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diff --git a/11346.txt b/11346.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5b3151f --- /dev/null +++ b/11346.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7901 @@ +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*** + + + + +Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk + + + + +THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY + + + + +PREFACE BY THE REV. F. D. MAURICE, M.A. (1848) + + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _dramatical_ 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 Canterbury Tales +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 Paradise Lost,--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. + +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 _historians_. 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 +_this_ 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. + +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 amende +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. + +F. D. M. + + + +INTRODUCTION + + + +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. + +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. +'The Book of the Sayings of Elizabeth's Four Ladies (Guta, +Isentrudis, and two others)'; 'The Letter which Conrad of Marpurg, +her Director, wrote to Pope Gregory the Ninth' (these two documents +still exist); 'The Sermon of Otto' (de Ordine Praedic), which begins +thus: 'Mulierem fortem.' + +'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 (Acta Sanctorum), +Jacobus de Voragine, Alban Butler, and all others which I have seen, +are copied with a very few additions and many prudent omissions. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 Mediaeval 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. + +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 Fouque, and of certain moderns whose +graceful minds, like some enchanted well, + + +In whose calm depths the pure and beautiful +Alone are mirrored, + + +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.e. 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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, _Protestants_, 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. + +1848. + + + +CHARACTERS + + + +Elizabeth, daughter of the King of Hungary, +Lewis, Landgrave of Thuringia, betrothed to her in childhood. +Henry, brother of Lewis. +Walter of Varila, } +Rudolf the Cupbearer, } +Leutolf of Erlstetten, } +Hartwig of Erba, } Vassals of Lewis. +Count Hugo, } +Count of Saym, etc. } +Conrad of Marpurg, a Monk, the Pope's Commissioner for the +suppression of heresy. +Gerard, his Chaplain. +Bishop of Bamberg, uncle of Elizabeth, etc. etc. +Sophia, Dowager Landgravine. +Agnes, her daughter, sister of Lewis. +Isentrudis, Elizabeth's nurse. +Guta, her favourite maiden. +Etc. etc. etc + +The Scene lies principally in Eisenach, and the Wartburg; changing +afterwards to Bamberg, and finally to Marpurg. + + + +PROEM + + + +(EPIMETHEUS) + +I + +Wake again, Teutonic Father-ages, + Speak again, beloved primaeval creeds; +Flash ancestral spirit from your pages, + Wake the greedy age to noble deeds. + +II + +Tell us, how of old our saintly mothers + Schooled themselves by vigil, fast, and prayer, +Learnt to love as Jesus loved before them, + While they bore the cross which poor men bear. + +III + +Tell us how our stout crusading fathers + Fought and died for God, and not for gold; +Let their love, their faith, their boyish daring, + Distance-mellowed, gild the days of old. + +IV + +Tell us how the sexless workers, thronging, + Angel-tended, round the convent doors, +Wrought to Christian faith and holy order + Savage hearts alike and barren moors. + +V + +Ye who built the churches where we worship, + Ye who framed the laws by which we move, +Fathers, long belied, and long forsaken, + Oh! forgive the children of your love! + +(PROMETHEUS) + +I + +Speak! but ask us not to be as ye were! + All but God is changing day by day. +He who breathes on man the plastic spirit + Bids us mould ourselves its robe of clay. + +II + +Old anarchic floods of revolution, + Drowning ill and good alike in night, +Sink, and bare the wrecks of ancient labour, + Fossil-teeming, to the searching light. + +III + +There will we find laws, which shall interpret, + Through the simpler past, existing life; +Delving up from mines and fairy caverns + Charmed blades, to cut the age's strife. + +IV + +What though fogs may stream from draining waters? + We will till the clays to mellow loam; +Wake the graveyard of our fathers' spirits; + Clothe its crumbling mounds with blade and bloom. + +V. + +Old decays but foster new creations; + Bones and ashes feed the golden corn; +Fresh elixirs wander every moment, + Down the