almshouses<br />For sluts whose husbands +died—schools for their brats.<br />Most sad vagaries! but there’s +worse to come.<br />The dulness of the Court has ruined trade:<br />The +jewellers and clothiers don’t come near us;<br />The sempstresses, +my lord, and pastrycooks<br />Have quite forgot their craft; she has +turned all heads<br />And made the ladies starve, and wear old clothes,<br />And +run about with her to nurse the sick,<br />Instead of putting gold in +circulation<br />By balls, sham-fights, and dinners; ’tis most +sad, sir,<br />But she has swept your treasury out as clean—<br />As +was the widow’s cruse, who fed Elijah.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Ruined, no doubt! Lo! here the culprit +comes.</p> +<p>[Elizabeth enters.]</p> +<p>Come hither, dearest. These, my knights and nobles,<br />Lament +your late unthrift (your conscience speaks<br />The causes of their +blame); and wish you warned,<br />As wisdom is the highest charity,<br />No +more to interfere, from private feeling,<br />With heaven’s stern +laws, or maim the sovereign’s wealth,<br />To save superfluous +villains’ worthless lives.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Lewis!</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Not I, fair, but my counsellors,<br />In courtesy, +need some reply.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. My Lords;<br />Doubtless, you speak as your duty +bids you:<br />I know you love my husband: do you think<br />My love +is less than yours? ’Twas for his honour<br />I dare not +lose a single silly sheep<br />Of all the flock which God had trusted +to him.<br />True, I had hoped by this—No matter what—<br />Since +to your sense it bears a different hue.<br />I keep no logic. +For my gifts, thank God,<br />They cannot be recalled; for those poor +souls,<br />My pensioners—even for my husband’s knightly +name,<br />Oh! ask not back that slender loan of comfort<br />My folly +has procured them: if, my Lords,<br />My public censure, or disgraceful +penance<br />May expiate, and yet confirm my waste,<br />I offer this +poor body to the buffets<br />Of sternest justice: when I dared not +spare<br />My husband’s lands, I dare not spare myself.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. No! no! My noble sister? What? my +Lords!<br />If her love move you not, her wisdom may.<br />She knows +a deeper statecraft, Sirs, than you:<br />She will not throw away the +substance, Abbot,<br />To save the accident; waste living souls<br />To +keep, or hope to keep, the means of life.<br />Our wisdom and our swords +may fill our coffers,<br />But will they breed us men, my Lords, or +mothers?<br />God blesses in the camp a noble rashness:<br />Then why +not in the storehouse? He that lends<br />To Him, need never fear +to lose his venture.<br />Spend on, my Queen. You will not sell +my castles?<br />Nay, you must leave us Neuburg, love, and Wartburg.<br />Their +worn old stones will hardly pay the carriage,<br />And foreign foes +may pay untimely visits.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i>. And home foes, too; if these philosophers<br />Put +up the curb, my Lord, a half-link tighter,<br />The scythes will be +among our horses’ legs<br />Before next harvest.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Fear not for our welfare:<br />We have a guardian +here, well skilled to keep<br />Peace for our seneschal, while angels, +stooping<br />To catch the tears she sheds for us in absence,<br />Will +sain us from the roaming adversary<br />With scents of Paradise. +Farewell, my Lords.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Nay,—I must pray your knighthoods—You +must honour<br />Our dais and bower as private guests to-day.<br />Thanks +for your gentle warning; may my weakness<br />To such a sin be never +tempted more!</p> +<p>[Exeunt Elizabeth and Lewis.]</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i>. Thus, as if virtue were not its own reward, +is it paid over and above with beef and ale? Weep not, tender-hearted +Count! Though ‘generous hearts,’ my Lord, ‘and +ladies’ tenderness, too oft forget’—Truly spoken! +Lord Abbot, does not your spiritual eye discern coals of fire on Count +Hugo’s head?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Hugo</i>. Where, and a plague? Where?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i>. Nay, I speak mystically,—there +is nought there but what beer will quench before nightfall. Here, +peeping rabbit [to a Page at the door], out of your burrow, and show +these gentles to their lodgings. We will meet at the gratias. +[They go out.]</p> +<p><i>C</i>. <i>Wal</i> [alone]. Well:—if Hugo is a brute, +he at least makes no secret of it. He is an old boar, and honest; +he wears his tushes outside, for a warning to all men. But for +the rest!—Whited sepulchres! and not one of them but has half +persuaded himself of his own benevolence. Of all cruelties, save +me from your small pedant,—your closet philosopher, who has just +courage enough to bestride his theory, without wit to see whither it +will carry him. In experience, a child: in obstinacy, a woman: +in nothing a man, but in logic-chopping: instead of God’s grace, +a few schoolboy saws about benevolence, and industry, and independence—there +is his metal. If the world will be mended on his principles, well. +If not, poor world!—but principles must be carried out, though +through blood and famine: for truly, man was made for theories, not +theories for man. A doctrine is these men’s God—touch +but that shrine, and lo! your simpering philanthropist becomes as ruthless +as a Dominican. [Exit.]</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE IX</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Elizabeth’s bower. Elizabeth and Lewis sitting together.</p> +<p>Song</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Oh that we two were Maying<br />Down the stream +of the soft spring breeze;<br />Like children with violets playing<br />In +the shade of the whispering trees!</p> +<p>Oh that we two sat dreaming<br />On the sward of some sheep-trimmed +down<br />Watching the white mist steaming<br />Over river and mead +and town!</p> +<p>Oh that we two lay sleeping<br />In our nest in the churchyard sod,<br />With +our limbs at rest on the quiet earth’s breast,<br />And our souls +at home with God!</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Ah, turn away those swarthy diamonds’ blaze!<br />Mine +eyes are dizzy, and my faint sense reels<br />In the rich fragrance +of those purple tresses.<br />Oh, to be thus, and thus, day after day!<br />To +sleep, and wake, and find it yet no dream—<br />My atmosphere, +my hourly food, such bliss<br />As to have dreamt of, five short years +agone,<br />Had seemed a mad conceit.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Five years agone?</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. I know not; for upon our marriage-day<br />I +slipped from time into eternity;<br />Where each day teems with centuries +of life,<br />And centuries were but one wedding morn.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Lewis, I am too happy! floating higher<br />Than +e’er my will had dared to soar, though able;<br />But circumstance, +which is the will of God,<br />Beguiled my cowardice to that, which, +darling,<br />I found most natural, when I feared it most.<br />Love +would have had no strangeness in mine eyes,<br />Save from the prejudice +which others taught me—<br />They should know best. Yet +now this wedlock seems<br />A second infancy’s baptismal robe,<br />A +heaven, my spirit’s antenatal home,<br />Lost in blind pining +girlhood—found now, found!<br />[Aside] What have I said? +Do I blaspheme? Alas!<br />I neither made these thoughts, nor +can unmake them.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Ay, marriage is the life-long miracle,<br />The +self-begetting wonder, daily fresh;<br />The Eden, where the spirit +and the flesh<br />Are one again, and new-born souls walk free,<br />And +name in mystic language all things new,<br />Naked, and not ashamed. +[Eliz. hides her face.]</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. O God! were that true!</p> +<p>[Clasps him round the neck.]</p> +<p>There, there, no more—<br />I love thee, and I love thee, and +I love thee—<br />More than rich thoughts can dream, or mad lips +speak;<br />But how, or why, whether with soul or body,<br />I will +not know. Thou art mine.—Why question further?<br />[Aside] +Ay if I fall by loving, I will love,<br />And be degraded!—how? +by my own troth-plight?<br />No, but my thinking that I fall.—’Tis +written<br />That whatsoe’er is not of faith is sin.—<br />O +Jesu Lord! Hast Thou not made me thus?<br />Mercy! My brain +will burst: I cannot leave him!</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Beloved, if I went away to war—</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. O God! More wars? More partings?</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Nay, my sister—<br />My trust but longs +to glory in its surety:<br />What would’st thou do?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. What I have done already.<br />Have I not followed +thee, through drought and frost,<br />Through flooded swamps, rough +glens, and wasted lands,<br />Even while I panted most with thy dear +loan<br />Of double life?</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. My saint! but what if I bid thee<br />To be my +seneschal, and here with prayers,<br />With sober thrift, and noble +bounty shine,<br />Alone and peerless? And suppose—nay, +start not—<br />I only said suppose—the war was long,<br />Our +camps far off, and that some winter, love,<br />Or two, pent back this +Eden stream, where now<br />Joys upon joys like sunlit ripples pass,<br />Alike, +yet ever new.—What would’st thou do, love?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. A year? A year! A cold, blank, widowed +year!<br />Strange, that mere words should chill my heart with fear—<br />This +is no hall of doom,<br />No impious Soldan’s feast of old,<br />Where +o’er the madness of the foaming gold,<br />A fleshless hand its +woe on tainted walls enrolled.<br />Yet by thy wild words raised,<br />In +Love’s most careless revel,<br />Looms through the future’s +fog a shade of evil,<br />And all my heart is glazed.—<br />Alas! +What would I do?<br />I would lie down and weep, and weep,<br />Till +the salt current of my tears should sweep<br />My soul, like floating +weed, adown a fitful sleep,<br />A lingering half-night through.<br />Then +when the mocking bells did wake<br />My hollow eyes to twilight gray,<br />I +would address my spiritless limbs to pray,<br />And nerve myself with +stripes to meet the weary day,<br />And labour for thy sake.<br />Until +by vigils, fasts, and tears,<br />The flesh was grown so spare and light,<br />That +I could slip its mesh, and flit by night<br />O’er sleeping sea +and land to thee—or Christ—till morning light.<br />Peace! +Why these fears?<br />Life is too short for mean anxieties:<br />Soul! +thou must work, though blindfold.<br />Come, beloved,<br />I must turn +robber.—I have begged of late<br />So soft, I fear to ask.—Give +me thy purse.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. No, not my purse:—stay—Where is all +that gold<br />I gave you, when the Jews came here from Köln?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Oh, those few coins? I spent them all next +day<br />On a new chapel on the Eisenthal;<br />There were no choristers +but nightingales—<br />No teachers there save bees: how long is +this?<br />Have you turned niggard?</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Nay; go ask my steward—<br />Take what +you will—this purse I want myself.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Ah! now I guess. You have some trinket for +me—<br />You promised late to buy no more such baubles—<br />And +now you are ashamed.—Nay, I must see—</p> +<p>[Snatches his purse. Lewis hides his face.]</p> +<p>Ah, God! what’s here? A new crusader’s cross?<br />Whose? +Nay, nay—turn not from me; I guess all—<br />You need not +tell me; it is very well—<br />According to the meed of my deserts:<br />Yes—very +well.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Ah, love!—look not so calm—</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Fear not—I shall weep soon.<br />How long +is it since you vowed?</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. A week or more.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Brave heart! And all that time your tenderness<br />Kept +silence, knowing my weak foolish soul. [Weeps.]<br />O love! +O life! Late found, and soon, soon lost!<br />A bleak sunrise,—a +treacherous morning gleam,—<br />And now, ere mid-day, all my +sky is black<br />With whirling drifts once more! The march is +fixed<br />For this day month, is’t not?</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Alas, too true!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Oh break not, heart!</p> +<p>[Conrad enters.]</p> +<p>Ah! here my master comes.<br />No weeping before him.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Speak to the holy man:<br />He can give strength +and comfort, which poor I<br />Need even more than you. Here, +saintly master,<br />I leave her to your holy eloquence. Farewell!<br />God +help us both! [Exit Lewis.]</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i> [rising]. You know, Sir, that my husband has taken +the cross!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. I do; all praise to God!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. But none to you:<br />Hard-hearted! Am I +not enough your slave?<br />Can I obey you more when he is gone<br />Than +now I do? Wherein, pray, has he hindered<br />This holiness of +mine, for which you make me<br />Old ere my womanhood? [Conrad +offers to go.]<br />Stay, Sir, and tell me<br />Is this the outcome +of your ‘father’s care’?<br />Was it not enough to +poison all my joys<br />With foulest scruples?—show me nameless +sins,<br />Where I, unconscious babe, blessed God for all things,<br />But +you must thus intrigue away my knight<br />And plunge me down this gulf +of widowhood!<br />And I not twenty yet—a girl—an orphan—<br />That +cannot stand alone! Was I too happy?<br />O God! what lawful bliss +do I not buy<br />And balance with the smart of some sharp penance?<br />Hast +thou no pity? None? Thou drivest me<br />To fiendish doubts: +Thou, Jesus’ messenger?</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. This to your master!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. This to any one<br />Who dares to part me from +my love.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. ’Tis well—<br />In pity to your weakness +I must deign<br />To do what ne’er I did—excuse myself.<br />I +say, I knew not of your husband’s purpose;<br />God’s spirit, +not I, moved him: perhaps I sinned<br />In that I did not urge it myself.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Thou traitor!<br />So thou would’st part +us?</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Aught that makes thee greater<br />I’ll dare. +This very outburst proves in thee<br />Passions unsanctified, and carnal +leanings<br />Upon the creatures thou would’st fain transcend.<br />Thou +badest me cure thy weakness. Lo, God brings thee<br />The tonic +cup I feared to mix:—be brave—<br />Drink it to the lees, +and thou shalt find within<br />A pearl of price.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. ’Tis bitter!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Bitter, truly:<br />Even I, to whom the storm of +earthly love<br />Is but a dim remembrance—Courage! Courage!<br />There’s +glory in’t; fulfil thy sacrifice;<br />Give up thy noblest on +the noblest service<br />God’s sun has looked on, since the chosen +twelve<br />Went conquering, and to conquer, forth. If he fall—</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Oh, spare mine ears!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. He falls a blessed martyr,<br />To bid thee welcome +through the gates of pearl;<br />And next to his shall thine own guerdon +be<br />If thou devote him willing to thy God.<br />Wilt thou?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Have mercy!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Wilt thou? Sit not thus<br />Watching the +sightless air: no angel in it<br />But asks thee what I ask: the fiend +alone<br />Delays thy coward flesh. Wilt thou devote him?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I will devote him;—a crusader’s wife!<br />I’ll +glory in it. Thou speakest words from God—<br />And God +shall have him! Go now—good my master;<br />My poor brain +swims. [Exit Conrad.]<br />Yes—a crusader’s wife!<br />And +a crusader’s widow!</p> +<p>[Bursts into tears, and dashes herself on the floor.]</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE X</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>A street in the town of Schmalcald. Bodies of Crusading troops +defiling past. Lewis and Elizabeth with their suite in the foreground.</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. Alas! the time is near; I must be gone—<br />There +are our liegemen; how you’ll welcome us,<br />Returned in triumph, +bowed with paynim spoils,<br />Beneath the victor cross, to part no +more!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Yes—we shall part no more, where next we +meet.<br />Enough to have stood here once on such an errand!</p> +<p><i>Lewis</i>. The bugle calls.—Farewell, my love, my +lady,<br />Queen, sister, saint! One last long kiss—Farewell!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. One kiss—and then another—and another—<br />Till +’tis too late to go—and so return—<br />O God! forgive +that craven thought! There, take him<br />Since Thou dost need +him. I have kept him ever<br />Thine, when most mine; and shall +I now deny Thee?<br />Oh! go—yes, go—Thou’lt not forget +to pray,</p> +<p>[Lewis goes.]</p> +<p>With me, at our old hour? Alas! he’s gone<br />And lost—thank +God he hears me not—for ever.<br />Why look’st thou so, +poor girl? I say, for ever.<br />The day I found the bitter blessed +cross,<br />Something did strike my heart like keen cold steel,<br />Which +quarries daily there with dead dull pains—<br />Whereby I know +that we shall meet no more.<br />Come! Home, maids, home! +Prepare me widow’s weeds—<br />For he is dead to me, and +I must soon<br />Die too to him, and many things; and mark me—<br />Breathe +not his name, lest this love-pampered heart<br />Should sicken to vain +yearnings—Lost! lost! lost!</p> +<p><i>Lady</i>. Oh stay, and watch this pomp.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Well said—we’ll stay; so this bright +enterprise<br />Shall blanch our private clouds, and steep our soul<br />Drunk +with the spirit of great Christendom.</p> +<p>CRUSADER CHORUS.</p> +<p>[Men-at-Arms pass, singing.]</p> +<p>The tomb of God before us,<br />Our fatherland behind,<br />Our ships +shall leap o’er billows steep,<br />Before a charmed wind.</p> +<p>Above our van great angels<br />Shall fight along the sky;<br />While +martyrs pure and crowned saints<br />To God for rescue cry.</p> +<p>The red-cross knights and yeomen<br />Throughout the holy town,<br />In +faith and might, on left and right,<br />Shall tread the paynim down.</p> +<p>Till on the Mount Moriah<br />The Pope of Rome shall stand;<br />The +Kaiser and the King of France<br />Shall guard him on each hand.</p> +<p>There shall he rule all nations,<br />With crozier and with sword;<br />And +pour on all the heathen<br />The wrath of Christ the Lord.</p> +<p>[Women—bystanders.]</p> +<p>Christ is a rock in the bare salt land,<br />To shelter our knights +from the sun and sand:<br />Christ the Lord is a summer sun,<br />To +ripen the grain while they are gone.</p> +<p>Then you who fight in the bare salt land,<br />And you who work at +home,<br />Fight and work for Christ the Lord,<br />Until His kingdom +come.</p> +<p>[Old Knights pass.]</p> +<p>Our stormy sun is sinking;<br />Our sands are running low;<br />In +one fair fight, before the night,<br />Our hard-worn hearts shall glow.</p> +<p>We cannot pine in cloister;<br />We cannot fast and pray;<br />The +sword which built our load of guilt<br />Must wipe that guilt away.</p> +<p>We know the doom before us;<br />The dangers of the road;<br />Have +mercy, mercy, Jesu blest,<br />When we lie low in blood.</p> +<p>When we lie gashed and gory,<br />The holy walls within,<br />Sweet +Jesu, think upon our end,<br />And wipe away our sin.</p> +<p>[Boy Crusaders pass.]</p> +<p>The Christ-child sits on high:<br />He looks through the merry blue +sky;<br />He holds in His hand a bright lily-band,<br />For the boys +who for Him die.</p> +<p>On holy Mary’s arm,<br />Wrapt safe from terror and harm,<br />Lulled +by the breeze in the paradise trees,<br />Their souls sleep soft and +warm.</p> +<p>Knight David, young and true,<br />The giant Soldan slew,<br />And +our arms so light, for the Christ-child’s right,<br />Like noble +deeds can do.</p> +<p>[Young Knights pass.]</p> +<p>The rich East blooms fragrant before us;<br />All Fairyland beckons +us forth;<br />We must follow the crane in her flight o’er the +main,<br />From the frosts and the moors of the North.</p> +<p>Our sires in the youth of the nations<br />Swept westward through +plunder and blood,<br />But a holier quest calls us back to the East,<br />We +fight for the kingdom of God.</p> +<p>Then shrink not, and sigh not, fair ladies,<br />The red cross which +flames on each arm and each shield,<br />Through philtre and spell, +and the black charms of hell,<br />Shall shelter our true love in camp +and in field.</p> +<p>[Old Monk, looking after them.]</p> +<p>Jerusalem, Jerusalem!<br />The burying place of God!<br />Why gay +and bold, in steel and gold,<br />O’er the paths where Christ +hath trod?</p> +<p>[The Scene closes.]</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>ACT III</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE I</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>A chamber in the Wartburg. Elizabeth sitting in widow’s +weeds; Guta and Isentrudis by her.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. What? Always thus, my Princess? Is +this wise,<br />By day with fasts and ceaseless coil of labour;<br />About +the ungracious poor—hands, eyes, feet, brain<br />O’ertasked +alike—’mid sin and filth, which make<br />Each sense a plague—by +night with cruel stripes,<br />And weary watchings on the freezing stone,<br />To +double all your griefs, and burn life’s candle,<br />As village +gossips say, at either end?<br />The good book bids the heavy-hearted +drink,<br />And so forget their woe.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. ’Tis written too<br />In that same book, +nurse, that the days shall come<br />When the bridegroom shall be taken +away—and then—<br />Then shall they mourn and fast: I needed +weaning<br />From sense and earthly joys; by this way only<br />May +I win God to leave in mine own hands<br />My luxury’s cure: oh! +I may bring him back,<br />By working out to its full depth the chastening<br />The +need of which his loss proves: I but barter<br />Less grief for greater—pain +for widowhood.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. And death for life—your cheeks are wan and +sharp<br />As any three-days’ moon—you are shifting always<br />Uneasily +and stiff, now, on your seat,<br />As from some secret pain.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Why watch me thus?<br />You cannot know—and +yet you know too much—<br />I tell you, nurse, pain’s comfort, +when the flesh<br />Aches with the aching soul in harmony,<br />And +even in woe, we are one: the heart must speak<br />Its passion’s +strangeness in strange symbols out,<br />Or boil, till it bursts inly.</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. Yet, methinks,<br />You might have made this widowed +solitude<br />A holy rest—a spell of soft gray weather,<br />Beneath +whose fragrant dews all tender thoughts<br />Might bud and burgeon.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. That’s a gentle dream;<br />But nature shows +nought like it: every winter,<br />When the great sun has turned his +face away,<br />The earth goes down into the vale of grief,<br />And +fasts, and weeps, and shrouds herself in sables,<br />Leaving her wedding-garlands +to decay—<br />Then leaps in spring to his returning kisses—<br />As +I may yet!—</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. There, now—my foolish child!<br />You faint: +come—come to your chamber—</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Oh, forgive me!<br />But hope at times throngs +in so rich and full,<br />It mads the brain like wine: come with me, +nurse,<br />Sit by me, lull me calm with gentle tales<br />Of noble +ladies wandering in the wild wood,<br />Fed on chance earth-nuts, and +wild strawberries,<br />Or milk of silly sheep, and woodland doe.<br />Or +how fair Magdalen ’mid desert sands<br />Wore out in prayer her +lonely blissful years,<br />Watched by bright angels, till her modest +tresses<br />Wove to her pearled feet their golden shroud.<br />Come, +open all your lore.</p> +<p>[Sophia and Agnes enter.]</p> +<p>My mother-in-law!</p> +<p>[Aside] Shame on thee, heart! why sink, whene’er we meet?</p> +<p><i>Soph</i>. Daughter, we know of old thy strength, of metal<br />Beyond +us worldlings: shrink not, if the time<br />Be come which needs its +use—</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. What means this preface? Ah! your looks +are big<br />With sudden woes—speak out.</p> +<p><i>Soph</i>. Be calm, and hear<br />The will of God toward +my son, thy husband.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. What? is he captive? Why then—what +of that?<br />There are friends will rescue him—there’s +gold for ransom—<br />We’ll sell our castles—live +in bowers of rushes—<br />O God! that I were with him in the dungeon!</p> +<p><i>Soph</i>. He is not taken.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. No! he would have fought to the death!<br />There’s +treachery! What paynim dog dare face<br />His lance, who naked +braved yon lion’s rage,<br />And eyed the cowering monster to +his den?<br />Speak! Has he fled? or worse?</p> +<p><i>Soph</i>. Child, he is dead.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i> [clasping her hands on her knees.]. The world is +dead to me, and all its smiles!</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Oh, woe! my Prince! and doubly woe, my daughter<i>.</i></p> +<p>[Elizabeth springs up and rushes out.]</p> +<p>Oh, stop her—stop my child! She will go mad—<br />Dash +herself down—Fly—Fly—She is not made<br />Of hard, +light stuff, like you.</p> +<p><i>Soph</i>. I had expected some such passionate outbreak<br />At +the first news: you see now, Lady Agnes,<br />These saints, who fain +would ‘wean themselves from earth,’<br />Still yield to +the affections they despise<br />When the game’s earnest—Now—ere +they return—<br />Your brother, child, is dead—</p> +<p><i>Agnes</i>. I know it too well.<br />So young—so brave—so +blest!—And she—she loved him—<br />Oh! I repent +of all the foolish scoffs<br />With which I crossed her.</p> +<p><i>Soph</i>. Yes—the Landgrave’s dead—<br />Attend +to me—Alas! my son! my son!<br />He was my first-born! But +he has a brother—<br />Agnes! we must not let this foreign gipsy,<br />Who, +as you see, is scarce her own wits’ mistress,<br />Flaunt sovereign +over us, and our broad lands,<br />To my son’s prejudice—There +are barons, child,<br />Who will obey a knight, but not a saint:<br />I +must at once to them.</p> +<p><i>Agnes</i>. Oh, let me stay.</p> +<p><i>Soph</i>. As you shall please—Your brother’s +landgravate<br />Is somewhat to you, surely—and your smiles<br />Are +worth gold pieces in a court intrigue.<br />For her, on her own principles, +a downfall<br />Is a chastening mercy—and a likely one.</p> +<p><i>Agnes</i>. Oh! let me stay, and comfort her!</p> +<p><i>Soph</i>. Romance!<br />You girls adore a scene—as +lookers on.</p> +<p>[Exit Sophia.]</p> +<p><i>Agnes</i> [alone]. Well spoke the old monks, peaceful watching +life’s turmoil,<br />‘Eyes which look heavenward, weeping +still we see:<br />God’s love with keen flame purges, like the +lightning flash,<br />Gold which is purest, purer still must be.’</p> +<p>[Guta enters.]</p> +<p>Alas! Returned alone! Where has my sister been?</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. Thank heaven you hear alone, for such sad sight +would haunt<br />Henceforth your young hopes—crush your shuddering +fancy down<br />With dread of like fierce anguish.<br />You saw her +bound forth: we towards her bower in haste<br />Ran trembling: spell-bound +there, before her bridal-bed<br />She stood, while wan smiles flickered, +like the northern dawn,<br />Across her worn cheeks’ ice-field; +keenest memories then<br />Rushed with strong shudderings through her—as +the winged shaft<br />Springs from the tense nerve, so her passion hurled +her forth<br />Sweeping, like fierce ghost, on through hall and corridor,<br />Tearless, +with wide eyes staring, while a ghastly wind<br />Moaned on through +roof and rafter, and the empty helms<br />Along the walls ran clattering, +and above her waved<br />Dead heroes’ banners; swift and yet more +swift she drove<br />Still seeking aimless; sheer against the opposing +wall<br />At last dashed reckless—there with frantic fingers clutched<br />Blindly +the ribbed oak, till that frost of rage<br />Dissolved itself in tears, +and like a babe,<br />With inarticulate moans, and folded hands,<br />She +followed those who led her, as if the sun<br />On her life’s dial +had gone back seven years,<br />And she were once again the dumb sad +child<br />We knew her ere she married.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i> [entering]. As after wolf wolf presses, leaping +through the snow-glades,<br />So woe on woe throngs surging up.</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. What? treason?</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Treason, and of the foulest. From her state +she’s rudely thrust;<br />Her keys are seized; her weeping babies +pent from her:<br />The wenches stop their sobs to sneer askance,<br />And +greet their fallen censor’s new mischance.</p> +<p><i>Agnes</i>. Alas! Who dared to do this wrong?</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Your mother and your mother’s son—<br />Judge +you, if it was knightly done.</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. See! see! she comes, with heaving breast,<br />With +bursting eyes, and purpled brow:<br />Oh that the traitors saw her now!<br />They +know not, sightless fools, the heart they break.</p> +<p>[Elizabeth enters slowly.]</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. He is in purgatory now! Alas!<br />Angels! +be pitiful! deal gently with him!<br />His sins were gentle! That’s +one cause left for living—<br />To pray, and pray for him: why +all these months<br />I prayed,—and here’s my answer: Dead +of a fever!<br />Why thus? so soon! Only six years for love!<br />While +any formal, heartless matrimony,<br />Patched up by Court intrigues, +and threats of cloisters,<br />Drags on for six times six, and peasant +slaves<br />Grow old on the same straw, and hand in hand<br />Slip from +life’s oozy bank, to float at ease.</p> +<p>[A knocking at the door.]</p> +<p>That’s some petitioner.<br />Go to—I will not hear them: +why should I work,<br />When he is dead? Alas! was that my sin?<br />Was +he, not Christ, my lodestar? Why not warn me?<br />Too late! +What’s this foul dream? Dead at Otranto—<br />Parched +by Italian suns—no woman by him—<br />He was too chaste! +Nought but rude men to nurse!—<br />If I had been there, I should +have watched by him—<br />Guessed every fancy—God! +I might have saved him!</p> +<p>[A servant-man bursts in.]</p> +<p><i>Servant</i>. Madam, the Landgrave gave me strict commands—</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. The Landgrave, dolt?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I might have saved him!</p> +<p><i>Servant</i> [to Isen.] Ay, saucy madam!—<br />The +Landgrave Henry, lord and master,<br />Freer than the last, and yet +no waster,<br />Who will not stint a poor knave’s beer,<br />Or +spin out Lent through half the year.<br />Why—I see double!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Who spoke there of the Landgrave? What’s +this drunkard?<br />Give him his answer—’Tis no time for +mumming—</p> +<p><i>Serv</i>. The Landgrave Henry bade me see you out<br />Safe +through his gates, and that at once, my Lady.<br />Come!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Why—that’s hasty—I must take +my children<br />Ah! I forgot—they would not let me see +them.<br />I must pack up my jewels—</p> +<p><i>Serv</i>. You’ll not need it—<br />His Lordship +has the keys.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. He has indeed.<br />Why, man!—I am thy children’s +godmother—<br />I nursed thy wife myself in the black sickness—<br />Art +thou a bird, that when the old tree falls,<br />Flits off, and sings +in the sapling?</p> +<p>[The man seizes her arm.]</p> +<p>Keep thine hands off—<br />I’ll not be shamed—Lead +on. Farewell, my Ladies.<br />Follow not! There’s +want to spare on earth already;<br />And mine own woe is weight enough +for me.<br />Go back, and say, Elizabeth has yet<br />Eternal homes, +built deep in poor men’s hearts;<br />And, in the alleys underneath +the wall,<br />Has bought with sinful mammon heavenly treasure,<br />More +sure than adamant, purer than white whales’ bone,<br />Which now +she claims. Lead on: a people’s love shall right me. +[Exit with Servant.]</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. Where now, dame?</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Where, but after her?</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. True heart!<br />I’ll follow to the death. +[Exeunt.]</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE II</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>A street. Elizabeth and Guta at the door of a Convent. +Monks in the porch.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. You are afraid to shelter me—afraid.<br />And +so you thrust me forth, to starve and freeze.<br />Soon said. +Why palter o’er these mean excuses,<br />Which tempt me to despise +you?</p> +<p><i>Monks</i>. Ah! my lady,<br />We know your kindness—but +we poor religious<br />Are bound to obey God’s ordinance, and +submit<br />Unto the powers that be, who have forbidden<br />All men, +alas! to give you food or shelter.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Silence! I’ll go. Better in +God’s hand than man’s.<br />He shall kill us, if we die. +This bitter blast<br />Warping the leafless willows, yon white snow-storms,<br />Whose +wings, like vengeful angels, cope the vault,<br />They are God’s,—We’ll +trust to them.</p> +<p>[Monks go in.]</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. Mean-spirited!<br />Fair frocks hide foul hearts. +Why, their altar now<br />Is blazing with your gifts.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. How long their altar?<br />To God I gave—and +God shall pay me back.<br />Fool! to have put my trust in living man,<br />And +fancied that I bought God’s love, by buying<br />The greedy thanks +of these His earthly tools!<br />Well—here’s one lesson +learnt! I thank thee, Lord!<br />Henceforth I’ll straight +to Thee, and to Thy poor.<br />What? Isentrudis not returned? +Alas!<br />Where are those children?<br />They will not have the heart +to keep them from me—<br />Oh! have the traitors harmed them?</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. Do not think it.<br />The dowager has a woman’s +heart.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Ay, ay—<br />But she’s a mother—and +mothers will dare all things—<br />Oh! Love can make us +fiends, as well as angels.<br />My babies! Weeping? Oh, +have mercy, Lord!<br />On me heap all thy wrath—I understand it:<br />What +can blind senseless terror do for them?</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. Plead, plead your penances! Great God, consider<br />All +she has done and suffered, and forbear<br />To smite her like a worldling!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Silence, girl!<br />I’d plead my deeds, +if mine own character,<br />My strength of will had fathered them: but +no—<br />They are His, who worked them in me, in despite<br />Of +mine own selfish and luxurious will—<br />Shall I bribe Him with +His own? For pain, I tell thee<br />I need more pain than mine +own will inflicts,<br />Pain which shall break that will.—Yet +spare them, Lord!<br />Go to—I am a fool to wish them life—<br />And +greater fool to miscall life, this headache—<br />This nightmare +of our gross and crude digestion—<br />This fog which steams up +from our freezing clay—<br />While waking heaven’s beyond. +No! slay them, traitors!<br />Cut through the channels of those innocent +breaths<br />Whose music charmed my lone nights, ere they learn<br />To +love the world, and hate the wretch who bore them!</p> +<p>[Weeps.]</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. This storm will blind us both: come here, and +shield you<br />Behind this buttress.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. What’s a wind to me?<br />I can see up the +street here, if they come—<br />They do not come!—Oh! my +poor weanling lambs—<br />Struck dead by carrion ravens!<br />What +then, I have borne worse. But yesterday<br />I thought I had a +husband—and now—now!<br />Guta! He called a holy man +before he died?</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. The Bishop of Jerusalem, ’tis said,<br />With +holy oil, and with the blessed body<br />Of Him for whom he died, did +speed him duly<br />Upon his heavenward flight.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. O happy bishop!<br />Where are those children? +If I had but seen him!<br />I could have borne all then. One word—one +kiss!<br />Hark! What’s that rushing? White doves—one—two—three—<br />Fleeing +before the gale. My children’s spirits!<br />Stay, babies—stay +for me! What! Not a moment?<br />And I so nearly ready to +be gone?</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. Still on your children?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Oh! this grief is light<br />And floats a-top—well, +well; it hides a while<br />That gulf too black for speech—My +husband’s dead!<br />I dare not think on’t.<br />A small +bird dead in the snow! Alas! poor minstrel!<br />A week ago, before +this very window,<br />He warbled, may be, to the slanting sunlight;<br />And +housewives blest him for a merry singer:<br />And now he freezes at +their doors, like me.<br />Poor foolish brother! didst thou look for +payment?</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. But thou hast light in darkness: he has none—<br />The +bird’s the sport of time, while our life’s floor<br />Is +laid upon eternity; no crack in it<br />But shows the underlying heaven.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Art sure?<br />Does this look like it, girl? +No—I’ll trust yet—<br />Some have gone mad for less; +but why should I?<br />Who live in time, and not eternity.<br />’Twill +end, girl, end; no cloud across the sun<br />But passes at the last, +and gives us back<br />The face of God once more.</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. See here they come,<br />Dame Isentrudis and your +children, all<br />Safe down the cliff path, through the whirling snow-drifts.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. O Lord, my Lord! I thank thee!<br />Loving +and merciful, and tender-hearted,<br />And even in fiercest wrath remembering +mercy.<br />Lo! here’s my ancient foe. What want you, Sir?</p> +<p>[Hugo enters.]</p> +<p><i>Hugo</i>. Want? Faith, ’tis you who want, not +I, my Lady—<br />I hear, you are gone a begging through the town;<br />So, +for your husband’s sake, I’ll take you in;<br />For though +I can’t forget your scurvy usage,<br />He was a very honest sort +of fellow,<br />Though mad as a March hare; so come you in.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. But know you, Sir, that all my husband’s +vassals<br />Are bidden bar their doors to me?</p> +<p><i>Hugo</i>. I know it:<br />And therefore come you in; my +house is mine:<br />No upstarts shall lay down the law to me;<br />Not +they, mass: but mind you, no canting here—<br />No psalm-singing; +all candles out at eight:<br />Beggars must not be choosers. Come +along!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I thank you, Sir; and for my children’s +sake<br />I do accept your bounty. [aside] Down, proud heart—<br />Bend +lower—lower ever: thus God deals with thee.<br />Go, Guta, send +the children after me. [Exeunt severally.]</p> +<p>[Two Peasants enter.]</p> +<p><i>1st</i> <i>Peas</i>. Here’s Father January taken a +lease of March month, and put in Jack Frost for bailiff. What +be I to do for spring-feed if the weather holds,—and my ryelands +as bare as the back of my hand?</p> +<p><i>2d</i> <i>Peas</i>. That’s your luck. Freeze +on, say I, and may Mary Mother send us snow a yard deep. I have +ten ton of hay yet to sell—ten ton, man—there’s my +luck: every man for himself, and—Why here comes that handsome +canting girl, used to be about the Princess.</p> +<p>[Guta enters.]</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. Well met, fair sirs! I know you kind and +loyal,<br />And bound by many a favour to my mistress:<br />Say, will +you bear this letter for her sake<br />Unto her aunt, the rich and holy +lady<br />Who rules the nuns of Kitzingen?</p> +<p><i>2d</i> <i>Peas</i>. If I do, pickle me in a barrel among +cabbage.<br />She told me once, God’s curse would overtake me,<br />For +grinding of the poor: her turn’s come now.</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. Will you, then, help her? She will pay you +richly.</p> +<p><i>1st</i> <i>Peas</i>. Ay? How, dame? How? +Where will the money come from?</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. God knows—</p> +<p><i>1st</i> <i>Peas</i>. And you do not.</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. Why, but last winter,<br />When all your stacks +were fired, she lent you gold.</p> +<p><i>1st</i> <i>Peas</i>. Well—I’ll be generous: +as the times are hard,<br />Say, if I take your letter, will you promise<br />To +marry me yourself?</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. Ay, marry you,<br />Or anything, if you’ll +but go to-day:<br />At once, mind. [Giving him the letter.]</p> +<p><i>1st</i> <i>Peas</i>. Ay, I’ll go. Now, you’ll +remember?</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. Straight to her ladyship at Kitzingen.<br />God +and His saints deal with you, as you deal<br />With us this day. +[Exit.]</p> +<p><i>2d</i> <i>Peas</i>. What! art thou fallen in love promiscuously?</p> +<p><i>1st</i> <i>Peas</i>. Why, see, now, man; she has her mistress’ +ear;<br />And if I marry her, no doubt they’ll make me<br />Bailiff, +or land-steward; and there’s noble pickings<br />In that same +line.</p> +<p><i>2d</i> <i>Peas</i>. Thou hast bought a pig in a poke:<br />Her +priest will shrive her off from such a bargain.</p> +<p><i>1st</i> <i>Peas</i>. Dost think? Well—I’ll +not fret myself about it.<br />See, now, before I start, I must get +home<br />Those pigs from off the forest; chop some furze;<br />And +then to get my supper, and my horse’s:<br />And then a man will +need to sit a while,<br />And take his snack of brandy for digestion;<br />And +then to fettle up my sword and buckler;<br />And then, bid ’em +all good-bye: and by that time<br />’Twill be ’most nightfall—I’ll +just go to-morrow.<br />Off—here she comes again. [Exeunt.]</p> +<p>[Isentrudis and Guta enter, with the children.]</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. I warned you of it; I knew she would not stay<br />An +hour, thus treated like a slave—an idiot.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Well, ’twas past bearing: so we are thrust +forth<br />To starve again. Are all your jewels gone?</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. All pawned and eaten—and for her, you know,<br />She +never bore the worth of one day’s meal<br />About her dress. +We can but die—No foe<br />Can ban us from that rest.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Ay, but these children!—Well—if it +must be,<br />Here, Guta, pull off this old withered hand<br />My wedding-ring; +the man who gave it me<br />Should be in heaven—and there he’ll +know my heart.<br />Take it, girl, take it. Where’s the +Princess now?<br />She stopped before a crucifix to pray;<br />But why +so long?</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. Oh! prayer, to her rapt soul,<br />Is like the +drunkenness of the autumn bee,<br />Who, scent-enchanted, on the latest +flower,<br />Heedless of cold, will linger listless on,<br />And freeze +in odorous dreams.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Ah! here she comes.</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. Dripping from head to foot with wet and mire!<br />How’s +this?</p> +<p>[Elizabeth entering.]</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. How? Oh, my fortune rises to full flood:<br />I +met a friend just now, who told me truths<br />Wholesome and stern, +of my deceitful heart—<br />Would God I had known them earlier!—and +enforced<br />Her lesson so, as I shall ne’er forget it<br />In +body or in mind.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. What means all this?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. You know the stepping-stones across the ford.<br />There +as I passed, a certain aged crone,<br />Whom I had fed, and nursed, +year after year,<br />Met me mid-stream—thrust past me stoutly +on—<br />And rolled me headlong in the freezing mire.<br />There +as I lay and weltered,—‘Take that, Madam,<br />For all your +selfish hypocritic pride<br />Which thought it such a vast humility<br />To +wash us poor folk’s feet, and use our bodies<br />For staves to +build withal your Jacob’s-ladder.<br />What! you would mount to +heaven upon our backs?<br />The ass has thrown his rider.’ +She crept on—<br />I washed my garments in the brook hard by—<br />And +came here, all the wiser.</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. Miscreant hag!</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Alas, you’ll freeze.</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. Who could have dreamt the witch<br />Could harbour +such a spite?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Nay, who could dream<br />She would have guessed +my heart so well? Dull boors<br />See deeper than we think, and +hide within<br />Those leathern hulls unfathomable truths,<br />Which +we amid thought’s glittering mazes lose.<br />They grind among +the iron facts of life,<br />And have no time for self-deception.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Come—<br />Put on my cloak—stand here, +behind the wall.<br />Oh! is it come to this? She’ll die +of cold.</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. Ungrateful fiend!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Let be—we must not think on’t.<br />The +scoff was true—I thank her—I thank God—<br />This +too I needed. I had built myself<br />A Babel-tower, whose top +should reach to heaven,<br />Of poor men’s praise and prayers, +and subtle pride<br />At mine own alms. ’Tis crumbled into +dust!<br />Oh! I have leant upon an arm of flesh—<br />And +here’s its strength! I’ll walk by faith—by faith<br />And +rest my weary heart on Christ alone—<br />On him, the all-sufficient!<br />Shame +on me! dreaming thus about myself,<br />While you stand shivering here. +[To her little Son.]<br />Art cold, young knight?<br />Knights must +not cry—Go slide, and warm thyself.<br />Where shall we lodge +to-night?</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. There’s no place open,<br />But that foul +tavern, where we lay last night.</p> +<p><i>Elizabeth’s</i> <i>Son</i> [clinging to her]. O mother, +mother! go not to that house—<br />Among those fierce lank men, +who laughed, and scowled,<br />And showed their knives, and sang strange +ugly songs<br />Of you and us. O mother! let us be!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Hark! look! His father’s voice!—his +very eye—<br />Opening so slow and sad, then sinking down<br />In +luscious rest again!