veins through which the live past feeds its child, the +live unborn. + + + +ACT I + + + +SCENE I. A.D. 1220 + + +The Doorway of a closed Chapel in the Wartburg. Elizabeth sitting +on the Steps. + +Eliz. Baby Jesus, who dost lie +Far above that stormy sky, +In Thy mother's pure caress, +Stoop and save the motherless. + +Happy birds! whom Jesus leaves +Underneath His sheltering eaves; +There they go to play and sleep, +May not I go in to weep? + +All without is mean and small, +All within is vast and tall; +All without is harsh and shrill, +All within is hushed and still. + +Jesus, let me enter in, +Wrap me safe from noise and sin. +Let me list the angels' songs, +See the picture of Thy wrongs; + +Let me kiss Thy wounded feet, +Drink Thine incense, faint and sweet, +While the clear bells call Thee down +From Thine everlasting throne. + +At thy door-step low I bend, +Who have neither kin nor friend; +Let me here a shelter find, +Shield the shorn lamb from the wind. + +Jesu, Lord, my heart will break: +Save me for Thy great love's sake! + +[Enter Isentrudis.] + +Isen. Aha! I had missed my little bird from the nest, +And judged that she was here. What's this? fie, tears? + +Eliz. Go! you despise me like the rest. + +Isen. Despise you? +What's here? King Andrew's child? St. John's sworn maid? +Who dares despise you? Out upon these Saxons! +They sang another note when I was younger, +When from the rich East came my queenly pearl, +Lapt on this fluttering heart, while mighty heroes +Rode by her side, and far behind us stretched +The barbs and sumpter mules, a royal train, +Laden with silks and furs, and priceless gems, +Wedges of gold, and furniture of silver, +Fit for my princess. + +Eliz. Hush now, I've heard all, nurse, +A thousand times. + +Isen. Oh, how their hungry mouths +Did water at the booty! Such a prize, +Since the three Kings came wandering into Coln, +They ne'er saw, nor their fathers;--well they knew it! +Oh, how they fawned on us! 'Great Isentrudis!' +'Sweet babe!' The Landgravine did thank her saints +As if you, or your silks, had fallen from heaven; +And now she wears your furs, and calls us gipsies. +Come tell your nurse your griefs; we'll weep together, +Strangers in this strange land. + +Eliz. I am most friendless. +The Landgravine and Agnes--you may see them +Begrudge the food I eat, and call me friend +Of knaves and serving-maids; the burly knights +Freeze me with cold blue eyes: no saucy page +But points and whispers, 'There goes our pet nun; +Would but her saintship leave her gold behind, +We'd give herself her furlough.' Save me! save me! +All here are ghastly dreams; dead masks of stone, +And you and I, and Guta, only live: +Your eyes alone have souls. I shall go mad! +Oh that they would but leave me all alone +To teach poor girls, and work within my chamber, +With mine own thoughts, and all the gentle angels +Which glance about my dreams at morning-tide! +Then I should be as happy as the birds +Which sing at my bower window. Once I longed +To be beloved,--now would they but forget me! +Most vile I must be, or they could not hate me! + +Isen. They are of this world, thou art not, poor child, +Therefore they hate thee, as they did thy betters. + +Eliz. But, Lewis, nurse? + +Isen. He, child? he is thy knight; +Espoused from childhood: thou hast a claim upon him. +One that thou'lt need, alas!--though, I remember-- +'Tis fifteen years agone--when in one cradle +We laid two fair babes for a marriage token; +And when your lips met, then you smiled, and twined +Your little limbs together.--Pray the Saints +That token stand!--He calls thee love and sister, +And brings thee gew-gaws from the wars: that's much! +At least he's thine if thou love him. + +Eliz. If I love him? +What is this love? Why, is he not my brother +And I his sister? Till these weary wars, +The one of us without the other never +Did weep or laugh: what is't should change us now? +You shake your head and smile. + +Isen. Go to; the chafe +Comes not by wearing chains, but feeling them. + +Eliz. Alas! here comes a knight across the court; +Oh, hide me, nurse! What's here? this door is fast. + +Isen. Nay, 'tis a friend: he brought my princess hither, +Walter of Varila; I feared him once-- +He used to mock our state, and say, good wine +Should want no bush, and that the cage was gay, +But that the bird must sing before he praised it. +Yet he's a kind heart, while his bitter tongue +Awes these court popinjays at times to manners. +He will smile sadly too, when he meets my maiden; +And once he said, he was your liegeman sworn, +Since my lost mistress, weeping, to his charge +Trusted the babe she saw no more.