</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Bethink you, child—</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Oh yes—I’ll think—we’ll +to our tavern friends;<br />If they be brutes, ’twas my sin left +them so.</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. ’Tis but for a night or two: three days +will bring<br />The Abbess hither.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. And then to Bamberg straight<br />For knights +and men-at-arms! Your uncle’s wrath—</p> +<p><i>Guta</i> [aside]. Hush! hush! you’ll fret her, if +you talk of vengeance.</p> +<p><i>Isen</i>. Come to our shelter.</p> +<p><i>Children</i>. Oh stay here, stay here!<br />Behind these +walls.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Ay—stay a while in peace. The storms +are still.<br />Beneath her eider robe the patient earth<br />Watches +in silence for the sun: we’ll sit<br />And gaze up with her at +the changeless heaven,<br />Until this tyranny be overpast.<br />Come. +[aside] Lost! Lost! Lost!<br />[They enter a neighbouring +ruin.]</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE III</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>A Chamber in the Bishop’s Palace at Bamberg. Elizabeth +and Guta.</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. You have determined?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Yes—to go with him.<br />I have kept my +oath too long to break it now.<br />I will to Marpurg, and there waste +away<br />In meditation and in pious deeds,<br />Till God shall set +me free.</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. How if your uncle<br />Will have you marry? +Day and night, they say,<br />He talks of nothing else.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Never, girl, never!<br />Save me from that at +least, O God!</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. He spoke<br />Of giving us, your maidens, to his +knights<br />In carnal wedlock: but I fear him not:<br />For God’s +own word is pledged to keep me pure—<br />I am a maid.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. And I, alas! am none!<br />O Guta! dost thou mock +my widowed love?<br />I was a wife—’tis true: I was not +worthy—<br />But there was meaning in that first wild fancy;<br />’Twas +but the innocent springing of the sap—<br />The witless yearning +of an homeless heart—<br />Do I not know that God has pardoned +me?<br />But now—to rouse and turn of mine own will,<br />In cool +and full foreknowledge, this worn soul<br />Again to that, which, when +God thrust it on me,<br />Bred but one shame of ever-gnawing doubt,<br />Were—No, +my burning cheeks! We’ll say no more.<br />Ah! loved and +lost! Though God’s chaste grace should fail me,<br />My +weak idolatry of thee would give<br />Strength that should keep me true: +with mine own hands<br />I’d mar this tear-worn face, till petulant +man<br />Should loathe its scarred and shapeless ugliness.</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. But your poor children? What becomes of +them?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Oh! she who was not worthy of a husband<br />Does +not deserve his children. What are they, darlings,<br />But snares +to keep me from my heavenly spouse<br />By picturing the spouse I must +forget?<br />Well—’tis blank horror. Yet if grief’s +good for me,<br />Let me down into grief’s blackest pit,<br />And +follow out God’s cure by mine own deed.</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. What will your kinsfolk think?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. What will they think!<br />What pleases them. +That argument’s a staff<br />Which breaks whene’er you lean +on’t. Trust me, girl,<br />That fear of man sucks out love’s +soaring ether,<br />Baffles faith’s heavenward eyes, and drops +us down,<br />To float, like plumeless birds, on any stream.<br />Have +I not proved it?<br />There was a time with me, when every eye<br />Did +scorch like flame: if one looked cold on me,<br />I straight accused +myself of mortal sins:<br />Each fopling was my master: I have lied<br />From +very fear of mine own serving-maids.—<br />That’s past, +thank God’s good grace!</p> +<p><i>Guta</i>. And now you leap<br />To the other end of the +line.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. In self-defence.<br />I am too weak to live by +half my conscience;<br />I have no wit to weigh and choose the mean;<br />Life +is too short for logic; what I do<br />I must do simply; God alone must +judge—<br />For God alone shall guide, and God’s elect—<br />I +shrink from earth’s chill frosts too much to crawl—<br />I +have snapped opinion’s chains, and now I’ll soar<br />Up +to the blazing sunlight, and be free.</p> +<p>[The bishop of Bamberg enters. Conrad following.]</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. The Devil plagued St. Antony in the likeness +of a lean friar! Between mad monks and mad women, bedlam’s +broke loose, I think.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. When the Spirit first descended on the elect, seculars +then, too, said mocking, ‘These men are full of new wine.’</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. Seculars, truly! If I had not in my secularity +picked up a spice of chivalry to the ladies, I should long ago have +turned out you and your regulars, to cant elsewhere. Plague on +this gout—I must sit.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Let me settle your cushion, uncle.</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. So! girl! I sent for you from Botenstain. +I had a mind, now, to have kept you there until your wits returned, +and you would say Yes to some young noble suitor. As if I had +not had trouble enough about your dower!—If I had had to fight +for it, I should not have minded:—but these palavers and conferences +have fretted me into the gout: and now you would throw all away again, +tired with your toy, I suppose. What shall I say to the Counts, +Varila, and the Cupbearer, and all the noble knights who will hazard +their lands and lives in trying to right you with that traitor? +I am ashamed to look them in the face! To give all up to the villain!—To +pay him for his treason!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Uncle, I give but what to me is worthless. +He loves these baubles—let him keep them, then: I have my dower.</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. To squander on nuns and beggars, at this rogue’s +bidding? Why not marry some honest man? You may have your +choice of kings and princes; and if you have been happy with one gentleman, +Mass! say I, why can’t you be happy with another? What saith +the Scripture? ‘I will that the younger widows marry, bear +children,’—not run after monks, and what not—What’s +good for the filly, is good for the mare, say I.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Uncle, I soar now at a higher pitch—<br />To +be henceforth the bride of Christ alone.</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. Ahem!—a pious notion—in moderation. +We must be moderate, my child, moderate: I hate overdoing anything—especially +religion.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Madam, between your uncle and myself<br />This +question in your absence were best mooted.</p> +<p>[Exit Elizabeth.]</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. How, priest? do you order her about like a servant-maid?</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. The saints forbid! Now—ere I lose a +moment—</p> +<p>[Kneeling.]</p> +<p>[Aside] All things to all men be—and so save some—<br />[Aloud] +Forgive, your grace, forgive me,<br />If mine unmannered speech in aught +have clashed<br />With your more tempered and melodious judgment:<br />Your +courage will forgive an honest warmth.<br />God knows, I serve no private +interests.</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. Your order’s, hey? to wit?</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. My lord, my lord,<br />There may be higher aims: +but what I said,<br />I said but for our Church, and our cloth’s +honour.<br />Ladies’ religion, like their love, we know,<br />Requires +a gloss of verbal exaltation,<br />Lest the sweet souls should understand +themselves;<br />And clergymen must talk up to the mark.</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. We all know, Gospel preached in the mother-tongue<br />Sounds +too like common sense.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Or too unlike it:<br />You know the world, your +grace; you know the sex—</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. Ahem! As a spectator.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Philosophicè—<br />Just so—You +know their rage for shaven crowns—<br />How they’ll deny +their God—but not their priest—<br />Flirts—scandal-mongers—in +default of both come<br />Platonic love—worship of art and genius—<br />Idols +which make them dream of heaven, as girls<br />Dream of their sweethearts, +when they sleep on bridecake.<br />It saves from worse—we are +not all Abelards.</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i> [aside]. Some of us have his tongue, if not his +face.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. There lies her fancy; do but balk her of it—<br />She’ll +bolt to cloisters, like a rabbit scared.<br />Head her from that—she’ll +wed some pink-faced boy—<br />The more low-bred and penniless, +the likelier.<br />Send her to Marpurg, and her brain will cool.<br />Tug +at the kite, ’twill only soar the higher:<br />Give it but line, +my lord, ’twill drop like slate.<br />Use but that eagle’s +glance, whose daring foresight<br />In chapter, camp, and council, wins +the wonder<br />Of timid trucklers—Scan results and outcomes—<br />The +scale is heavy in your grace’s favour.</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. Bah! priest! What can this Marpurg-madness +do for me?</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Leave you the tutelage of all her children.</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. Thank you—to play the dry-nurse to three +starving brats.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. The minor’s guardian guards the minor’s +lands.</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. Unless they are pitched away in building hospitals.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Instead of fattening in your wisdom’s keeping.</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. Well, well,—but what gross scandal to +the family!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. The family, my lord, would gain a saint.</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. Ah! monk, that canonisation costs a frightful +sum.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. These fees, just now, would gladly be remitted.</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. These are the last days, faith, when Rome’s +too rich to take!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. The Saints forbid, my lord, the fisher’s +see<br />Were so o’ercursed by Mammon! But you grieve,<br />I +know, to see foul weeds of heresy<br />Of late o’errun your diocese.</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. Ay, curse them!<br />I’ve hanged some +dozens.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Worthy of yourself!<br />But yet the faith needs +here some mighty triumph—<br />Some bright example, whose resplendent +blaze<br />May tempt that fluttering tribe within the pale<br />Of Holy +Church again—</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. To singe their wings?</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. They’ll not come near enough. Again—there +are<br />Who dare arraign your prowess, and assert<br />A churchman’s +energies were better spent<br />In pulpits than the tented field. +Now mark—<br />Mark, what a door is opened. Give but scope<br />To +this her huge capacity for sainthood—<br />Set her, a burning +and a shining light<br />To all your people—Such a sacrifice,<br />Such +loan to God of your own flesh and blood,<br />Will silence envious tongues, +and prove you wise<br />For the next world as for this; will clear your +name<br />From calumnies which argue worldliness;<br />Buy of itself +the joys of paradise;<br />And clench your lordship’s interest +with the pontiff.</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. Well, well, we’ll think on’t.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Sir, I doubt you not.</p> +<p>[Re-enter Elizabeth.]</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Uncle, I am determined.</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. So am I.<br />You shall to Marpurg with this +holy man.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Ah, there you speak again like my own uncle.<br />I’ll +go—to rest [aside] and die. I only wait<br />To see the +bones of my beloved laid<br />In some fit resting-place. A messenger<br />Proclaims +them near. O God!</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. We’ll go, my child,<br />And meeting them +with all due honour, show<br />In our own worship, honourable minds.</p> +<p>[Exit Elizabeth.]</p> +<p>A messenger! How far off are they, then?</p> +<p><i>Serv</i>. Some two days’ journey, sir.</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. Two days’ journey, and nought prepared?<br />Here, +chaplain—Brother Hippodamas! Chaplain, I say! [Hippodamas +enters.] Call the apparitor—ride off with him, right and +left—Don’t wait even to take your hawk—Tell my knights +to be with me, with all their men-at-arms, at noon on the second day. +Let all be of the best, say—the brightest of arms and the newest +of garments. Mass! we must show our smartest before these crusaders—they’ll +be full of new fashions, I warrant ’em—the monkeys that +have seen the world. And here, boy [to a page], set me a stoup +of wine in the oriel-room, and another for this good monk.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Pardon me, blessedness—but holy rule—</p> +<p><i>Bishop</i>. Oh! I forgot.—A pail of water and +a peck of beans for the holy man!—Order up my equerry, and bid +my armourer—vestryman, I mean—look out my newest robes.—Plague +on this gout.</p> +<p>[Exeunt, following the Bishop.]</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE IV</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The Nave of Bamberg Cathedral. A procession entering the West +Door, headed by Elizabeth and the Bishop, Nobles, etc. Religious +bearing the coffin which encloses Lewis’s bones.</p> +<p><i>1st</i> <i>Lady</i>. See! the procession comes—the +mob streams in<br />At every door. Hark! how the steeples thunder<br />Their +solemn bass above the wailing choir.</p> +<p><i>2d</i> <i>Lady</i>. They will stop at the screen.</p> +<p><i>Knight</i>. And there, as I hear, open the coffin. +Push forward, ladies, to that pillar: thence you will see all.</p> +<p><i>1st</i> <i>Peas</i>. Oh dear! oh dear! If any man +had told me that I should ride forty miles on this errand, to see him +that went out flesh come home grass, like the flower of the field!</p> +<p><i>2d</i> <i>Peas</i>. We have changed him, but not mended +him, say I, friend.</p> +<p><i>1st</i> <i>Peas</i>. Never we. He knew where a yeoman’s +heart lay! One that would clap a man on the back when his cow +died, and behave like a gentleman to him—that never met you after +a hailstorm without lightening himself of a few pocket-burners.</p> +<p><i>2d</i> <i>Peas</i>. Ay, that’s your poor-man’s +plaster: that’s your right grease for this world’s creaking +wheels.</p> +<p><i>1st</i> <i>Peas</i>. Nay, that’s your rich man’s +plaster too, and covers the multitude of sins. That’s your +big pike’s swimming-bladder, that keeps him atop and feeding: +that’s his calling and election, his oil of anointing, his <i>salvum +fac regem</i>, his yeoman of the wardrobe, who keeps the velvet-piled +side of this world uppermost, lest his delicate eyes should see the +warp that holds it.</p> +<p><i>2d</i> <i>Peas</i>. Who’s the warp, then?</p> +<p><i>1st</i> <i>Peas</i>. We, man, the friezes and fustians, +that rub on till we get frayed through with overwork, and then all’s +abroad, and the nakedness of Babylon is discovered, and catch who catch +can.</p> +<p><i>Old Woman</i>. Pity they only brought his bones home! +He would have made a lovely corpse, surely. He was a proper man!</p> +<p><i>1st Lady</i>. Oh the mincing step he had with him! and the +delicate hand on a horse, fingering the reins as St. Cicely does the +organ-keys!</p> +<p>2<i>d Lady</i>. And for hunting, another Siegfried.</p> +<p><i>Knight</i>. If he was Siegfried the gay, she was Chriemhild +the grim; and as likely to prove a firebrand as the girl in the ballad.</p> +<p><i>1st Lady</i>. Gay, indeed! His smiles were like plumcake, +the sweeter the deeper iced. I never saw him speak civil word +to woman, but to her.</p> +<p><i>2d Lady</i>. O ye Saints! There was honey spilt on +the ground! If I had such a knight, I’d never freeze alone +on the chamber-floor, like some that never knew when they were well +off. I’d never elbow him off to crusades with my pruderies.</p> +<p>‘Pluck your apples while they’re ripe,<br />And pull +your flowers in May, O!’</p> +<p>Eh! Mother?</p> +<p><i>Old Woman</i>. ‘Till when she grew wizened, and he +grew cold,<br />The balance lay even ’twixt young and old.’</p> +<p><i>Monk</i>. Thus Satan bears witness perforce against the +vanities of Venus! But what’s this babbling? Carolationes +in the holy place? Tace, vetula! taceas, taceto also, and that +forthwith.</p> +<p><i>Old Woman</i>. Tace in your teeth, and taceas also, begging-box! +Who put the halter round his waist to keep it off his neck,—who? +Get behind your screen, sirrah! Am I not a burgher’s wife? +Am I not in the nave? Am I not on my own ground? Have I +brought up eleven children, without nurse wet or dry, to be taced nowadays +by friars in the nave? Help! good folks! Where be these +rooks a going?</p> +<p><i>Knight</i>. The monk has vanished.</p> +<p><i>1st Peas</i>. It’s ill letting out waters, he finds. +Who is that old gentleman, sir, holds the Princess so tight by the hand?</p> +<p><i>Knight</i>. Her uncle, knave, the Bishop.</p> +<p><i>1st Peas</i>. Very right, he: for she’s almost a born +natural, poor soul. It was a temptation to deal with her.</p> +<p><i>2d Peas</i>. Thou didst cheat her shockingly, Frank, time +o’ the famine, on those nine sacks of maslin meal.</p> +<p><i>Knight</i>. Go tell her of it, rascal, and she’ll +thank you for it, and give you a shilling for helping her to a ‘cross.’</p> +<p><i>Old Woman</i>. Taceing free women in the nave! This +comes of your princesses, that turn the world upside down, and demean +themselves to hob and nob with these black baldicoots!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. [in a low voice]. I saw all Israel scattered on +the hills<br />As sheep that have no shepherd! O my people!<br />Who +crowd with greedy eyes round this my jewel,<br />Poor ivory, token of +his outward beauty—<br />Oh! had ye known his spirit!—Let +his wisdom<br />Inform your light hearts with that Saviour’s likeness<br />For +whom he died! So had you kept him with you;<br />And from the +coming evils gentle Heaven<br />Had not withdrawn the righteous: ’tis +too late!</p> +<p><i>1st Lady</i>. There, now, she smiles; do you think she ever +loved him?</p> +<p><i>Knight</i>. Never creature, but mealy-mouthed inquisitors, +and shaven singing birds. She looks now as glad to be rid of him +as any colt broke loose.</p> +<p><i>1st Lady</i>. What will she do now, when this farce is over?</p> +<p><i>2d Lady</i>. Found an abbey, that’s the fashion, and +elect herself abbess—tyrannise over hysterical girls, who are +forced to thank her for making them miserable, and so die a saint.</p> +<p><i>Knight</i>. Will you pray to her, my fair queen?</p> +<p><i>2d Lady</i>. Not I, sir; the old Saints send me lovers enough, +and to spare—yourself for one.</p> +<p><i>1st Lady</i>. There is the giant-killer slain. But +see—they have stopped: who is that raising the coffin lid?</p> +<p><i>2d Lady</i>. Her familiar spirit, Conrad the heretic-catcher.</p> +<p><i>Knight</i>. I do defy him! Thou art my only goddess;<br />My +saint, my idol, my—ahem!</p> +<p><i>1st Lady</i>. That well’s run dry.<br />Look, how +she trembles—Now she sinks, all shivering,<br />Upon the pavement—Why, +you’ll see nought there<br />Flirting behind the pillar—Now +she rises—<br />And choking down that proud heart, turns to the +altar—<br />Her hand upon the coffin.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I thank thee, gracious Lord, who hast fulfilled<br />Thine +handmaid’s mighty longings with the sight<br />Of my beloved’s +bones, and dost vouchsafe<br />This consolation to the desolate.<br />I +grudge not, Lord, the victim which we gave Thee,<br />Both he and I, +of his most precious life,<br />To aid Thine holy city: though Thou +knowest<br />His sweetest presence was to this world’s joy<br />As +sunlight to the taper—Oh! hadst Thou spared—<br />Had Thy +great mercy let us, hand in hand,<br />Have toiled through houseless +shame, on beggar’s dole,<br />I had been blest: Thou hast him, +Lord, Thou hast him—<br />Do with us what Thou wilt! If +at the price<br />Of this one silly hair, in spite of Thee,<br />I could +reclothe these wan bones with his manhood,<br />And clasp to my shrunk +heart my hero’s self—<br />I would not give it!<br />I will +weep no more—<br />Lead on, most holy; on the sepulchre<br />Which +stands beside the choir, lay down your burden.</p> +<p>[To the people.]</p> +<p>Now, gentle hosts, within the close hard by,<br />Will we our court, +as queen of sorrows, hold—<br />The green graves underneath us, +and above<br />The all-seeing vault, which is the eye of God,<br />Judge +of the widow and the fatherless.<br />There will I plead my children’s +wrongs, and there,<br />If, as I think, there boil within your veins<br />The +deep sure currents of your race’s manhood,<br />Ye’ll nail +the orphans’ badge upon your shields,<br />And own their cause +for God’s. We name our champions—<br />Rudolf, the +Cupbearer, Leutolf of Erlstetten,<br />Hartwig of Erba, and our loved +Count Walter,<br />Our knights and vassals, sojourners among you.<br />Follow +us.</p> +<p>[Exit Elizabeth, etc.; the crowd following.]</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>ACT IV</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE I</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Night. The church of a convent. Elizabeth, Conrad, Gerard, +Monks, an Abbess, Nuns, etc., in the distance.</p> +<p><i>Conrad</i>. What’s this new weakness? At your +own request<br />We come to hear your self-imposed vows—<br />And +now you shrink: where are the high-flown fancies<br />Which but last +week, beside your husband’s bier,<br />You vapoured forth? +Will you become a jest?<br />You might have counted this tower’s +cost, before<br />You blazoned thus your plans abroad.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Oh! spare me!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Spare? Spare yourself; and spare big easy +words,<br />Which prove your knowledge greater than your grace.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Is there no middle path? No way to keep<br />My +love for them, and God, at once unstained?</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. If this were God’s world, Madam, and not +the devil’s,<br />It might be done.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. God’s world, man! Why, God made it—<br />The +faith asserts it God’s.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Potentially—<br />As every christened rogue’s +a child of God,<br />Or those old hags, Christ’s brides—Think +of your horn-book—<br />The world, the flesh, and the devil—a +goodly leash!<br />And yet God made all three. I know the fiend;<br />And +you should know the world: be sure, be sure.<br />The flesh is not a +stork among the cranes.<br />Our nature, even in Eden gross and vile,<br />And +by miraculous grace alone upheld,<br />Is now itself, and foul, and +damned, must die<br />Ere we can live; let halting worldlings, madam,<br />Maunder +against earth’s ties, yet clutch them still.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. And yet God gave them to me—</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. In the world;<br />Your babes are yours according +to the flesh;<br />How can you hate the flesh, and love its fruit?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. The Scripture bids me love them.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Truly so,<br />While you are forced to keep them; +when God’s mercy<br />Doth from the flesh and world deliverance +offer,<br />Letting you bestow them elsewhere, then your love<br />May +cease with its own usefulness, and the spirit<br />Range in free battle +lists; I’ll not waste reasons—<br />We’ll leave you, +Madam, to the Spirit’s voice.</p> +<p>[Conrad and Gerard withdraw.]</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. [alone]. Give up his children! Why, I’d +not give up<br />A lock of hair, a glove his hand had hallowed:<br />And +they are his gift; his pledge; his flesh and blood<br />Tossed off for +my ambition! Ah! my husband!<br />His ghost’s sad eyes upbraid +me! Spare me, spare me!<br />I’d love thee still, if I dared; +but I fear God.<br />And shall I never more see loving eyes<br />Look +into mine, until my dying day?<br />That’s this world’s +bondage: Christ would have me free,<br />And ’twere a pious deed +to cut myself<br />The last, last strand, and fly: but whither? whither?<br />What +if I cast away the bird i’ the hand<br />And found none in the +bush? ’Tis possible—<br />What right have I to arrogate +Christ’s bride-bed?<br />Crushed, widowed, sold to traitors? +I, o’er whom<br />His billows and His storms are sweeping? +God’s not angry:<br />No, not so much as we with buzzing fly;<br />Or +in the moment of His wrath’s awakening<br />We should be—nothing. +No—there’s worse than that—<br />What if He but sat +still, and let be be?<br />And these deep sorrows, which my vain conceit<br />Calls +chastenings—meant for me—my ailments’ cure—<br />Were +lessons for some angels far away,<br />And I the corpus vile for the +experiment?<br />The grinding of the sharp and pitiless wheels<br />Of +some high Providence, which had its mainspring<br />Ages ago, and ages +hence its end?<br />That were too horrible!—<br />To have torn +up all the roses from my garden,<br />And planted thorns instead; to +have forged my griefs,<br />And hugged the griefs I dared not forge; +made earth<br />A hell, for hope of heaven; and after all,<br />These +homeless moors of life toiled through, to wake,<br />And find blank +nothing! Is that angel-world<br />A gaudy window, which we paint +ourselves<br />To hide the dead void night beyond? The present?<br />Why +here’s the present—like this arched gloom,<br />It hems +our blind souls in, and roofs them over<br />With adamantine vault, +whose only voice<br />Is our own wild prayers’ echo: and our future?—<br />It +rambles out in endless aisles of mist,<br />The farther still the darker—O +my Saviour!<br />My God! where art Thou? That’s but a tale +about Thee,<br />That crucifix above—it does but show Thee<br />As +Thou wast once, but not as Thou art now—<br />Thy grief, but not +Thy glory: where’s that gone?<br />I see it not without me, and +within me<br />Hell reigns, not Thou!</p> +<p>[Dashes herself down on the altar steps.]</p> +<p>[Monks in the distance chanting.]</p> +<p>‘Kings’ daughters were among thine honourable women’—</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Kings’ daughters! I am one!</p> +<p><i>Monks</i>. ‘Hearken, O daughter, and consider; incline +thine ear:<br />Forget also thine own people, and thy father’s +house,<br />So shall the King have pleasure in thy beauty:<br />For +He is thy Lord God, and worship thou Him.’</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. [springing up]. I will forget them!<br />They +stand between my soul and its allegiance.<br />Thou art my God: what +matter if Thou love me?<br />I am Thy bond-slave, purchased with Thy +life-blood;<br />I will remember nothing, save that debt.<br />Do with +me what Thou wilt. Alas, my babies!<br />He loves them—they’ll +not need me.</p> +<p>[Conrad advancing.]</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. How now, Madam!<br />Have these your prayers unto +a nobler will<br />Won back that wandering heart?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. God’s will is spoken!<br />The flesh is +weak; the spirit’s fixed, and dares,—<br />Stay! confess, +sir,<br />Did not yourself set on your brothers here<br />To sing me +to your purpose?</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. As I live<br />I meant it not; yet had I bribed +them to it,<br />Those words were no less God’s.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I know it, I know it;<br />And I’ll obey +them: come, the victim’s ready.</p> +<p>[Lays her hand on the altar. Gerard, Abbess, and Monks descend +and advance.]</p> +<p>All worldly goods and wealth, which once I loved,<br />I do now count +but dross: and my beloved,<br />The children of my womb, I now regard<br />As +if they were another’s. God is witness<br />My pride is +to despise myself; my joy<br />All insults, sneers, and slanders of +mankind;<br />No creature now I love, but God alone.<br />Oh, to be +clear, clear, clear, of all but Him!<br />Lo, here I strip me of all +earthly helps—</p> +<p>[Tearing off her clothes.]</p> +<p>Naked and barefoot through the world to follow<br />My naked Lord—And +for my filthy pelf—</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Stop, Madam—</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Why so, sir?</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Upon thine oath!<br />Thy wealth is God’s, +not thine—How darest renounce<br />The trust He lays on thee? +I do command thee,<br />Being, as Aaron, in God’s stead, to keep +it<br />Inviolate, for the Church and thine own needs.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Be it so—I have no part nor lot in’t—<br />There—I +have spoken.</p> +<p><i>Abbess</i>. O noble soul! which neither gold, nor love,<br />Nor +scorn can bend!</p> +<p><i>Gerard</i>. And think what pure devotions,<br />What holy +prayers must they have been, whose guerdon<br />Is such a flood of grace!</p> +<p><i>Nuns</i>. What love again!<br />What flame of charity, which +thus prevails<br />In virtue’s guest!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Is self-contempt learnt thus?<br />I’ll +home.</p> +<p><i>Abbess</i>. And yet how blest, in these cool shades<br />To +rest with us, as in a land-locked pool,<br />Touched last and lightest +by the ruffling breeze.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. No! no! no! no! I will not die in the dark:<br />I’ll +breathe the free fresh air until the last,<br />Were it but a month—I +have such things to do—<br />Great schemes—brave schemes—and +such a little time!<br />Though now I am harnessed light as any foot-page.<br />Come, +come, my ladies. [Exeunt Elizabeth, etc.]</p> +<p><i>Ger</i>. Alas, poor lady!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Why alas, my son?<br />She longs to die a saint, +and here’s the way to it.</p> +<p><i>Ger</i>. Yet why so harsh? why with remorseless knife<br />Home +to the stem prune back each bough and bud?<br />I thought the task of +education was<br />To strengthen, not to crush; to train and feed<br />Each +subject toward fulfilment of its nature,<br />According to the mind +of God, revealed<br />In laws, congenital with every kind<br />And character +of man.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. A heathen dream!<br />Young souls but see the gay +and warm outside,<br />And work but in the shallow upper soil.<br />Mine +deeper, and the sour and barren rock<br />Will stop you soon enough. +Who trains God’s Saints,<br />He must transform, not pet—Nature’s +corrupt throughout—<br />A gaudy snake, which must be crushed, +not tamed,<br />A cage of unclean birds, deceitful ever;<br />Born in +the likeness of the fiend, which Adam<br />Did at the Fall, the Scripture +saith, put on.<br />Canst thou draw out Leviathan with a hook,<br />To +make him sport for thy maidens? Scripture saith<br />Who is the +prince of this world—so forget not.</p> +<p><i>Ger</i>. Forgive, if my more weak and carnal judgment<br />Be +startled by your doctrines, and doubt trembling<br />The path whereon +you force yourself and her.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Startled? Belike—belike—let doctrines +be;<br />Thou shalt be judged by thy works; so see to them,<br />And +let divines split hairs: dare all thou canst;<br />Be all thou darest;—that +will keep thy brains full.<br />Have thy tools ready, God will find +thee work—<br />Then up, and play the man. Fix well thy +purpose—<br />Let one idea, like an orbed sun,<br />Rise radiant +in thine heaven; and then round it<br />All doctrines, forms, and disciplines +will range<br />As dim parhelia, or as needful clouds,<br />Needful, +but mist-begotten, to be dashed<br />Aside, when fresh shall serve thy +purpose better.</p> +<p><i>Ger</i>. How? dashed aside?</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Yea, dashed aside—why not?<br />The truths, +my son, are safe in God’s abysses—<br />While we patch up +the doctrines to look like them.<br />The best are tarnished mirrors—clumsy +bridges,<br />Whereon, as on firm soil, the mob may walk<br />Across +the gulf of doubt, and know no danger.<br />We, who see heaven, may +see the hell which girds it.<br />Blind trust for them. When I +came here from Rome,<br />Among the Alps, all through one frost-bound +dawn,<br />Waiting with sealed lips the noisy day,<br />I walked upon +a marble mead of snow—<br />An angel’s spotless plume, laid +there for me:<br />Then from the hillside, in the melting noon,<br />Looked +down the gorge, and lo! no bridge, no snow—<br />But seas of writhing +glacier, gashed and scored<br />With splintered gulfs, and fathomless +crevasses,<br />Blue lips of hell, which sucked down roaring rivers<br />The +fiends who fled the sun. The path of Saints<br />Is such; so shall +she look from heaven, and see<br />The road which led her thither. +Now we’ll go,<br />And find some lonely cottage for her lodging;<br />Her +shelter now is but a crumbling ruin<br />Roofed in with pine boughs—discipline +more healthy<br />For soul, than body: She’s not ripe for death.</p> +<p>[Exeunt.]</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE II</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Open space in a suburb of Marpurg, near Elizabeth’s Hut. +Count Walter and Count Pama of Hungary entering.</p> +<p><i>C. Pama</i>. I have prepared my nerves for a shock.</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. You are wise, for the world’s upside down +here. The last gateway brought us out of Christendom into the +New Jerusalem, the fifth Monarchy, where the Saints possess the earth. +Not a beggar here but has his pockets full of fair ladies’ tokens: +not a barefooted friar but rules a princess.</p> +<p><i>C. Pama</i>. Creeping, I opine, into widows’ houses, +and for a pretence making long prayers.</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. Don’t quote Scripture here, sir, especially +in that gross literal way! The new lights here have taught us +that Scripture’s saying one thing, is a certain proof that it +means another. Except, by the bye, in one text.</p> +<p><i>C. Pama</i>. What’s that?</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. ‘Ask, and it shall be given you.’</p> +<p><i>C. Pama</i>. Ah! So we are to take nothing literally, +that they may take literally everything themselves?</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. Humph! As for your text, see if they do +not saddle it on us before the day is out, as glibly as ever you laid +it on them. Here comes the lady’s tyrant, of whom I told +you.</p> +<p>[Conrad advances from the Hut.]</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. And what may Count Walter’s valour want here?</p> +<p>[Count Walter turns his back.]</p> +<p><i>C. Pama</i>. I come, Sir Priest, from Andreas, king renowned<br />Of +Hungary, ambassador unworthy<br />Unto the Landgravine, his saintly +daughter;<br />And fain would be directed to her presence.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. That is as I shall choose. But I’ll +not stop you.<br />I do not build with straw. I’ll trust +my pupils<br />To worldlings’ honeyed tongues, who make long prayers,<br />And +enter widows’ houses for pretence.<br />There dwells the lady, +who has chosen too long<br />The better part, to have it taken from +her.<br />Besides that with strange dreams and revelations<br />She +has of late been edified.</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. Bah! but they will serve your turn—and +hers.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. What do you mean?</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. When you have cut her off from child and friend, +and even Isentrudis and Guta, as I hear, are thrust out by you to starve, +and she sits there, shut up like a bear in a hole, to feed on her own +substance; if she has not some of these visions to look at, how is she, +or any other of your poor self-gorged prisoners, to help fancying herself +the only creature on earth?</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. How now? Who more than she, in faith and +practice, a living member of the Communion of Saints? Did she +not lately publicly dispense in charity in a single day five hundred +marks and more? Is it not my continual labour to keep her from +utter penury through her extravagance in almsgiving? For whom +does she take thought but for the poor, on whom, day and night, she +spends her strength? Does she not tend them from the cradle, nurse +them, kiss their sores, feed them, bathe them, with her own hands, clothe +them, living and dead, with garments, the produce of her own labour? +Did she not of late take into her own house a paralytic boy, whose loathsomeness +had driven away every one else? And now that we have removed that +charge, has she not with her a leprous boy, to whose necessities she +ministers hourly, by day and night? What valley but blesses her +for some school, some chapel, some convent, built by her munificence? +Are not the hospices, which she has founded in divers towns, the wonder +of Germany?—wherein she daily feeds and houses a multitude of +the infirm poor of Christ? Is she not followed at every step by +the blessings of the poor? Are not her hourly intercessions for +the souls and bodies of all around incessant, world-famous, mighty to +save? While she lives only for the Church of Christ, will you +accuse her of selfish isolation?</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. I tell you, monk, if she were not healthier +by God’s making than ever she will be by yours, her charity would +be by this time double-distilled selfishness; the mouths she fed, cupboards +to store good works in; the backs she warmed, clothes-horses to hang +out her wares before God; her alms not given, but fairly paid, a halfpenny +for every halfpenny-worth of eternal life; earth her chess-board, and +the men and women on it merely pawns for her to play a winning game—puppets +and horn-books to teach her unit holiness—a private workshop in +which to work out her own salvation. Out upon such charity!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. God hath appointed that our virtuous deeds<br />Each +merit their rewards.</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. Go to—go to. I have watched you +and your crew, how you preach up selfish ambition for divine charity +and call prurient longings celestial love, while you blaspheme that +very marriage from whose mysteries you borrow all your cant. The +day will come when every husband and father will hunt you down like +vermin; and may I live to see it.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Out on thee, heretic!</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. [drawing]. Liar! At last?</p> +<p><i>C. Pama</i>. In God’s name, sir, what if the Princess +find us?</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. Ay—for her sake. But put that name +on me again, as you do on every good Catholic who will not be your slave +and puppet, and if thou goest home with ears and nose, there is no hot +blood in Germany.</p> +<p>[They move towards the cottage.]</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. [alone]. Were I as once I was, I could revenge:<br />But +now all private grudges wane like mist<br />In the keen sunlight of +my full intent;<br />And this man counts but for some sullen bull<br />Who +paws and mutters at unheeding pilgrims<br />His empty wrath: yet let +him bar my path,<br />Or stay me but one hour in my life-purpose,<br />And +I will fell him as a savage beast,<br />God’s foe, not mine. +Beware thyself, Sir Count!</p> +<p>[Exit. The Counts return from the Cottage.]</p> +<p><i>C. Pama</i>. Shortly she will return; here to expect her<br />Is +duty both, and honour. Pardon me—<br />Her humours are well +known here? Passers by<br />Will guess who ’tis we visit?</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. Very likely.</p> +<p><i>C. Pama</i>. Well, travellers see strange things—and +do them too.<br />Hem! this turf-smoke affects my breath: we might<br />Draw +back a space.</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. Certie, we were in luck,<br />Or both our noses +would have been snapped off<br />By those two she-dragons; how their +sainthoods squealed<br />To see a brace of beards peep in! Poor +child!<br />Two sweet companions for her loneliness!</p> +<p><i>C. Pama</i>. But ah! what lodging! ’Tis at that +my heart bleeds!<br />That hut, whose rough and smoke-embrowned spars<br />Dip +to the cold clay floor on either side!<br />Her seats bare deal!—her +only furniture<br />Some earthen crock or two! Why, sir, a dungeon<br />Were +scarce more frightful: such a choice must argue<br />Aberrant senses, +or degenerate blood!</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. What? Were things foul?</p> +<p><i>C. Pama</i>. I marked not, sir.</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. I did.<br />You might have eat your dinner off +the floor.</p> +<p><i>C. Pama</i>. Off any spot, sir, which a princess’ +foot<br />Had hallowed by its touch.</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. Most courtierly.<br />Keep, keep those sweet +saws for the lady’s self.<br />[Aside] Unless that shock +of the nerves shall send them flying.</p> +<p><i>C. Pama</i>. Yet whence this depth of poverty? I thought<br />You +and her champions had recovered for her<br />Her lands and titles.</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. Ay; that coward Henry<br />Gave them all back +as lightly as he took them:<br />Certie, we were four gentle applicants—<br />And +Rudolph told him some unwelcome truths—<br />Would God that all +of us might hear our sins,<br />As Henry heard that day!</p> +<p><i>C. Pama</i>. Then she refused them?</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. ‘It ill befits,’ quoth she, ‘my +royal blood,<br />To take extorted gifts; I tender back<br />By you +to him, for this his mortal life,<br />That which he thinks by treason +cheaply bought;<br />To which my son shall, in his father’s right,<br />By +God’s good will, succeed. For that dread height<br />May +Christ by many woes prepare his youth!’</p> +<p><i>C. Pama</i>. Humph!</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. Why here—no, ’t cannot be—</p> +<p><i>C. Pama</i>. What hither comes<br />Forth from the hospital, +where, as they told us,<br />The Princess labours in her holy duties?<br />A +parti-coloured ghost that stalks for penance?<br />Ah! a good head of +hair, if she had kept it<br />A thought less lank; a handsome face too, +trust me,<br />But worn to fiddle-strings; well, we’ll be knightly—</p> +<p>[As Elizabeth meets him.]</p> +<p>Stop, my fair queen of rags and patches, turn<br />Those solemn eyes +a moment from your distaff,<br />And say, what tidings your magnificence<br />Can +bring us of the Princess?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I am she.</p> +<p>[Count Pama crosses himself and falls on his knees.]</p> +<p><i>C. Pama</i>. O blessed saints and martyrs! Open, earth!<br />And +hide my recreant knighthood in thy gulf!<br />Yet, mercy, Madam! for +till this strange day<br />Who e’er saw spinning wool, like village-maid,<br />A +royal scion?</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. [kneeling]. My beloved mistress!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Ah! faithful friend! Rise, gentles, rise, +for shame;<br />Nay, blush not, gallant sir. You have seen, ere +now,<br />Kings’ daughters do worse things than spinning wool,<br />Yet +never reddened. Speak your errand out.</p> +<p><i>C. Pama</i>. I from your father, Madam—</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Oh! I divine;<br />And grieve that you so +far have journeyed, sir,<br />Upon a bootless quest.</p> +<p><i>C. Pama</i>. But hear me, Madam—<br />If you return +with me (o’erwhelming honour!<br />For such mean bodyguard too +precious treasure)<br />Your father offers to you half his wealth;<br />And +countless hosts, whose swift and loyal blades<br />From traitorous grasp +shall vindicate your crown.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Wealth? I have proved it, and have tossed +it from me:<br />I will not stoop again to load with clay.<br />War? +I have proved that too: should I turn loose<br />On these poor sheep +the wolf whose fangs have gored me,<br />God’s bolt would smite +me dead.</p> +<p><i>C. Pama</i>. Madam, by his gray hairs he doth entreat you.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Alas! small comfort would they find in me!<br />I +am a stricken and most luckless deer,<br />Whose bleeding track but +draws the hounds of wrath<br />Where’er I pause a moment. +He has children<br />Bred at his side, to nurse him in his age—<br />While +I am but an alien and a changeling,<br />Whom, ere my plastic sense +could impress take<br />Either of his feature or his voice, he lost.</p> +<p><i>C. Pama</i>. Is it so? Then pardon, Madam, but your +father<br />Must by a father’s right command—</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Command! Ay, that’s the phrase of +the world: well—tell him,<br />But tell him gently too—that +child and father<br />Are names, whose earthly sense I have forsworn,<br />And +know no more: I have a heavenly spouse,<br />Whose service doth all +other claims annul.</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. Ah, lady, dearest lady, be but ruled!<br />Your +Saviour will be there as near as here.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. What? Thou too, friend? Dost thou +not know me better?<br />Wouldst have me leave undone what I begin?<br />[To +Count Pama] My father took the cross, sir: so did I:<br />As he +would die at his post, so will I die:<br />He is a warrior: ask him, +should I leave<br />This my safe fort, and well-proved vantage-ground,<br />To +roam on this world’s flat and fenceless steppes?</p> +<p><i>C. Pama</i>. Pardon me, Madam, if my grosser wit<br />Fail +to conceive your sense.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. It is not needed.<br />Be but the mouthpiece to +my father, sir;<br />And tell him—for I would not anger him—<br />Tell +him, I am content—say, happy—tell him<br />I prove my kin +by prayers for him, and masses<br />For her who bore me. We shall +meet on high.<br />And say, his daughter is a mighty tree,<br />From +whose wide roots a thousand sapling suckers,<br />Drink half their life; +she dare not snap the threads,<br />And let her offshoots wither. +So farewell.<br />Within the convent there, as mine own guests,<br />You +shall be fitly lodged. Come here no more.</p> +<p><i>C. Wal. C. Pama</i>. Farewell, sweet Saint! +[Exeunt.]</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. May God go with you both.<br />No! I will +win for him a nobler name,<br />Than captive crescents, piles of turbaned +heads,<br />Or towns retaken from the Tartar, give.<br />In me he shall +be greatest; my report<br />Shall through the ages win the quires of +heaven<br />To love and honour him; and hinds, who bless<br />The poor +man’s patron saint, shall not forget<br />How she was fathered +with a worthy sire. [Exit.]</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE III</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Night. Interior of Elizabeth’s hut. A leprous boy +sleeping on a Mattress. Elizabeth watching by him.]</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. My shrunk limbs, stiff from many a blow,<br />Are +crazed with pain.<br />A long dim formless fog-bank, creeping low,<br />Dulls +all my brain.</p> +<p>I remember two young lovers,<br />In a golden gleam.<br />Across +the brooding darkness shrieking hovers<br />That fair, foul dream.</p> +<p>My little children call to me,<br />‘Mother! so soon forgot?’<br />From +out dark nooks their yearning faces startle me,<br />Go, babes! +I know you not!</p> +<p>Pray! pray! or thou’lt go mad.<br />. . . . .<br />The past’s +our own:<br />No fiend can take that from us! Ah, poor boy!<br />Had +I, like thee, been bred from my black birth-hour<br />In filth and shame, +counting the soulless months<br />Only by some fresh ulcer! I’ll +be patient—<br />Here’s something yet more wretched than +myself.<br />Sleep thou on still, poor charge—though I’ll +not grudge<br />One moment of my sickening toil about thee,<br />Best +counsellor—dumb preacher, who dost warn me<br />How much I have +enjoyed, how much have left,<br />Which thou hast never known. +How am I wretched?<br />The happiness thou hast from me, is mine,<br />And +makes me happy. Ay, there lies the secret—<br />Could we +but crush that ever-craving lust<br />For bliss, which kills all bliss, +and lose our life,<br />Our barren unit life, to find again<br />A thousand +lives in those for whom we die.<br />So were we men and women, and should +hold<br />Our rightful rank in God’s great universe,<br />Wherein, +in heaven and earth, by will or nature,<br />Nought lives for self—All, +all—from crown to footstool—<br />The Lamb, before the world’s +foundations slain—<br />The angels, ministers to God’s elect—<br />The +sun, who only shines to light a world—<br />The clouds, whose +glory is to die in showers—<br />The fleeting streams, who in +their ocean-graves<br />Flee the decay of stagnant self-content—<br />The +oak, ennobled by the shipwright’s axe—<br />The soil, which +yields its marrow to the flower—<br />The flower, which feeds +a thousand velvet worms,<br />Born only to be prey for every bird—<br />All +spend themselves for others: and shall man,<br />Earth’s rosy +blossom—image of his God—<br />Whose twofold being is the +mystic knot<br />Which couples earth and heaven—doubly bound<br />As +being both worm and angel, to that service<br />By which both worms +and angels hold their life—<br />Shall he, whose every breath +is debt on debt,<br />Refuse, without some hope of further wage<br />Which +he calls Heaven, to be what God has made him?<br />No! let him show +himself the creature’s lord<br />By freewill gift of that self-sacrifice<br />Which +they perforce by nature’s law must suffer.<br />This too I had +to learn (I thank thee, Lord!),<br />To lie crushed down in darkness +and the pit—<br />To lose all heart and hope—and yet to +work.<br />What lesson could I draw from all my own woes—<br />Ingratitude, +oppression, widowhood—<br />While I could hug myself in vain conceits<br />Of +self-contented sainthood—inward raptures—<br />Celestial +palms—and let ambition’s gorge<br />Taint heaven, as well +as earth? Is selfishness<br />For time, a sin—spun out to +eternity<br />Celestial prudence? Shame! Oh, thrust me forth,<br />Forth, +Lord, from self, until I toil and die<br />No more for Heaven and bliss, +but duty, Lord,<br />Duty to Thee, although my meed should be<br />The +hell which I deserve!</p> +<p>[Sleeps.]</p> +<p>[Two women enter.]</p> +<p><i>1st Woman</i>. What! snoring still? ’Tis nearly +time to wake her<br />To do her penance.</p> +<p><i>2d Woman</i>. Wait a while, for love:<br />Indeed, I am +almost ashamed to punish<br />A bag of skin and bones.</p> +<p><i>1st Woman</i>. ’Tis for her good:<br />She has had +her share of pleasure in this life<br />With her gay husband; she must +have her pain.<br />We bear it as a thing of course; we know<br />What +mortifications are, although I say it<br />That should not.</p> +<p><i>2d Woman</i>. Why, since my old tyrant died,<br />Fasting +I’ve sought the Lord, like any Anna,<br />And never tasted fish, +nor flesh, nor fowl,<br />And little stronger than water.</p> +<p><i>1st Woman</i>. Plague on this watching!<br />What work, +to make a saint of a fine lady!<br />See now, if she had been some labourer’s +daughter,<br />She might have saved herself, for aught he cared;<br />But +now—</p> +<p><i>2d Woman</i>. Hush! here the master comes:<br />I hear him.—</p> +<p>[Conrad enters.]</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. My peace, most holy, wise, and watchful wardens!<br />She +sleeps? Well, what complaints have you to bring<br />Since last +we met? How? blowing up the fire?<br />Cold is the true saint’s +element—he thrives<br />Like Alpine gentians, where the frost +is keenest—<br />For there Heaven’s nearest—and the +ether purest—<br />[Aside] And he most bitter.</p> +<p><i>2d Woman</i>. Ah! sweet master,<br />We are not yet as perfect +as yourself.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. But how has she behaved?</p> +<p><i>1st Woman</i>. Just like herself—<br />Now ruffling +up like any tourney queen;<br />Now weeping in dark corners; then next +minute<br />Begging for penance on her knees.</p> +<p><i>2d Woman</i>. One trick’s cured;<br />That lust of +giving; Isentrude and Guta,<br />The hussies, came here begging but +yestreen,<br />Vowed they were starving.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Did she give to them?</p> +<p><i>2d Woman</i>. She told them that she dared not.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Good. For them,<br />I will take measures +that they shall not want:<br />But see you tell her not: she must be +perfect.</p> +<p><i>1st Woman</i>. Indeed, there’s not much chance of +that a while.<br />There’s others, might be saints, if they were +young,<br />And handsome, and had titles to their names,<br />If they +were helped toward heaven, now—</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Silence, horse-skull!<br />Thank God, that you +are allowed to use a finger<br />Towards building up His chosen tabernacle.</p> +<p><i>2d Woman</i>. I consider that she blasphemes the means of +grace.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Eh? that’s a point, indeed.</p> +<p><i>2d Woman</i>. Why, yesterday,<br />Within the church, before +a mighty crowd,<br />She mocked at all the lovely images,<br />And said +‘the money had been better spent<br />On food and clothes, instead +of paint and gilding:<br />They were but pictures, whose reality<br />We +ought to bear within us.’</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Awful doctrine!</p> +<p><i>1st Woman</i>. Look at her carelessness, again—the +distaff<br />Or woolcomb in her hands, even on her bed.<br />Then, when +the work is done, she lets those nuns<br />Cheat her of half the price.</p> +<p><i>2d Woman</i>. The Aldenburgers.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Well, well, what more misdoings?<br />[aside] +Pah! I am sick on’t.<br />[Aloud] Go sit, and pray +by her until she wakes.</p> +<p>]The women retire. Conrad sits down by the fire.]</p> +<p>I am dwindling to a peddling chamber-chaplain,<br />Who hunts for +crabs and ballads in maids’ sleeves,<br />I, who have shuffled +kingdoms. Oh! ’tis easy<br />To beget great deeds; but in +the rearing of them—<br />The threading in cold blood each mean +detail,<br />And furzebrake of half-pertinent circumstance—<br />There +lies the self-denial.</p> +<p><i>Women</i> [in a low voice]. Master! sir! look here!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. [rising]. Have mercy, mercy, Lord!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. What is it, my daughter? No—she answers +not—<br />Her eyeballs through their sealed lids are bursting,<br />And +yet she sleeps: her body does but mimic<br />The absent soul’s +enfranchised wanderings<br />In the spirit-world.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Oh! she was but a worldling!<br />And think, good +Lord, if that this world is hell,<br />What wonder if poor souls whose +lot is fixed here,<br />Meshed down by custom, wealth, rank, pleasure, +ignorance,<br />Do hellish things in it? Have mercy, Lord;<br />Even +for my sake, and all my woes, have mercy!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. There! she is laid again—Some bedlam dream.<br />So—here +I sit; am I a guardian angel<br />Watching by God’s elect? or +nightly tiger,<br />Who waits upon a dainty point of honour<br />To +clutch his prey, till it shall wake and move?<br />We’ll waive +that question: there’s eternity<br />To answer that in.<br />How +like a marble-carven nun she lies<br />Who prays with folded palms upon +her tomb,<br />Until the resurrection! Fair and holy!<br />O happy +Lewis! Had I been a knight—<br />A man at all—What’s +this? I must be brutal,<br />Or I shall love her: and yet that’s +no safeguard;<br />I have marked it oft: ay—with that devilish +triumph<br />Which eyes its victim’s writhings, still will mingle<br />A +sympathetic thrill of lust—say, pity.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. [awaking]. I am heard! She is saved!<br />Where +am I? What! have I overslept myself?<br />Oh, do not beat me! +I will tell you all—<br />I have had awful dreams of the other +world.</p> +<p><i>1st Woman</i>. Ay! ay! a fine excuse for lazy women,<br />Who +cry nightmare with lying on their backs.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I will be heard! I am a prophetess!<br />God +hears me, why not ye?</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Quench not the Spirit:<br />If He have spoken, +daughter, we must listen.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Methought from out the red and heaving earth<br />My +mother rose, whose broad and queenly limbs<br />A fiery arrow did impale, +and round<br />Pursuing tongues oozed up of nether fire,<br />And fastened +on her: like a winter-blast<br />Among the steeples, then she shrieked +aloud,<br />‘Pray for me, daughter; save me from this torment,<br />For +thou canst save!’ And then she told a tale;<br />It was +not true—my mother was not such—<br />O God! The pander +to a brother’s sin!</p> +<p><i>1st Woman</i>. There now? The truth is out! +I told you, sister,<br />About that mother—</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Silence, hags! what then?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. She stretched her arms, and sank. Was it +a sin<br />To love that sinful mother? There I lay—<br />And +in the spirit far away I prayed;<br />What words I spoke, I know not, +nor how long;<br />Until a small still voice sighed, ‘Child, thou +art heard:’<br />Then on the pitchy dark a small bright cloud<br />Shone +out, and swelled, and neared, and grew to form,<br />Till from it blazed +my pardoned mother’s face<br />With nameless glory! Nearer +still she pressed,<br />And bent her lips to mine—a mighty spasm<br />Ran +crackling through my limbs, and thousand bells<br />Rang in my dizzy +ears—And so I woke.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. ’Twas but a dream.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. ’Twas more! ’twas more! I’ve +tests:<br />From youth I have lived in two alternate worlds,<br />And +night is live like day. This was no goblin!<br />’Twas a +true vision, and my mother’s soul<br />Is freed by my poor prayers +from penal files,<br />And waits for me in bliss.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Well—be it so then.<br />Thou seest herein +what prize obedience merits.<br />Now to press forwards: I require your +presence<br />Within the square, at noon, to witness there<br />The +fiery doom—most just and righteous doom—<br />Of two convicted +and malignant heretics,<br />Who at the stake shall expiate their crime,<br />And +pacify God’s wrath against this land.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. No! no! I will not go!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. What’s here? Thou wilt not?<br />I’ll +drive thee there with blows.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Then I will bear them,<br />Even as I bore the +last, with thankful thoughts<br />Upon those stripes my Lord endured +for me.<br />Oh, spare them, sir! poor blindfold sons of men!<br />No +saint but daily errs,—and must they burn,<br />Ah, God! for an +opinion?</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Fool! opinions?<br />Who cares for their opinions? +’Tis rebellion<br />Against the system which upholds the world<br />For +which they die: so, lest the infection spread,<br />We must cut off +the members, whose disease<br />We’d pardon, could they keep it +to themselves.</p> +<p>[Elizabeth weeps.]</p> +<p>Well, I’ll not urge it,—Thou hast other work—<br />But +for thy petulant words do thou this penance:<br />I do forbid thee here, +to give henceforth<br />Food, coin, or clothes, to any living soul.<br />Thy +thriftless waste doth scandalise the elect,<br />And maim thine usefulness: +thou dost elude<br />My wise restrictions still: ’Tis great, to +live<br />Poor, among riches; when thy wealth is spent,<br />Want is +not merit, but necessity.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Oh, let me give!<br />That only pleasure have +I left on earth!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. And for that very cause thou must forego it,<br />And +so be perfect. She who lives in pleasure<br />Is dead, while yet +she lives; grace brings no merit<br />When ’tis the express of +our own self-will.<br />To shrink from what we practise; do God’s +work<br />In spite of loathings; that’s the path of saints.<br />I +have said. [Exit with the women.]</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Well! I am freezing fast—I have grown +of late<br />Too weak to nurse my sick; and now this outlet,<br />This +one last thawing spring of fellow-feeling,<br />Is choked with ice—Come, +Lord, and set me free.<br />Think me not hasty! measure not mine age,<br />O +Lord, by these my four-and-twenty winters.<br />I have lived three lives—three +lives.<br />For fourteen years I was an idiot girl:<br />Then I was +born again; and for five years,<br />I lived! I lived! and then +I died once more;—<br />One day when many knights came marching +by,<br />And stole away—we’ll talk no more of that.<br />And +so these four years since, I have been dead,<br />And all my life is +hid with Christ in God.<br />Nunc igitur dimittas, Domine, servam tuam.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE IV</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The same. Elizabeth lying on straw in a corner. A crowd +of women round her. Conrad entering.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. As I expected—<br />A sermon-mongering herd +about her death-bed,<br />Stifling her with fusty sighs, as flocks of +rooks<br />Despatch, with pious pecks, a wounded brother.<br />Cant, +howl, and whimper! Not an old fool in the town<br />Who thinks +herself religious, but must see<br />The last of the show and mob the +deer to death.<br />[Advancing] Hail! holy ones! How fares +your charge to-day?</p> +<p><i>Abbess</i>. After the blessed sacrament received,<br />As +surfeited with those celestial viands,<br />And with the blood of life +intoxicate,<br />She lay entranced: and only stirred at times<br />To +eructate sweet edifying doctrine<br />Culled from your darling sermons.</p> +<p><i>Woman</i>. Heavenly grace<br />Imbues her so throughout, +that even when pricked<br />She feels no pain.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. A miracle, no doubt.<br />Heaven’s work is +ripe, and like some more I know,<br />Having begun in the spirit, in +the flesh<br />She’s now made perfect: she hath had warnings, +too,<br />Of her decease; and prophesied to me,<br />Three weeks ago, +when I lay like to die,<br />That I should see her in her coffin yet.</p> +<p><i>Abbess</i>. ’Tis said, she heard in dreams her Saviour +call her<br />To mansions built for her from everlasting.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Ay, so she said.</p> +<p><i>Abbess</i>. But tell me, in her confession<br />Was there +no holy shame—no self-abhorrence<br />For the vile pleasures of +her carnal wedlock?</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. She said no word thereon: as for her shrift,<br />No +Chrisom child could show a chart of thoughts<br />More spotless than +were hers.</p> +<p><i>Nun</i>. Strange, she said nought;<br />I had hoped she +had grown more pure.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. When, next, I asked her,<br />How she would be +interred; ‘In the vilest weeds,’<br />Quoth she, ‘my +poor hut holds; I will not pamper<br />When dead, that flesh, which +living I despised.<br />And for my wealth, see it to the last doit<br />Bestowed +upon the poor of Christ.’</p> +<p><i>2d Woman</i>. O grace!</p> +<p><i>3d Woman</i>. O soul to this world poor, but rich toward +God!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. [awaking]. Hark! how they cry for bread!<br />Poor +souls! be patient!<br />I have spent all—<br />I’ll sell +myself for a slave—feed them with the price.<br />Come, Guta! +Nurse! We must be up and doing!<br />Alas! they are gone, and +begging!<br />Go! go! They’ll beat me, if I give you aught:<br />I’ll +pray for you, and so you’ll go to Heaven.<br />I am a saint—God +grants me all I ask.<br />But I must love no creature. Why, Christ +loved—<br />Mary he loved, and Martha, and their brother—<br />Three +friends! and I have none!<br />When Lazarus lay dead, He groaned in +spirit,<br />And wept—like any widow—Jesus wept!<br />I’ll +weep, weep, weep! pray for that ‘gift of tears.’<br />They +took my friends away, but not my eyes,<br />Oh, husband, babes, friends, +nurse! To die alone!<br />Crack, frozen brain! Melt, icicle +within!</p> +<p><i>Women</i>. Alas! sweet saint! By bitter pangs she +wins<br />Her crown of endless glory!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. But she wins it!<br />Stop that vile sobbing! she’s +unmanned enough<br />Without your maudlin sympathy.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. What? weeping?<br />Daughters of Jerusalem, weep +not for me—<br />Weep for yourselves.</p> +<p><i>Women</i>. We do, alas! we do!<br />What are we without +you? [A pause.]</p> +<p><i>Woman</i>. Oh, listen, listen!<br />What sweet sounds from +her fast-closed lips are welling,<br />As from the caverned shaft, deep +miners’ songs?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. [in a low voice]. Through the stifling room<br />Floats +strange perfume;<br />Through the crumbling thatch<br />The angels watch,<br />Over +the rotting roof-tree.<br />They warble, and flutter, and hover, and +glide,<br />Wafting old sounds to my dreary bedside,<br />Snatches of +songs which I used to know<br />When I slept by my nurse, and the swallows<br />Called +me at day-dawn from under the eaves.<br />Hark to them! Hark to +them now—<br />Fluting like woodlarks, tender and low—<br />Cool +rustling leaves—tinkling waters—<br />Sheepbells over the +lea—<br />In their silver plumes Eden-gales whisper—<br />In +their hands Eden-lilies—not for me—not for me—<br />No +crown for the poor fond bride!<br />The song told me so,<br />Long, +long ago,<br />How the maid chose the white lily;<br />But the bride +she chose<br />The red red rose,<br />And by its thorn died she.<br />Well—in +my Father’s house are many mansions—<br />I have trodden +the waste howling ocean-foam,<br />Till I stand upon Canaan’s +shore,<br />Where Crusaders from Zion’s towers call me home,<br />To +the saints who are gone before.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Still on Crusaders? [Aside.]</p> +<p><i>Abbess</i>. What was that sweet song, which just now, my +Princess,<br />You murmured to yourself?</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Did you not hear<br />A little bird between me +and the wall,<br />That sang and sang?</p> +<p><i>Abbess</i>. We heard him not, fair Saint.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I heard him, and his merry carol revelled<br />Through +all my brain, and woke my parched throat<br />To join his song: then +angel melodies<br />Burst through the dull dark, and the mad air quivered<br />Unutterable +music. Nay, you heard him.</p> +<p><i>Abbess</i>. Nought save yourself.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Slow hours! Was that the cock-crow?</p> +<p><i>Woman</i>. St. Peter’s bird did call.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Then I must up—<br />To matins, and to work—No, +my work’s over.<br />And what is it, what?<br />One drop of oil +on the salt seething ocean!<br />Thank God, that one was born at this +same hour,<br />Who did our work for us: we’ll talk of Him:<br />We +shall go mad with thinking of ourselves—<br />We’ll talk +of Him, and of that new-made star,<br />Which, as he stooped into the +Virgin’s side,<br />From off His finger, like a signet-gem,<br />He +dropped in the empyrean for a sign.<br />But the first tear He shed +at this His birth-hour,<br />When He crept weeping forth to see our +woe,<br />Fled up to Heaven in mist, and hid for ever<br />Our sins, +our works, and that same new-made star.</p> +<p><i>Woman</i>. Poor soul! she wanders!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Wanders, fool? her madness<br />Is worth a million +of your paters, mumbled<br />At every station between—</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. Oh! thank God<br />Our eyes are dim! What +should we do, if he,<br />The sneering fiend, who laughs at all our +toil,<br />Should meet us face to face?</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. We’d call him fool.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. There! There! Fly, Satan, fly! +’Tis gone!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. The victory’s gained at last!<br />The fiend +is baffled, and her saintship sure!<br />O people blest of Heaven!</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. O master, master,<br />You will not let the mob, +when I lie dead,<br />Make me a show—paw over all my limbs—<br />Pull +out my hair—pluck off my finger-nails—<br />Wear scraps +of me for charms and amulets,<br />As if I were a mummy, or a drug?<br />As +they have done to others—I have seen it—<br />Nor set me +up in ugly naked pictures<br />In every church, that cold world-hardened +wits<br />May gossip o’er my secret tortures? Promise—<br />Swear +to me! I demand it!</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. No man lights<br />A candle, to be hid beneath +a bushel:<br />Thy virtues are the Church’s dower: endure<br />All +which the edification of the faithful<br />Makes needful to be published.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. O my God!<br />I had stripped myself of all, but +modesty!<br />Dost Thou claim yet that victim? Be it so.<br />Now +take me home! I have no more to give Thee!<br />So weak—and +yet no pain—why, now naught ails me!<br />How dim the lights burn! +Here—<br />Where are you, children?<br />Alas! I had forgotten.<br />Now +I must sleep—for ere the sun shall rise,<br />I must begone upon +a long, long journey<br />To him I love.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. She means her heavenly Bridegroom—<br />The +Spouse of souls.</p> +<p><i>Eliz</i>. I said, to him I love.<br />Let me sleep, sleep.<br />You +will not need to wake me—so—good-night.</p> +<p>[Folds herself into an attitude of repose. The scene closes.]</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>ACT V</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE I. A.D. 1235.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>A Convent at Marpurg. Cloisters of the infirmary. Two +aged monks sitting.</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. So they will publish to-day the Landgravine’s +canonisation, and translate her to the new church prepared for her. +Alack, now, that all the world should be out sight-seeing and saint-making, +and we laid up here, like two lame jackdaws in a belfry!</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. Let be, man—let be. We have seen +sights and saints in our time. And, truly, this insolatio suits +my old bones better than processioning.</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. ’Tis pleasant enough in the sun, were +it not for the flies. Look—there’s a lizard. +Come you here, little run-about; here’s game for you.</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. A tame fool, and a gay one—Munditiæ +mundanis.</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. Catch him a fat fly—my hand shaketh.</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. If one of your new-lights were here, now, he’d +pluck him for a fiend, as Dominic did the live sparrow in chapel.</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. There will be precious offerings made to-day, +of which our house will get its share.</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. Not we; she always favoured the Franciscans +most.</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. ’Twas but fair—they were her kith +and kin.<br />She lately put on the habit of their third minors.</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. So have half the fine gentlemen and ladies +in Europe. There’s one of your new inventions, now, for +letting grand folks serve God and mammon at once, and emptying honest +monasteries, where men give up all for the Gospel’s sake. +And now these Pharisees of Franciscans will go off with full pockets—</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. While we poor publicans—</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. Shall not come home all of us justified, I +think.</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. How? Is there scandal among us?</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. Ask not—ask not. Even a fool, when +he holds his peace, is counted wise. Of all sins, avoid that same +gossiping.</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. Nay, tell me now. Are we not like David +and Jonathan? Have we not worked together, prayed together, journeyed +together, and been soundly flogged together, more by token, any time +this forty years? And now is news so plenty, that thou darest +to defraud me of a morsel?</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. I’ll tell thee—but be secret. +I knew a man hard by the convent [names are dangerous, and a bird of +the air shall carry the matter], one that hath a mighty eye for a heretic, +if thou knowest him.</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. Who carries his poll screwed on over-tight, +and sits with his eyes shut in chapel?</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. The same. Such a one to be in evil savour—to +have the splendour of the pontifical countenance turned from him, as +though he had taken Christians for Amalekites, and slain the people +of the Lord.</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. How now?</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. I only speak as I hear: for my sister’s +son is chaplain, for the time being, to a certain Archisacerdos, a foreigner, +now lodging where thou knowest. The young mail being hid, after +some knavery, behind the arras, in come our quidam and that prelate. +The quidam, surly and Saxon—the guest, smooth and Italian; his +words softer than butter, yet very swords: that this quidam had ‘exceeded +the bounds of his commission—launched out into wanton and lawless +cruelty—burnt noble ladies unheard, of whose innocence the Holy +See had proof—defiled the Catholic faith in the eyes of the weaker +sort—and alienated the minds of many nobles and gentlemen’—and +finally, that he who thinketh he standeth, were wise to take heed lest +he fall.</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. And what said Conrad?</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. Out upon a man that cannot keep his lips! +Who spake of Conrad? That quidam, however, answered nought, but—how +‘to his own master he stood or fell’—how ‘he +laboured not for the Pope but for the Papacy’; and so forth.</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. Here is awful doctrine! Behold the fruit +of your reformers! This comes of their realised ideas, and centralisations, +and organisations, till a monk cannot wink in chapel without being blinded +with the lantern, or fall sick on Fridays, for fear of the rod. +Have I not testified? Have I not foretold?</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. Thou hast indeed. Thou knowest that the +old paths are best, and livest in most pious abhorrence of all amendment.</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. Do you hear that shout? There is the +procession returning from the tomb.</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. Hark to the tramp of the horse-hoofs! +A gallant show, I’ll warrant!</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. Time was, now, when we were young bloods together +in the world, such a roll as that would have set our hearts beating +against their cages!</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. Ay, ay. We have seen sport in our day; +we have paraded and curvetted, eh? and heard scabbards jingle? +We know the sly touch of the heel, that set him on his hind legs before +the right window. Vanitas vanitatum—omnia vanitas! +Here comes Gerard, Conrad’s chaplain, with our dinner.</p> +<p>[Gerard enters across the court.]</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. A kindly youth and a godly, but—reformation-bitten, +like the rest.</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. Never care. Boys must take the reigning +madness in religion, as they do the measles—once for all.</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. Once too often for him. His face is +too, too like Abel’s in the chapel-window. Ut sis vitalis +metuo, puer!</p> +<p><i>Ger</i>. Hail, fathers. I have asked permission of +the prior to minister your refection, and bring you thereby the first +news of the pageant.</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. Blessings on thee for a good boy. Give +us the trenchers, and open thy mouth while we open ours.</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. Most splendid all, no doubt?</p> +<p><i>Ger</i>. A garden, sir,<br />Wherein all rainbowed flowers +were heaped together;<br />A sea of silk and gold, of blazoned banners,<br />And +chargers housed; such glorious press, be sure,<br />Thuringen-land ne’er +saw.</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. Just hear the boy!<br />Who rode beside the +bier?</p> +<p><i>Ger</i>. Frederic the Kaiser,<br />Henry the Landgrave, +brother of her husband;<br />The Princesses, too, Agnes, and her mother;<br />And +every noble name, sir, at whose war-cry<br />The Saxon heart leaps up; +with them the prelates<br />Of Treves, of Cöln, and Maintz—why +name them all?<br />When all were there, whom this our fatherland<br />Counts +worthy of its love.</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. ’Twas but her right.<br />Who spoke +the oration?</p> +<p><i>Ger</i>. Who but Conrad?</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. Well—<br />That’s honour to our +house.</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. Come, tell us all.</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. In order, boy: thou hast a ready tongue.</p> +<p><i>Ger</i>. He raised from off her face the pall, and ‘Lo!’<br />He +cried, ‘that saintly flesh which ye of late<br />With sacrilegious +hands, ere yet entombed,<br />Had in your superstitious selfishness<br />Almost +torn piecemeal. Fools! Gross-hearted fools!<br />These limbs +are God’s, not yours: in life for you<br />They spent themselves; +now till the judgment-day<br />By virtue of the Spirit embalmed they +lie—<br />Touch them who dare. No! Would you find +your Saint,<br />Look up, not down, where even now she prays<br />Beyond +that blazing orb for you and me.<br />Why hither bring her corpse? +Why hide her clay<br />In jewelled ark beneath God’s mercy-seat—<br />A +speck of dust among these boundless aisles,<br />Uprushing pillars, +star-bespangled roofs,<br />Whose colours mimic Heaven’s unmeasured +blue,<br />Save to remind you, how she is not here,<br />But risen with +Him that rose, and by His blaze<br />Absorbed, lives in the God for +whom she died?<br />Know her no more according to the flesh;<br />Or +only so, to brand upon your thoughts<br />How she was once a woman—flesh +and blood,<br />Like you—yet how unlike! Hark while I tell +ye.’</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. How liked the mob all this? They hate +him sore.</p> +<p><i>Ger</i>. Half awed, half sullen, till his golden lips<br />Entranced +all ears with tales so sad and strange,<br />They seemed one life-long +miracle: bliss and woe,<br />Honour and shame—her daring—Heaven’s +stern guidance,<br />Did each the other so outblaze.</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. Great signs<br />Did wait on her from youth.</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. There went a tale<br />Of one, a Zingar wizard, +who, on her birthnight,<br />He here in Eisenach, she in Presburg lying,<br />Declared +her natal moment, and the glory<br />Which should befall her by the +grace of God.</p> +<p><i>Ger</i>. He spoke of that, and many a wonder more,<br />Melting +all hearts to worship—how a robe<br />Which from her shoulders, +at a royal feast,<br />To some importunate as alms she sent,<br />By +miracle within her bower was hung again:<br />And how on her own couch +the Incarnate Son<br />In likeness of a leprous serf, she laid:<br />And +many a wondrous tale till now unheard;<br />Which, from her handmaid’s +oath and attestation,<br />Siegfried of Maintz to far Perugia sent,<br />And +sainted Umbria’s labyrinthine hills,<br />Even to the holy Council, +where the Patriarchs<br />Of Antioch and Jerusalem, and with them<br />A +host of prelates, magnates, knights, and nobles,<br />Decreed and canonised +her sainthood’s palm.</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. Mass, they could do no less.</p> +<p><i>Ger</i>. So thought my master—<br />For ‘Thus,’ +quoth he, ‘the primates of the Faith<br />Have, in the bull which +late was read to you,<br />Most wisely ratified the will of God<br />Revealed +in her life’s splendour; for the next count—<br />These +miracles wherewith since death she shines—<br />Since ye must +have your signs, ere ye believe,<br />And since without such tests the +Roman Father<br />Allows no saints to take their seats in heaven,<br />Why, +there ye have them; not a friar, I find,<br />Or old wife in the streets, +but counts some dozens<br />Of blind, deaf, halt, dumb, palsied, and +hysterical,<br />Made whole at this her tomb. A corpse or two<br />Was +raised, they say, last week: Will that content you?<br />Will that content +her? Earthworms! Would ye please the dead,<br />Bring sinful +souls, not limping carcases<br />To test her power on; which of you +hath done that?<br />Has any glutton learnt from her to fast?<br />Or +oily burgher dealt away his pelf?<br />Has any painted Jezebel in sackcloth<br />Repented +of her vanities? Your patron?<br />Think ye, that spell and flame +of intercession,<br />Melting God’s iron will, which for your +sakes<br />She purchased by long agonies, was but meant<br />To save +your doctors’ bills? If any soul<br />Hath been by her made +holier, let it speak!’</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. Well spoken, Legate! Easier asked than +answered.</p> +<p><i>Ger</i>. Not so, for on the moment, from the crowd<br />Sprang +out a gay and gallant gentleman<br />Well known in fight and tourney, +and aloud<br />With sobs and blushes told, how he long time<br />Had +wallowed deep in mire of fleshly sin,<br />And loathed, and fell again, +and loathed in vain;<br />Until the story of her saintly grace<br />Drew +him unto her tomb; there long prostrate<br />With bitter cries he sought +her, till at length<br />The image of her perfect loveliness<br />Transfigured +all his soul, and from his knees<br />He rose new-born, and, since that +blessed day,<br />In chastest chivalry, a spotless knight,<br />Maintains +the widow’s and the orphan’s cause.</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. Well done! and what said Conrad?</p> +<p><i>Ger</i>. Oh, he smiled,<br />As who should say, ‘’Twas +but the news I looked for.’<br />Then, pointing to the banners +borne on high,<br />Where the sad story of her nightly penance<br />Was +all too truly painted—‘Look!’ he cried,<br />‘’Twas +thus she schooled her soft and shuddering flesh<br />To dare and suffer +for you!’ Gay ladies sighed,<br />And stern knights wept, +and growled, and wept again.<br />And then he told her alms, her mighty +labours,<br />Among God’s poor, the schools wherein she taught;<br />The +babes she brought to the font, the hospitals<br />Founded from her own +penury, where she tended<br />The leper and the fever-stricken serf<br />With +meanest office; how a dying slave<br />Who craved in vain for milk she +stooped to feed<br />From her own bosom. At that crowning tale<br />Of +utter love, the dullest hearts caught fire<br />Contagious from his +lips—the Spirit’s breath<br />Low to the earth, like dewy-laden +corn,<br />Bowed the ripe harvest of that mighty host;<br />Knees bent, +all heads were bare; rich dames aloud<br />Bewailed their cushioned +sloth; old foes held out<br />Long parted hands; low murmured vows and +prayers<br />Gained courage, till a shout proclaimed her saint,<br />And +jubilant thunders shook the ringing air,<br />Till birds dropped stunned, +and passing clouds bewept<br />With crystal drops, like sympathising +angels,<br />Those wasted limbs, whose sainted ivory round<br />Shed +Eden-odours: from his royal head<br />The Kaiser took his crown, and +on the bier<br />Laid the rich offering; dames tore off their jewels—<br />Proud +nobles heaped with gold and gems her corse<br />Whom living they despised: +I saw no more—<br />Mine eyes were blinded with a radiant mist—<br />And +I ran here to tell you.</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. Oh, fair olive,<br />Rich with the Spirit’s +unction, how thy boughs<br />Rain balsams on us!</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. Thou didst sell thine all—<br />And bought’st +the priceless pearl!</p> +<p><i>1st Monk</i>. Thou holocaust of Abel,<br />By Cain in vain +despised!</p> +<p><i>2d Monk</i>. Thou angels’ playmate<br />Of yore, but +now their judge!</p> +<p><i>Ger</i>. Thou alabaster,<br />Broken at last, to fill the +house of God<br />With rich celestial fragrance!</p> +<p>[Etc. etc., ad libitum.]</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE II</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>A room in a convent at Mayence. Conrad alone.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. The work is done! Diva Elizabeth!<br />And +I have trained one saint before I die!<br />Yet now ’tis done, +is’t well done? On my lips<br />Is triumph: but what echo +in my heart?<br />Alas! the inner voice is sad and dull,<br />Even at +the crown and shout of victory.<br />Oh! I had hugged this purpose to +my heart,<br />Cast by for it all ruth, all pride, all scruples;<br />Yet +now its face, that seemed as pure as crystal,<br />Shows fleshly, foul, +and stained with tears and gore!<br />We make, and moil, like children +in their gardens,<br />And spoil with dabbled hands, our flowers i’ +the planting.<br />And yet a saint is made! Alas, those children!<br />Was +there no gentler way? I know not any:<br />I plucked the gay moth +from the spider’s web;<br />What if my hasty hand have smirched +its feathers?<br />Sure, if the whole be good, each several part<br />May +for its private blots forgiveness gain,<br />As in man’s tabernacle, +vile elements<br />Unite to one fair stature. Who’ll gainsay +it?<br />The whole is good; another saint in heaven;<br />Another bride +within the Bridegroom’s arms;<br />And she will pray for me!—And +yet what matter?<br />Better that I, this paltry sinful unit,<br />Fall +fighting, crushed into the nether pit,<br />If my dead corpse may bridge +the path to Heaven,<br />And damn itself, to save the souls of others.<br />A +noble ruin: yet small comfort in it;<br />In it, or in aught else——<br />A +blank dim cloud before mine inward sense<br />Dulls all the past: she +spoke of such a cloud—<br />I struck her for’t, and said +it was a fiend—<br />She’s happy now, before the throne +of God—<br />I should be merry; yet my heart’s floor sinks<br />As +on a fast day; sure some evil bodes.<br />Would it were here, that I +might see its eyes!<br />The future only is unbearable!<br />We quail +before the rising thunderstorm<br />Which thrills and whispers in the +stifled air,<br />Yet blench not, when it falls. Would it were +here!</p> +<p>[Pause.]</p> +<p>I fain would sleep, yet dare not: all the air<br />Throngs thick +upon me with the pregnant terror<br />Of life unseen, yet near. +I dare not meet them,<br />As if I sleep I shall do—I again?<br />What +matter what I feel, or like, or fear?<br />Come what God sends. +Within there—Brother Gerard!</p> +<p>[Gerard enters.]</p> +<p>Watch here an hour, and pray.—The fiends are busy.<br />So—hold +my hand. [Crosses himself.] Come on, I fear you not. +[Sleeps.]</p> +<p>[Gerard sings.]</p> +<p>Qui fugiens rnundi gravia<br />Contempsit carnis bravia,<br />Cupidinisque +somnia,<br />Lucratur, perdens, omnia.</p> +<p>Hunc gestant ulnis angeli,<br />Ne lapis officiat pedi;<br />Ne luce +timor occupet,<br />Aut nocte pestis incubet.</p> +<p>Huic cœli lilia germinant;<br />Arrisus sponsi permanent;<br />Ac +nomen in fidelibus<br />Quam filiorum medius. [Sleeps.]</p> +<p>. . . . .</p> +<p><i>Conrad</i> [awaking]. Stay! Spirits, stay! Art +thou a hell-born phantasm,<br />Or word too true, sent by the mother +of God?<br />Oh, tell me, queen of Heaven!<br />O God! if she, the city +of the Lord,<br />Who is the heart, the brain, the ruling soul<br />Of +half the earth; wherein all kingdoms, laws,<br />Authority, and faith +do culminate,<br />And draw from her their sanction and their use;<br />The +lighthouse founded on the rock of ages,<br />Whereto the Gentiles look, +and still are healed;<br />The tree whose rootlets drink of every river,<br />Whose +boughs drop Eden fruits on seaward isles;<br />Christ’s seamless +coat, rainbowed with gems and hues<br />Of all degrees and uses, rend, +and tarnish,<br />And crumble into dust!<br />Vanitas vanitatum, omnia +vanitas!<br />Oh! to have prayed, and toiled—and lied—for +this!<br />For this to have crushed out the heart of youth,<br />And +sat by calm, while living bodies burned!<br />How! Gerard; sleeping!<br />Couldst +thou not watch with me one hour, my son?</p> +<p><i>Ger</i>. [awaking]. How! have I slept? Shame on my +vaporous brain!<br />And yet there crept along my hand from thine<br />A +leaden languor, and the drowsy air<br />Teemed thick with humming wings—I +slept perforce.<br />Forgive me (while for breach of holy rule<br />Due +penance shall seem honour) my neglect.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. I should have beat thee for’t, an hour agone—<br />Now +I judge no man. What are rules and methods?<br />I have seen things +which make my brain-sphere reel:<br />My magic teraph-bust, full-packed, +and labelled,<br />With saws, ideas, dogmas, ends, and theories,<br />Lies +shivered into dust. Pah! we do squint<br />Each through his loophole, +and then dream, broad heaven<br />Is but the patch we see. But +let none know;<br />Be silent, Gerard, wary.</p> +<p><i>Ger</i>. Nay—I know nought<br />Of that which moves +thee: though I fain would ask—</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. I saw our mighty Mother, Holy Church,<br />Sit +like a painted harlot: round her limbs<br />An oily snake had coiled, +who smiled, and smiled,<br />And lisped the name of Jesus—I’ll +not tell thee:<br />I have seen more than man can see, and live:<br />God, +when He grants the tree of knowledge, bans<br />The luckless seer from +off the tree of life,<br />Lest he become as gods, and burst with pride;<br />Or +sick at sight of his own nothingness,<br />Lie down, and be a fiend: +my time is near:<br />Well—I have neither child, nor kin, nor +friend,<br />Save thee, my son; I shall go lightly forth.<br />Thou +knowest we start for Marpurg on the morrow?<br />Thou wilt go with me?</p> +<p><i>Ger</i>. Ay, to death, my master;<br />Yet boorish heretics, +with grounded throats,<br />Mutter like sullen bulls; the Count of Saym,<br />And +many gentlemen, they say, have sworn<br />A fearful oath: there’s +danger in the wind.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. They have their quarrel; I was keen and hasty:<br />Gladio +qui utitur, peribit gladio.<br />When Heaven is strong, then Hell is +strong: Thou fear’st not?</p> +<p><i>Ger</i>. No! though their name were legion! ’Tis +for thee<br />Alone I quake, lest by some pious boldness<br />Thou quench +the light of Israel.</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. Light? my son!<br />There shall no light be quenched, +when I lie dark.<br />Our path trends outward: we will forth to-morrow.<br />Now +let’s to chapel; matin bells are ringing. [Exeunt.]</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>SCENE III</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>A road between Eisenach and Marpurg. Peasants waiting by the +roadside. Walter of Varila, the Count of Saym, and other gentlemen +entering on horseback.</p> +<p><i>Gent</i>. Talk not of honour—Hell’s aflame within +me:<br />Foul water quenches fire as well as fair;<br />If I do meet +him he shall die the death,<br />Come fair, come foul: I tell you, there +are wrongs<br />The fumbling piecemeal law can never touch,<br />Which +bring of themselves to the injured, right divine,<br />Straight from +the fount of right, above all parchments,<br />To be their own avengers: +dainty lawyers,<br />If one shall slay the adulterer in the act,<br />Dare +not condemn him: girls have stabbed their tyrants,<br />And common sense +has crowned them saints; yet what—<br />What were their wrongs +to mine? All gone! All gone!<br />My noble boys, whom I +had trained, poor fools,<br />To win their spurs, and ride afield with +me!<br />I could have spared them—but my wife! my lady!<br />Those +dainty limbs, which no eyes but mine—<br />Before that ruffian +mob—Too much for man!<br />Too much, stern Heaven!—Those +eyes, those hands,<br />Those tender feet, where I have lain and worshipped—<br />Food +for fierce flames! And on the self-same day—<br />The day +that they were seized—unheard—unargued—<br />No witness, +but one vile convicted thief—<br />The dog is dead and buried: +Well done, henchmen!<br />They are not buried! Pah! their ashes +flit<br />About the common air; we pass them—breathe them!<br />The +self-same day! If I had had one look!<br />One word—one +single tiny spark of word,<br />Such as two swallows change upon the +wing!<br />She was no heretic: she knelt for ever<br />Before the blessed +rood, and prayed for me.<br />Art sure he comes this road?</p> +<p><i>C. Saym</i>. My messenger<br />Saw him start forth, and +watched him past the crossways.<br />An hour will bring him here.</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. How! ambuscading?<br />I’ll not sit by, +while helpless priests are butchered.<br />Shame, gentles!</p> +<p><i>C. Saym</i>. On my word, I knew not on’t<br />Until +this hour; my quarrel’s not so sharp,<br />But I may let him pass: +my name is righted<br />Before the Emperor, from all his slanders;<br />And +what’s revenge to me?</p> +<p><i>Gent</i>. Ay, ay—forgive and forget—<br />The +vermin’s trapped—and we’ll be gentle-handed,<br />And +lift him out, and bid his master speed him,<br />Him and his firebrands. +He shall never pass me.</p> +<p><i>C. Wal</i>. I will not see it; I’m old, and sick of +blood.<br />She loved him, while she lived; and charged me once,<br />As +her sworn liegeman, not to harm the knave.<br />I’ll home: yet, +knights, if aught untoward happen,<br />And you should need a shelter, +come to me:<br />My walls are strong. Home, knaves! we’ll +seek our wives,<br />And beat our swords to ploughshares—when +folks let us.</p> +<p>[Exeunt Count Walter and suite.]</p> +<p><i>C. Saym</i>. He’s gone, brave heart!—But—sir, +you will not dare?<br />The Pope’s own Legate—think—there’s +danger in’t.</p> +<p><i>Gent</i>. Look, how athwart yon sullen sleeping flats<br />That +frowning thunder-cloud sails pregnant hither;—<br />And black +against its sheeted gray, one bird<br />Flags fearful onward—’Tis +his cursed soul!<br />Now thou shalt quake, raven!—The self-same +day!—<br />He cannot ’scape! The storm is close upon +him!<br />There! There! the wreathing spouts have swallowed him!<br />He’s +gone! and see, the keen blue spark leaps out<br />From crag to crag, +and every vaporous pillar<br />Shouts forth his death-doom! ’Tis +a sign, a sign!</p> +<p>[A heretic preacher mounts a stone. Peasants gather round him.]</p> +<p>These are the starved unlettered hinds, forsooth,<br />He hunted +down like vermin—for a doctrine.<br />They have their rights, +their wrongs; their lawless laws,<br />Their witless arguings, which +unconscious reason<br />Informs to just conclusions. We will hear +them.</p> +<p><i>Preacher</i>. My brethren, I have a message to you: therefore +hearken with all your ears—for now is the day of salvation. +It is written, that the children of this world are in their generation +wiser than the children of light—and truly: for the children of +this world, when they are troubled with vermin, catch them—and +hear no more of them. But you, the children of light, the elect +saints, the poor of this world rich in faith, let the vermin eat your +lives out, and then fall down and worship them afterwards. You +are all besotted—hag-ridden—drunkards sitting in the stocks, +and bowing down to the said stocks, and making a god thereof. +Of part, said the prophet, ye make a god, and part serveth to roast—to +roast the flesh of your sons and of your daughters; and then ye cry, +‘Aha, I am warm, I have seen the fire;’ and a special fire +ye have seen! The ashes of your wives and of your brothers cleave +to your clothes,—Cast them up to Heaven, cry aloud, and quit yourselves +like men!</p> +<p><i>Gent</i>. He speaks God’s truth! We are Heaven’s +justicers! Our woes anoint us kings! Peace—Hark again!—</p> +<p><i>Preacher</i>. Therefore, as said before—in the next +place—It is written, that there shall be a two-edged sword in +the hand of the saints. But the saints have but two swords—Was +there a sword or shield found among ten thousand in Israel? Then +let Israel use his fists, say I, the preacher! For this man hath +shed blood, and by man shall his blood be shed. Now behold an +argument,—This man hath shed blood, even Conrad; ergo, as he saith +himself, ye, if ye are men, shall shed his blood. Doth he not +himself say ergo? Hath he not said ergo to the poor saints, to +your sons and your daughters, whom he hath burned in the fire to Moloch? +‘Ergo, thou art a heretic’—‘Ergo, thou shalt +burn.’ Is he not therefore convicted out of his own mouth? +Arise, therefore, be valiant—for this day he is delivered into +your hand!</p> +<p>[Chanting heard in the distance.]</p> +<p><i>Peasant</i>. Hush! here the psalm-singers come!</p> +<p>[Conrad enters on a mule, chanting the Psalter, Gerard following.]</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. My peace with you, my children!</p> +<p><i>1st Voice</i>. Psalm us no psalms; bless us no devil’s +blessings:<br />Your balms will break our heads. [A murmur rises.]</p> +<p><i>2d Voice</i>. You are welcome, sir; we are a-waiting for +you.</p> +<p><i>3d Voice</i>. Has he been shriven to-day?</p> +<p><i>4th Voice</i>. Where is your ergo, Master Conrad? +Faugh!<br />How both the fellows smell of smoke!</p> +<p><i>5th Voice</i>. A strange leech he, to suck, and suck, and +suck,<br />And look no fatter for’t!</p> +<p><i>Old Woman</i>. Give me back my sons!</p> +<p><i>Old Man</i>. Give me back the light of mine eyes,<br />Mine +only daughter!<br />My only one! He hurled her over the cliffs!<br />Avenge +me, lads; you are young!</p> +<p><i>4th Voice</i>. We will, we will: why smit’st him not, +thou with the pole-axe?</p> +<p><i>3d Voice</i>. Nay, now, the first blow costs most, and heals +last;<br />Besides, the dog’s a priest at worst.</p> +<p><i>C. Saym</i>. Mass! How the shaveling rascal stands +at bay!<br />There’s not a rogue of them dare face his eye!<br />True +Domini canes! ’Ware the bloodhound’s teeth, curs!</p> +<p><i>Preacher</i>. What! Are ye afraid? The huntsman’s +here at last<br />Without his whip! Down with him, craven hounds!<br />I’ll +help ye to’t. [Springs from the stone.]</p> +<p><i>Gent</i>. Ay, down with him! Mass, have these yelping +boors<br />More heart than I? [Spurs his horse forward.]</p> +<p><i>Mob</i>. A knight! a champion!</p> +<p><i>Voice</i>. He’s not mortal man!<br />See how his eyes +shine! ’Tis the archangel!<br />St. Michael come to the +rescue! Ho! St. Michael!</p> +<p>[He lunges at Conrad. Gerard turns the lance aside, and throws +his arms round Conrad.]</p> +<p><i>Ger</i>. My master! my master! The chariot of Israel +and the horses thereof!<br />Oh call down fire from Heaven!</p> +<p>[A peasant strikes down Gerard. Conrad, over the body.]</p> +<p>Alas! my son! This blood shall cry for vengeance<br />Before +the throne of God!</p> +<p><i>Gent</i>. And cry in vain!<br />Follow thy minion! +Join Folquet in hell!</p> +<p>[Bears Conrad down on his lance-point.]</p> +<p><i>Con</i>. I am the vicar of the Vicar of Christ:<br />Who +touches me doth touch the Son of God.</p> +<p>[The mob close over him.]</p> +<p>O God! A martyr’s crown! Elizabeth! [Dies.]</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>NOTES TO ACT 1</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The references, unless it be otherwise specified, are to the <i>Eight +Books concerning Saint Elizabeth, by Dietrich the Thuringian</i>; in +Basnage’s <i>Canisius</i>, Vol. IV. p. 113 (Antwerp; 1725).</p> +<p>Page 21. Cf. Lib. I. § 3. Dietrich is eloquent about +her youthful inclination for holy places, and church doors, even when +shut, and gives many real proofs of her ‘sanctæ indolis,’ +from the very cradle.</p> +<p>P. 22. ‘St. John’s sworn maid.’ Cf. +Lib. I. § 4. ‘She chose by lot for her patron, St. +John the protector of virginity.’</p> +<p><i>Ibid</i>. ‘Fit for my princess.’ Cf. Lib. +I. § 2. ‘He sent with his daughter vessels of gold, +silver baths, jewels, <i>pillows all of silk</i>. No such things, +so precious or so many, were ever seen in Thuringen-land.’</p> +<p>P. 23. ‘Most friendless.’ Cf. Lib. I. §§ +5, 6. ‘The courtiers used bitterly to insult her, etc. +Her mother and sister-in-law, given to worldly pomp, differed from her +exceedingly;’ and much more concerning ‘the persecutions +which she endured patiently in youth.’</p> +<p><i>Ibid</i>. ‘In one cradle.’ Cf. Lib. I. +§ 2. ‘The princess was laid in the cradle of her boy-spouse,’ +and, says another, ‘the infants embraced with smiles, from whence +the bystanders drew a joyful omen of their future happiness.’</p> +<p><i>Ibid</i>. ‘If thou love him.’ Cf. Lib. +I. § 6. ‘The Lord by His hidden inspiration so inclined +towards her the heart of the prince, that in the solitude of secret +and mutual love he used to speak sweetly to her heart, with kindness +and consolation, and was always wont, on returning home, to honour her +with presents, and soothe her with embraces.’ It was their +custom, says Dietrich, to the last to call each other in common conversation +‘Brother’ and ‘Sister.’</p> +<p>P. 24. ‘To his charge.’ Cf. Lib. I. § +7. ‘Walter of Varila, a good man, who, having been sent +by the prince’s father into Hungary, had brought the blessed Elizabeth +into Thuringen-land.’</p> +<p>P. 25. ‘The blind archer, Love.’ For information +about the pagan orientalism of the Troubadours, the blasphemous bombast +by which they provoked their persecution in Provence, and their influence +on the Courts of Europe, see Sismondi, <i>Lit</i>. <i>Southern Europe</i>, +Cap. III.-VI.</p> +<p>P. 27. ‘Stadings.’ The Stadings, according +to Fleury, in A.D. 1233, were certain unruly fenmen, who refused to +pay tithes, committed great cruelties on religious of both sexes, worshipped, +or were said to worship, a black cat, etc., considered the devil as +a very ill-used personage, and the rightful lord of themselves and the +world, and were of the most profligate morals. An impartial and +philosophic investigation of this and other early continental heresies +is much wanted.</p> +<p>P. 37. ‘All gold.’ Cf. Lib. I. § 7, +for Walter’s interference and Lewis’s answer, which I have +paraphrased.</p> +<p>P. 38. ‘Is crowned with thorns.’ Cf. Lib. +I. § 5, for this anecdote and her defence, which I have in like +manner paraphrased.</p> +<p>P. 39. ‘Their pardon.’ Cf. Lib. I § +3, for this quaint method of self-humiliation.</p> +<p><i>Ibid</i>. ‘You know your place.’ Cf. Lib. +I. § 6. ‘The vassals and relations of her betrothed +persecuted her openly, and plotted to send her back to her father divorced. +. . . Sophia also did all she could to place her in a convent. +. . . She delighted in the company of maids and servants, so that +Sophia used to say sneeringly to her, “You should have been counted +among the slaves who drudge, and not among the princes who rule.”’</p> +<p>P. 41. ‘Childish laughter.’ Cf. Lib. I. § +7. ‘The holy maiden, receiving the mirror, showed her joy +by delighted laughter;’ and again, II. § 8, “They loved +each other in the charity of the Lord, to a degree beyond all belief.’</p> +<p><i>Ibid</i>. ‘A crystal clear.’ Cf. Lib. +I. § 7.</p> +<p>P. 43. ‘Our fairest bride.’ Cf. Lib. I. § +8. ‘No one henceforth dared oppose the marriage by word +or plot, . . . and all mouths were stopped.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>NOTES TO ACT II</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Pp. 45-49. Cf. Lib. II. §§ 1, 5, 11, <i>et passim.</i></p> +<p>Hitherto my notes have been a careful selection of the few grains +of characteristic fact which I could find among Dietrich’s lengthy +professional reflections; but the chapter on which this scene is founded +is remarkable enough to be given whole, and as I have a long-standing +friendship for the good old monk, who is full of honest naïveté +and deep-hearted sympathy, and have no wish to disgust <i>all</i> my +readers with him, I shall give it for the most part untranslated. +In the meantime those who may be shocked at certain expressions in this +poem, borrowed from the Romish devotional school, may verify my language +at the Romish booksellers, who find just now a rapidly increasing sale +for such ware. And is it not after all a hopeful sign for the +age that even the most questionable literary tastes must nowadays ally +themselves with religion—that the hotbed imaginations which used +to batten on Rousseau and Byron have now risen at least as high as the +<i>Vies des Saints</i> and St. François de Sales’ Philothea? +The truth is, that in such a time as this, in the dawn of an age of +faith, whose future magnificence we may surely prognosticate from the +slowness and complexity of its self-developing process, spiritual ‘Werterism,’ +among other strange prolusions, must have its place. The emotions +and the imaginations will assert their just right to be fed—by +foul means if not by fair; and even self-torture will have charms after +the utter dryness and life-in-death of mere ecclesiastical pedantry. +It is good, mournful though it be, that a few, even by gorging themselves +with poison, should indicate the rise of a spiritual hunger—if +we do but take their fate as a warning to provide wholesome food before +the new craving has extended itself to the many. It is good that +religion should have its Werterism, in order that hereafter Werterism +may have its religion. But to my quotations—wherein the +reader will judge how difficult it has been for me to satisfy at once +the delicacy of the English mind and that historic truth which the highest +art demands.</p> +<p>‘Erat inter eos honorabile connubium, et thorus immaculatus, +non in ardore libidmis, sed in conjugalis sanctimoniæ castitate. +For the holy maiden, as soon as she was married, began to macerate her +flesh with many watchings, rising every night to pray; her husband sometimes +sleeping, sometimes conniving at her, often begging her, in compassion +to her delicacy, not to afflict herself indiscreetly, often supporting +her with his hand when she prayed.’ (‘And,’ +says another of her biographers, ‘being taught by her to pray +with her.’) ‘Great truly, was the devotion of this +young girl, who, rising from the bed of her carnal husband, sought Christ, +whom she loved as the <i>true husband of her soul.</i></p> +<p>‘Nor certainly was there less faith in the husband who did +not oppose such and so great a wife, but rather favoured her, and tempered +her fervour with over-kind prudence. Affected, therefore, by the +sweetness of this modest love, and mutual society, they could not bear +to be separated for any length of time or distance. The lady, +therefore, frequently followed her husband through rough roads, and +no small distances, and severe wind and weather, led rather by emotions +of sincerity than of carnality: <i>for the chaste presence of a modest +husband offered no obstacle to that devout spouse in the way of praying, +watching, or otherwise doing good</i>.’</p> +<p>Then follows the story of her nurse waking Lewis instead of her, +and Lewis’s easy good-nature about this, as about every other +event of life. ‘And so, after these unwearied watchings, +it often happened that, praying for an excessive length of time, she +fell asleep on a mat beside her husband’s bed, and being reproved +for it by her maidens, answered: “Though I cannot always pray, +yet I can do violence to my own flesh by tearing myself in the meantime +from my couch.”’</p> +<p>‘Fugiebat oblectamenta carnalia, et ideò stratum molliorem, +et <i>viri contubernium secretissimum</i>, <i>quantum licuit, declinavit. +Quem quamvis præcordialis amoris affectu deligeret, querulabatur +tamen dolens, quod virginalis decorem floris non meruit conservare</i>. +Castigabat etiam plagis multis, et lacerabat diris verberibus carnem +puella innocens et pudica.</p> +<p>‘In principio quidem diebus quadragesimæ, sextisque feriis +aliis occultas solebat accipere disciplinas, lætam coram hominibus +se ostentrans. <i>Post verò convalescens et proficiens +in gratia</i>, deserto dilecti thoro surgens, fecit se in secreto cubiculo +per ancillarum manus graviter sæpissime verberari, ad lectumque +mariti reversa hilarem se exhibuit et jocundam.</p> +<p>‘Vere felices conjuges, in quorum consortio tanta munditia, +in colloquio pudicitia reperta est. In quibus amor Christi concupiscentiam +extinxit, devotio refrenavit petulantiam, fervor spiritûs excussit +somnolentiam, oratio tutavit conscientiam, charitas benefaciendi facultatem +tribuit et lætitiam!’</p> +<p>P. 58. ‘In every scruple.’ Cf. Lib. III. +§ 9, how Lewis ‘consented that Elizabeth his wife should +make a vow of obedience and continence at the will of the said Conrad, +<i>salvâ jure matrimonii</i>.’</p> +<p>P. 59. ‘The open street.’ Cf. Lib. II. § +11. ‘On the Rogation days, when certain persons doing contrary +to the decrees of the saints are decorated with precious and luxurious +garments, the Princess, dressed in serge and barefooted, used to follow +most devoutly the Procession of the Cross and the relics of the Saints, +and place herself always at sermon among the poorest women; knowing +(says Dietrich) that seeds cast into the valleys spring up into the +richest crop of corn.’</p> +<p>P. 60. ‘The poor of Christ.’ Cf. Lib. II. +§§ 6, 11, <i>et passim</i>. Elizabeth’s labours +among the poor are too well known throughout one half at least of Christendom, +where she is, <i>par excellence</i>, the patron of the poor, to need +quotations.</p> +<p>P. 61. ‘I’ll be thy pupil.’ Cf. Lib. +II § 4. ‘She used also, by words and examples, to oblige +the worldly ladies who came to her to give up the vanity of the world, +at least in some one particular.’</p> +<p>P. 62. ‘Conrad enters.’ Cf. Lib. III. § +9, where this story of the disobeyed message and the punishment inflicted +by Conrad for it is told word for word.</p> +<p>P. 66. ‘Peaceably come by.’ Cf. Lib. II. +§ 6.</p> +<p>P. 67. ‘Bond-slaves.’ Cf. Note 11.</p> +<p>P. 69. ‘Elizabeth passes.’ Cf. Lib. II. § +5. ‘This most Christian mother, impletis <i>purgationis +suæ</i> diebus, used to dress herself in serge, and, taking in +her arms her new-born child, used to go forth secretly, barefooted, +by the difficult descent from the castle, by a rough and rocky road +to a remote church, carrying her infant in her own arms, after the example +of the Virgin Mother, and offering him upon the altar to the Lord with +a taper’ (and with gold, says another biographer).</p> +<p>P. 71. ‘Give us bread.’ Cf. Lib. III. § +6. ‘A.D. 1225, while the Landgrave was gone to Italy to +the Emperor, a severe famine arose throughout all Almaine; and lasting +for nearly two years, destroyed many with hunger. Then Elizabeth, +moved with compassion for the miserable, collected all the corn from +her granaries, and distributed it as alms for the poor. She also +built a hospital at the foot of the Wartburg, wherein she placed all +those who could not wait for the general distribution. . . . She +sold her own ornaments to feed the members of Christ. . . . Cuidam +misero lac desideranti, ad mulgendum se præbuit!’—See +p. 153.</p> +<p>P 80. ‘Ladies’ tenderness.’ Cf. Lib. +III. § 8. ‘When the courtiers and stewards complained +on his return of the Lady Elizabeth’s too great extravagance in +almsgiving, “Let her alone,” quoth he, “to do good, +and to give whatever she will for God’s sake, only keep Wartburg +and Neuenberg in my hands.”’</p> +<p>P. 87. ‘A crusader’s cross.’ Cf. Lib. +IV. § 1. ‘In the year 1227 there was a general “Passagium” +to the Holy Land, in which Frederick the Emperor also crossed the seas’ +(or rather did <i>not</i> cross the seas, says Heinrich Stero, in his +annals, but having got as far as Sicily, came back again—miserably +disappointing and breaking up the expedition, whereof the greater part +died at the various ports—and was excommunicated for so doing); +‘and Lewis, landgrave of the Thuringians, took the cross likewise +in the name of Jesus Christ, and . . . did not immediately fix the badge +which he had received to his garment, as the matter is, lest his wife, +who loved him with the most tender affection, seeing this, should be +anxious and disturbed, . . . but she found it while turning over his +purse, and fainted, struck down with a wonderful consternation.’</p> +<p>P. 90. ‘I must be gone.’ Cf. Lib. IV. § +2. A chapter in which Dietrich rises into a truly noble and pathetic +strain. ‘Coming to Schmalcald,’ he says, ‘Lewis +found his dearest friends, whom he had ordered to meet him there, not +wishing to depart without taking leave of them.’</p> +<p>Then follows Dietrich’s only poetic attempt, which Basnage +calls a ‘<i>carmen ineptum</i>, foolish ballad,’ and most +unfairly, as all readers should say, if I had any hope of doing justice +in a translation to this genial fragment of an old dramatic ballad, +and its simple objectivity, as of a writer so impressed (like all true +Teutonic poets in those earnest days) with the pathos and greatness +of his subject that he never tries to ‘improve’ it by reflections +and preaching at his readers, but thinks it enough just to tell his +story, sure that it will speak for itself to all hearts:—</p> +<p>Quibus valefaciens cum mœrore<br />Commisit suis fratribus +natos cum uxore:<br />Matremque deosculatos filiali more,<br /><i>Vix +eam alloquitur cordis præ dolore,<br /></i>Illis mota viscera, +corda tremuerunt,<br />Dum alter <i>in alterius colla irruerunt,<br />Expetentes +oscula, quæ vix receperunt<br />Propter multitudines, quæ +eos compresserunt.<br />Mater tenens filiuin, uxorque maritum,<br />In +diversa pertrahunt</i>, et tenent invitum,<br />Fratres cum militibus +velut compeditum<br />Stringunt, nec discedere sinunt expeditum.<br />Erat +in exercitu maximus tumultus,<br />Cum <i>carorum cernerent alternari +vultus.<br /></i>Flebant omnes pariter, senex et adultus,<br />Turbæ +cum militibus, cultus et incultus.<br /><i>Eja! Quis non plangeret, +cum videret flentes<br />Tot honestos nobiles</i>, tam diversas gentes,<br />Cum +Thuringis Saxones illuc venientes,<br />Ut viderent socios suos abscedentes.<br />Amico +luctamine cuncti certavere,<br />Quis eum diutius posset retinere;<br />uidam +collo brachiis, <i>quidam inhæsere<br />Vestibus, nec poterat +cuiguam respondere,<br /></i>Tandem <i>se de manibus eximens suorum<br /></i>Magnatorum +socius et peregrinorum,<br /><i>Admixtus tandem, cætui cruce signatorum<br />Non +visurus amplius terram. Thuringorum</i>!</p> +<p>Surely there is a heart of flesh in the old monk which, when warmed +by a really healthy subject, can toss aside Scripture parodies and professional +Stoic sentiment, and describe with such life and pathos, like any eye-witness, +a scene which occurred, in fact, two years before his birth.</p> +<p>‘And thus this <i>Prince of Peace</i>, ‘he continues, +‘mounting his horse with many knights, etc. . . . about the end +of the month of June, set forth in the name of the Lord, praising him +in heart and voice, and weeping and singing were heard side by side. +And close by followed, with saddest heart, that most faithful lady after +her sweetest prince, her most loving spouse, never, alas! to behold +him more. And when she was going to return, the force of love +and the agony of separation forced her on with him one day’s journey: +and yet that did not suffice. She went on, still unable to bear +the parting, another full day’s journey. . . . At last they part, +at the exhortations of Rudolph the Cupbearer. What groans, think +you, what sobs, what struggles, and yearnings of the heart must there +have been? Yet they part, and go on their way. . . . The +lord went forth exulting, as a giant to run his course; the lady returned +lamenting, as a widow, and tears were on her cheeks. Then putting +off the garments of joy, she took the dress of widowhood. The +mistress of nations, sitting alone, she turned herself utterly to God—to +her former good works, adding better ones.’</p> +<p>Their children were ‘Hermann, who became Landgraf; a daughter +who married the Duke of Brabant; another, who, remaining in virginity, +became a nun of Aldenburg, of which place she is Lady Abbess until this +day.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>NOTES TO ACT III.</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>P. 94. ‘On the freezing stone.’ Cf. Lib. +II. § 5. ‘In the absence of her husband she used to +lay aside her gay garments, conducted herself devoutly as a widow, and +waited for the return of her beloved, passing her nights in watchings, +genuflexions, prayers, and disciplines.’ And again, Lib. +IV. § 3, just quoted.</p> +<p>P. 96. ‘The will of God.’ Cf. Lib. IV. § +6. ‘The mother-in-law said to her daughter-in-law, “Be +brave, my beloved daughter; nor be disturbed at that which hath happened +by divine ordinance to thy husband, my son.” Whereto she +answered boldly, “If my brother is captive, he can be freed by +the help of God and our friends.” “He is dead,” +quoth the other. Then she, clasping her hands upon her knees, +“The world is dead to me, and all that is pleasant in the world.” +Having said this, suddenly springing up with tears, she rushed swiftly +through the whole length of the palace, and being entirely beside herself, +would have run on to the world’s end, <i>usque quâque</i>, +if a wall had not stopped her; and others coming up, led her away from +the wall to which she had clung.</p> +<p><i>Ibid</i>. ‘Yon lion’s rage.’ Cf. +Lib. III. § 2. ‘There was a certain lion in the court +of the Prince; and it came to pass on a time that rising from his bed +in the morning, and crossing the court dressed only in his gown and +slippers, he met this lion loose and raging against him. He thereon +threatened the beast with his raised fist, and rated it manfully, till +laying aside its fierceness, it lay down at the knight’s feet, +and fawned on him, wagging its tail.’ So Dietrich.</p> +<p>Pp. 99-100, 103-108. Cf. Lib. IV. § 7.</p> +<p>‘Now shortly after the news of Lewis’s death, certain +vassals of her late husband (with Henry, her brother-in-law) cast her +out of the castle and of all her possessions. . . . She took refuge +that night in a certain tavern, . . . and went at midnight to the matins +of the “Minor Brothers.” . . . And when no one dare +give her lodging, took refuge in the church. . . . And when her +little ones were brought to her from the castle, amid most bitter frost, +she knew not where to lay their heads. . . . She entered a priest’s +house, and fed her family miserably enough, by pawning what she had. +There was in that town an enemy of hers, having a roomy house. . . . +Whither she entered at his bidding, and was forced to dwell with her +whole family in a very narrow space, . . . her host and hostess heaped +her with annoyances and spite. She therefore bade them farewell, +saying, “I would willingly thank mankind if they would give me +any reason for so doing.” So she returned to her former +filthy cell.’</p> +<p>P. 100. ‘White whales’ bone’ (<i>i.e</i>. +the tooth of the narwhal); a common simile in the older poets.</p> +<p>P. 104. ‘The nuns of Kitzingen.’ Cf. Lib. +V. § 1. ‘After this, the noble Lady the Abbess of Kitzingen, +Elizabeth’s aunt according to the flesh, brought her away honourably +to Eckembert, Lord Bishop of Bamberg.’</p> +<p>P. 106. ‘Aged crone.’ Cf. Lib. IV. § +8, where this whole story is related word for word.</p> +<p>P. 109. ‘I’d mar this face.’ Cf. Lib. +V. § 1. ‘If I could not,’ said she, ‘escape +by any other means, I would with my own hands cut off my nose, that +so every man might loathe me when so foully disfigured.’</p> +<p>P. 110. ‘Botenstain.’ <i>Cf. ibid</i>. +‘The bishop commanded that she should be taken to Botenstain with +her maids, until he should give her away in marriage.’</p> +<p>P. 111. ‘Bear children.’ <i>Ibid</i>. +‘The venerable man, knowing that the Apostle says, “I will +that the younger widows marry and bear children,” thought of giving +her in marriage to some one—an intention which she perceived, +and protested on the strength of her “votum continentiæ.”’</p> +<p>P. 113. ‘The tented field.’ All records of +the worthy Bishop on which I have fallen, describe him as ‘virum +militiâ strenuissimum,’ a mighty man of war. We read +of him, in Stero of Altaich’s Chronicle, A.D. 1232, making war +on the Duke of Carinthia destroying many of his castles and laying waste +a great part of his land; and next year, being seized by some bailiff +of the Duke’s, and keeping that Lent in durance vile. In +a A.D. 1237 he was left by the Emperor as ‘vir magnaminus et bellicosus,’ +in charge of Austria, during the troubles with Duke Frederick; and died +in 1240.</p> +<p>P 115. ‘Lewis’s bones.’ Cf. Lib. V. +§ 3.</p> +<p>P 118. ‘I thank thee.’ Cf. Lib. V. § +4. ‘What agony and love there was then in her heart, He +alone can tell who knows the hearts of all the sons of men. I +believe that her grief was renewed, and all her bones trembled, when +she saw the bones of her beloved separated one from another (the corpse +had been dug up at Otranto, and <i>boiled</i>.) But though absorbed +in so great a woe, at last she remembered God, and recovering her spirit +said—(Her words I have paraphrased as closely as possible.)</p> +<p><i>Ibid</i>. ‘The close hard by.’ Cf. Lib. +V § 4.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>NOTES TO ACT IV</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>P 120. ‘Your self imposed vows.’ Cf. Lib. +IV. § I. ‘On Good Friday, when the altars were exhibited +bare in remembrance of the Saviour who hung bare on the cross for us, +she went into a certain chapel, and in the presence of Master Conrad, +and certain Franciscan brothers, laying her holy hands on the bare altar, +renounced her own will, her parents, children, relations, “et +omnibus hujus modi pompis,” all pomps of this kind (a misprint, +one hopes, for mundi) in imitation of Christ, and “omnmò +se exuit et nudavit,” stripped herself utterly naked, to follow +Him naked, in the steps of poverty.’</p> +<p>P 123. ‘All worldly goods.’ A paraphrase +of her own words.</p> +<p>P 124. ‘Thine own needs.’ But when she was +going to renounce her possessions also, the prudent Conrad stopped her. +The reflections which follow are Dietrich’s own.</p> +<p>P 125. ‘The likeness of the fiend’ etc. I +have put this daring expression into Conrad’s mouth, as the ideal +outcome of the teaching of Conrad’s age on this point—and +of much teaching also which miscalls itself Protestant, in our own age. +The doctrine is not, of course, to be found <i>totidem verbis</i> in +the formularies of any sect—yet almost all sects preach it, and +quote Scripture for it as boldly as Conrad—the Romish Saint alone +carries it honestly out into practice.</p> +<p>P 126. ‘With pine boughs.’ Cf. Lib. VI. § +2. ‘Entering a certain desolate court she betook herself, +“sub gradu cujusdam caminatæ,” to the projection of +a certain furnace, where she roofed herself in with boughs. In +the meantime in the town of Marpurg, was built for her a humble cottage +of clay and timber.’</p> +<p><i>Ibid</i>. ‘Count Pama.’ Cf. Lib. VI. § +6.</p> +<p>P 127. ‘Isentrudis and Guta.’ Cf. Lib. VII. +§ 4. ‘Now Conrad as a prudent man, perceiving that +this disciple of Christ wished to arrive at the highest pitch of perfection, +studied to remove all which he thought would retard her, and therefore +drove from her all those of her former household in whom she used to +solace or delight herself. Thus the holy priest deprived this +servant of God of all society, that so the constancy of her obedience +might become known, and occasion might be given to her for clinging +to God alone.’</p> +<p>P 128. ‘A leprous boy.’ Cf. Lib. VI. § +8.</p> +<p>She had several of these protégés, successively, whose +diseases are too disgusting to be specified, on whom she lavished the +most menial cares. All the other stories of her benevolence which +occur in these two pages are related by Dietrich.</p> +<p><i>Ibid</i>. ‘Mighty to save.’ Cf. Lib. VII. +§ 7. When we read amongst other matters, how the objects +of her prayers used to become while she was speaking so intensely <i>hot</i>, +that they not only smoked, and nearly melted, but burnt the fingers +of those who touched them: from whence Dietrich bids us ‘learn +with what an ardour of charity she used to burn, who would dry up with +her heat the flow of worldly desire, and inflame to the love of eternity.’</p> +<p>P 130. ‘Lands and titles’. Cf. Lib. V. §§ +7,8.</p> +<p>P 131. ‘Spinning wool.’ Cf. Lib. VI. § +6. ‘And crossing himself for wonder, the Count Pama cried +out and said, “Was it ever seen to this day that a king’s +daughter should spin wool?” All his messages from her father +(says Dietrich) were of no avail.</p> +<p>P 135. ‘To do her penance.’ Cf. Lib. VII. +§ 4. ‘Now he had placed with her certain austere women, +from whom she endured much oppression patiently for Christ’s sake +who, watching her rigidly, frequently reported her to her master for +having transgressed her obedience in giving some thing to the poor, +or begging others to give. And when thus accused she often received +many blows from her master, insomuch that he used to strike her in the +face, which she earnestly desired to endure patiently in memory of the +stripes of the Lord.’</p> +<p>P 136. ‘That she dared not.’ Cf. Lib. VII. +§ 4. ‘When her most intimate friends, Isentrudis and +Guta (whom another account describes as in great poverty), ‘came +to see her, she dared not give them anything even for food, nor, without +special licence, salute them.’</p> +<p>P 137. ‘To bear within us.’ ‘Seeing +in the church of certain monks who “professed poverty” images +sumptuously gilt, she said to about twenty four of them, “You +had better to have spent this money on your own food and clothes, for +we ought to have the reality of these images written in our hearts.” +And if any one mentioned a beautiful image before her she used to say, +‘I have no need of such an image. I carry the thing itself +in my bosom.”’</p> +<p><i>Ibid</i>. ‘Even on her bed.’ Cf. Lib. +VI §§ 5, 6.</p> +<p>P 139. ‘My mother rose.’ Cf. Lib. VI +§ 8. ‘Her mother, who had been long ago’ (when +Elizabeth was nine years old) ‘miserably slain by the Hungarians, +appeared to her in her dreams upon her knees, and said, “My beloved +child! pray for the agonies which I suffer; for thou canst.” +Elizabeth waking, prayed earnestly, and falling asleep again, her mother +appeared to her and told her that she was freed, and that Elizabeth’s +prayers would hereafter benefit all who invoked her.’ Of +the causes of her mother’s murder the less that is said the better, +but the prudent letter which the Bishop of Gran sent back when asked +to join in the conspiracy against her is worthy notice. ‘<i>Reginam +occidere nolite timere bonum est. Si omnes consentiunt ego non +contradico</i>.’ To be read as a full consent, or as a flat +refusal, according to the success of the plot.</p> +<p>P. 140. ‘Any living soul.’ Dietrich has much +on this point, headed, ‘How Master Conrad exercised Saint Elizabeth +in the breaking of her own will. . . . And at last forbad her +entirely to give alms; whereon she employed herself in washing lepers +and other infirm folk. In the meantime she was languishing, and +inwardly tortured with emotions of compassion.’</p> +<p>I may here say that in representing Elizabeth’s early death +as accelerated by a ‘broken heart’ I have, I believe, told +the truth, though I find no hint of anything of the kind in Dietrich. +The religious public of a petty town in the thirteenth century round +the deathbed of a royal saint would of course treasure up most carefully +all incidents connected with her latter days; but they would hardly +record sentiments or expressions which might seem to their notions to +derogate in anyway from her saintship. Dietrich, too, looking +at the subject as a monk and not as a man, would consider it just as +much his duty to make her death-scene rapturous as to make both her +life and her tomb miraculous. I have composed these last scenes +in the belief that Elizabeth and all her compeers will be recognised +as real saints, in proportion as they are felt to have been real men +and women.</p> +<p>P. 142. ‘Eructate sweet doctrine.’ The expressions +are Dietrich’s own.</p> +<p><i>Ibid</i>. ‘In her coffin yet.’ Cf. Lib. +VIII. § I.</p> +<p><i>Ibid</i>. ‘So she said.’ Cf. <i>Ibid.</i></p> +<p><i>Ibid</i>. ‘The poor of Christ.’ ‘She +begged her master to distribute all to the poor, except a worthless +tunic in which she wished to be buried. She made no will: she +would have no heir beside Christ’ (<i>i.e</i>. the poor).</p> +<p>P. 143. ‘Martha, and their brother,’ etc.</p> +<p>I have compressed the events of several days into one in this scene. +I give Dietrich’s own account, omitting his reflections. +‘When she had been ill twelve days and more one of her maids sitting +by her bed heard in her throat a very sweet sound, . . . and saying, +“Oh, my mistress, how sweetly thou didst sing!” she answered, +“I tell thee, I heard a little bird between me and the wall sing +merrily; who with his sweet song so stirred me up that I could not but +sing myself.”’</p> +<p>Again, § 3. ‘The last day she remained till evening +most devout, having been made partaker of the celestial table, and inebriated +with that most pure blood of life, which is Christ. The word of +truth was continually on her lips, and opening her mouth of wisdom, +she spake of the best things, which she had heard in sermons; eructating +from her heart good words, and the law of clemency was heard on her +tongue. She told from the abundance of her heart how the Lord +Jesus condescended to console Mary and Martha at the raising again of +their brother Lazarus, and then, speaking of His weeping with them over +the dead, she eructated the memory of the abundance of the Lord’s +sweetness, <i>affectu et effectu</i> (in feeling and expression?). +Certain religious person who were present, hearing these words, fired +with devotion by the grace which filled her lips, melted into tears. +To whom the saint of God, now dying, recalled the sweet words of her +Lord as He went to death, saying, “Daughters of Jerusalem,” +etc. Having said this she was silent. A wonderful thing. +Then most sweet voices were heard in her throat, without any motion +of her lips; and she asked of those round, “Did ye not hear some +singing with me?” “Whereon none of the faithful are +allowed to doubt,” says Dietrich, “when she herself heard +the harmony of the heavenly hosts,” etc. etc. . . . From that +time till twilight she lay, as if exultant and jubilant, showing signs +of remarkable devotion, till the crowing of the cock. Then, as +if secure in the Lord, she said to the bystanders, “What should +we do if the fiend showed himself to us?” And shortly afterwards, +with a loud and clear voice, “Fly! fly!” as if repelling +the dæmon.’</p> +<p>‘At the cock-crow she said, “Here is the hour in which +the Virgin brought forth her child Jesus and laid him in a manger. . +. . Let us talk of Him, and of that new star which he created +by his omnipotence, which never before was seen.” “For +these” (says Montanus in her name) “are the venerable mysteries +of our faith, our richest blessings, our fairest ornaments: in these +all the reason of our hope flourishes, faith grows, charity burns.”’</p> +<p>The novelty of the style and matter will, I hope, excuse its prolixity +with most readers. If not, I have still my reasons for inserting +the greater part of this chapter.</p> +<p>P. 145. ‘ I demand it.’ How far I am justified +in putting such fears into her mouth the reader may judge. Cf. +Lib. VIII. § 5. ‘The devotion of the people demanding +it, her body was left unburied till the fourth day in the midst of a +multitude.’ . . .</p> +<p>‘The flesh,’ says Dietrich, ‘had the tenderness +of a living body, and was easily moved hither and thither at the will +of those who handled it . . . . And many, sublime in the valour of their +faith, tore off the hair of her head and the nails of her fingers (“even +the tips of her ears, <i>et mamillarum papillas</i>,” says untranslatably +Montanus of Spire), and kept them as relics.’ The reference +relating to the pictures of her disciplines and the effect which they +produced on the crowd I have unfortunately lost.</p> +<p>P. 146. ‘And yet no pain.’ Cf. Lib. +VIII § 4. ‘She said, “Though I am weak I feel +no disease or pain,” and so through that whole day and night, +as hath been said, having been elevated with most holy affections of +mind towards God, and inflamed in spirit with most divine utterances +and conversations, at length she rested from jubilating, and inclining +her head as if falling into a sweet sleep, expired.’</p> +<p>P. 147. ‘Canonisation.’ Cf. Lib. VIII. § +10. If I have in the last scene been guilty of a small anachronism, +I have in this been guilty of a great one. Conrad was of course +a prime means of Elizabeth’s canonisation, and, as Dietrich and +his own ‘Letter to Pope Gregory the Ninth’ show, collected, +and pressed on the notice of the Archbishop of Maintz, the miraculous +statements necessary for that honour. But he died two years before +the actual publication of her canonisation. It appeared to me +that by following the exact facts I must either lose sight of the final +triumph, which connects my heroine for ever with Germany and all Romish +Christendom, and is the very culmination of the whole story, or relinquish +my only opportunity of doing Conrad justice, by exhibiting the remaining +side of his character.</p> +<p>I am afraid that I have erred, and that the most strict historic +truth would have coincided, as usual, with the highest artistic effect, +while it would only have corroborated the moral of my poem, supposing +that there is one. But I was fettered by the poverty of my own +imagination, and ‘do manus lectoribus.’</p> +<p><i>Ibid</i>. ‘Third Minors.’ The order of +the Third Minors of St. Francis of Assisi was in invention of the comprehensive +mind of that truly great man, by which ‘worldlings’ were +enabled to participate in the spiritual advantages of the Franciscan +rule and discipline without neglect or suspension of their civic and +family duties. But it was an institution too enlightened for its +age; and family and civic ties were destined for a far nobler consecration. +The order was persecuted and all but exterminated by the jealousy of +the Regular Monks, not, it seems, without papal connivance. Within +a few years after its foundation it numbered amongst its members the +noblest knights and ladies of Christendom, St. Louis of France among +the number.</p> +<p>P. 149. ‘Lest he fall.’ Cf. Fleury, <i>Eccl. +Annals</i>, in Anno 1233. ‘Doctor Conrad of Marpurg, the +King Henry, son of the Emperor Frederick, etc., called an Assembly at +Mayence to examine persons accused as heretics. Among whom the +Count of Saym demanded a delay to justify himself. As for the +others who did not appear, Conrad gave the cross to those who would +take up arms against them. At which these supposed heretics were +so irritated, that on his return they lay in wait for him near Marpurg, +and killed him, with brother Gerard, of the order of Minors, a holy +man. Conrad was accused of precipitation in his judgments, and +of having burned <i>trop légèrement</i> under pretext +of heresy, many noble and not noble, monks, nuns, burghers, and peasants. +For he had them executed the same day that they were accused, without +allowing any appeal.’</p> +<p>P. 150. ‘The Kaiser.’ Cf. Lib. VIII. § +12, for a list of the worthies present.</p> +<p>P. 151. ‘A Zingar wizard.’ Cf. Lib. I. § +1. The Magician’s name was Klingsohr. He has been +introduced by Novalis into his novel of <i>Heinrich Von Ofterdingen</i>, +as present at the famous contest of the Minnesingers on the Wartburg. +Here is Dietrich’s account:—</p> +<p>‘There was in those days in the Landgrave’s court six +knights, nobles, etc. etc., “cantilenarum confectores summi,” +song-wrights of the highest excellence’ (either one of them or +Klingsohr himself was the author of the Nibelungen-lied and the Heldenbuch).</p> +<p>‘Now there dwelt then in the parts of Hungary, in the land +which is called the “Seven Castles,” a certain rich nobleman, +worth 3000 marks a year, a philosopher, practised from his youth in +secular literature, but nevertheless learned in the sciences of Necromancy +and Astronomy. This master Klingsohr was sent for by the Prince +to judge between the songs of these knights aforesaid. Who, before +he was introduced to the Landgrave, sitting one night in Eisenach, in +the court of his lodging, looked very earnestly upon the stars, and +being asked if he had perceived any secrets, “Know that this night +is born a daughter to the King of Hungary, who shall be called Elizabeth, +and shall be a saint, and shall be given to wife to the son of this +prince, in the fame of whose sanctity all the earth shall exult and +be exalted.”</p> +<p>‘See!—He who by Balaam the wizard foretold the mystery +of his own incarnation, himself foretold by this wizard the name and +birth of his fore-chosen handmaid Elizabeth.’ (A comparison, +of which Basnage says, that he cannot deny it to be intolerable.) +I am not bound to explain all strange stories, but considering who and +whence Klingsohr was, and the fact that the treaty of espousals took +place two months afterwards, ‘adhuc sugens ubera desponsata est,’ +it is not impossible that King Andrew and his sage vassal may have had +some previous conversation on the destination of the unborn princess.</p> +<p>P. 151. ‘A robe.’ Cf. Lib. II. § 9, +for this story, on which Dietrich observes, ‘Thus did her Heavenly +Father clothe his lily Elizabeth, as Solomon in all his glory could +not do.’</p> +<p>P. 152. ‘The Incarnate Son.’ This story is +told, I think, by Surias, and has been introduced with an illustration +by a German artist of the highest note, into a modern prose biography +of this saint. (I have omitted much more of the same kind.)</p> +<p><i>Ibid</i>. ‘Sainthood’s palm.’ Cf. +Lib. VIII. §§ 7, 8, 9. ‘While to declare the merits +of his handmaid Elizabeth, in the place where her body rested, Almighty +God was thus multiplying the badges of her virtues (<i>i.e</i>. miracles), +two altars were built in her praise in that chapel, which while Siegfried, +Archbishop of Mayence, was consecrating, as he had evidently been commanded +in a vision, at the prayers of that devout man master Conrad, preacher +of the word of God; the said preacher commanded all who had received +any grace of healing from the merits of Elizabeth, to appear next day +before the Archbishop and faithfully prove their assertions by witnesses. +. . . Then the Most Holy Father, Pope Gregory the Ninth, having +made diligent examination of the miracles transmitted to him, trusting +at the same time to mature and prudent counsels, and the Holy Spirit’s +providence, above all, so ordaining, his clemency disposing, and his +grace admonishing, decreed that the Blessed Elizabeth was to be written +among the catalogue of the saints on earth, since in heaven she rejoices +as written in the Book of Life.’ . . .</p> +<p>Then follow four chapters, headed severally—</p> +<p>§ 9. ‘Of the solemn canonisation of the Blessed +Elizabeth.’</p> +<p>§ 10. ‘Of the translation of the Blessed Elizabeth +(and how the corpse when exposed diffused round a miraculous fragrance).’</p> +<p>§ 11. ‘Of the desire of the people to see, embrace, +and kiss (says Dietrich) those sacred bones, the organs of the Holy +Spirit, from which flowed so many graces of sanctities.’</p> +<p>§ 12. ‘Of the sublime persons who were present, +and their oblations.’</p> +<p>§ 13. ‘A consideration of the divine mercy about +this matter.’</p> +<p>‘Behold! she who despised the glory of the world, and refused +the company of magnates, is magnificently honoured by the dignity of +the Pontifical office, and the reverent care of Imperial Majesty. +And she who, seeking the lowest place in this life, sat on the ground, +slept in the dust, is now raised on high, by the hands of Kings and +Princes. . . . It transcends all heights of temporal glory, to have +been made like the saints in glory. For all the rich among the +people “vultum ejus desprecantur” (pray for the light of +her countenance), and kings and princes offer gifts, magnates adore +her, and all nations serve her. Nor without reason, for “she +sold all and gave to the poor,” and counting all her substance +for nothing, bought for herself this priceless pearl of eternity.’ +One would be sorry to believe that such utterly mean considerations +of selfish vanity, expressing as they do an extreme respect for the +very pomps and vanities which they praise the saints for despising, +really went to the making of any saint, Romish or other.</p> +<p>§ 14. ‘Of the sacred oil which flowed from the bones +of Elizabeth.’ I subjoin the ‘Epilogus.’</p> +<p>‘Moreover even as the elect handmaid of God, the most blessed +Elizabeth, had shone during her life with wonderful signs of her virtues, +so since the day of her blessed departure up to the present time, she +is resplendent through the various quarters of the world with illustrious +prodigies of miracles, the Divine power glorifying her. For to +the blind, dumb, deaf, and lame, dropsical, possessed, and leprous, +shipwrecked, and captives, “ipsius mertis,” as a reward +for her holy deeds, remedies are conferred. Also, to all diseases, +necessities, and dangers, assistance is given. And, moreover, +by the many corpses, “<i>puta sedecim</i>” say sixteen, +wonderfully raised to life by herself, becomes known to the faithful +the magnificence of the virtues of the Most High glorifying His saint. +To that Most High be glory and honour for ever. Amen.’</p> +<p>So ends Dietrich’s story. The reader has by this time, +I hope, read enough to justify, in every sense, Conrad’s ‘A +corpse or two was raised, they say, last week,’ and much more +of the funeral oration which I have put into his mouth.</p> +<p>P. 153. ‘Gallant gentleman.’ Cf. Lib. VIII. +§ 6.</p> +<p>P. 154. ‘Took his crown.’ Cf. Lib. VIII. +§ 12.</p> +<p><i>Ibid</i>. The ‘olive’ and the ‘pearl’ +are Dietrich’s own figures. The others follow the method +of scriptural interpretation, usual in the writers of that age.</p> +<p>P. 162. ‘Domini canes,’ ‘The Lord’s +hounds,’ a punning sobriquet of the Dominican inquisitors, in +allusion to their profession.</p> +<p>P 163. ‘Folquet,’ Bishop of Toulouse, who had been +in early life a Troubadour, distinguished himself by his ferocity and +perfidy in the crusade against the Albigenses and Troubadours, especially +at the surrender of Toulouse, in company with his chief abettor, the +infamous Simon de Montford. He died A.D. 1231.—See Sismondi, +<i>Lit. of Southern Europe</i>, Cap. 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