--God help us! + +Eliz. How did my mother die, nurse? + +Isen. She died, my child. + +Eliz. But how? Why turn away? +Too long I've guessed at some dread mystery +I may not hear: and in my restless dreams, +Night after night, sweeps by a frantic rout +Of grinning fiends, fierce horses, bodiless hands, +Which clutch at one to whom my spirit yearns +As to a mother. There's some fearful tie +Between me and that spirit-world, which God +Brands with his terrors on my troubled mind. +Speak! tell me, nurse! is she in heaven or hell? + +Isen. God knows, my child: there are masses for her soul +Each day in every Zingar minster sung. + +Eliz. But was she holy?--Died she in the Lord? +Isen [weeps]. O God! my child! And if I told thee all, +How couldst thou mend it? + +Eliz. Mend it? O my Saviour! +I'd die a saint! +Win heaven for her by prayers, and build great minsters, +Chantries, and hospitals for her; wipe out +By mighty deeds our race's guilt and shame-- +But thus, poor witless orphan! [Weeps.] + +[Count Walter enters.] + +Wal. Ah! my princess! accept your liegeman's knee; +Down, down, rheumatic flesh! + +Eliz. Ah! Count Walter! you are too tall to kneel to little girls. + +Wal. 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. + +Isen. You shall jest long before she's merry. + +Wal. Ah! dowers and dowagers again! The money--root of all evil. +What comes here? [A Page enters.] +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? + +Page. 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. + +Wal. Saints! what's all this? + +Page. 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.' + +Wal. Where did the evil one set you on finding all this heathenry? + +Page. Oh, we are all barristers of Love's court, Sir; we have +Ovid's gay science conned, Sir, ad unguentum, as they say, out of +the French book. + +Wal. 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! + +Page. Do you call me a camel, Sir? + +Wal. What's your business? + +Page. My errand is to the Princess here. + +Eliz. To me? + +Page. 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. + +Isen [strikes him]. Monkey! To whom are you speaking? + +Eliz. Oh, peace, peace, peace! I'll go with him. + +Page. 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.] + +Isen. See here, Sir Saxon, how this pearl of price +Is faring in your hands! The peerless image, +To whom this court is but the tawdry frame,-- +The speck of light amid its murky baseness,-- +The salt which keeps it all from rotting,--cast +To be the common fool,--the laughing stock +For every beardless knave to whet his wit on! +Tar-blooded Germans!--Here's another of them. + +[A young Knight enters.] + +Knight. Heigh! Count! What? learning to sing psalms? They are +waiting +For you in the manage-school, to give your judgment +On that new Norman mare. + +Wal. Tell them I'm busy. + +Knight. Busy? St. Martin! Knitting stockings, eh? +To clothe the poor withal? Is that your business? +I passed that canting baby on the stairs; +Would heaven that she had tripped, and broke her goose-neck, +And left us heirs de facto. So, farewell. [Exit.] + +Wal. A very pretty quarrel! matter enough +To spoil a waggon-load of ash-staves on, +And break a dozen fools' backs across their cantlets. +What's Lewis doing? + +Isen. Oh--befooled,-- +Bewitched with dogs and horses, like an idiot +Clutching his bauble, while a priceless jewel +Sticks at his miry heels. + +Wal. The boy's no fool,-- +As good a heart as hers, but somewhat given +To hunt the nearest butterfly, and light +The fire of fancy without hanging o'er it +The porridge-pot of practice. He shall hear or-- + +Isen. And quickly, for there's treason in the wind. +They'll keep her dower, and send her home with shame +Before the year's out. + +Wal. Humph! Some are rogues enough for't. +As it falls out, I ride with him to-day. + +Isen. Upon what business? + +Wal. 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. + +Isen. Oh, here's your time! Speak to him, noble Walter. +Stun his dull ears with praises of her grace; +Prick his dull heart with shame at his own coldness. +Oh right us, Count. + +Wal. I will, I will: go in +And dry your eyes. [Exeunt separately.] + + +SCENE II + + +A Landscape in Thuringia. Lewis and Walter riding. + +Lewis. So all these lands are mine; these yellow meads-- +These village greens, and forest-fretted hills, +With dizzy castles crowned. Mine! Why that word +Is rich in promise, in the action bankrupt. +What faculty of mine, save dream-fed pride, +Can these things fatten? Mass! I had forgot: +I have a right to bark at trespassers. +Rare privilege! While every fowl and bush, +According to its destiny and nature +(Which were they truly mine, my power could alter), +Will live, and grow, and take no thought of me. +Those firs, before whose stealthy-marching ranks +The world-old oaks still dwindle and retreat, +If I could stay their poisoned frown, which cows +The pale shrunk underwood, and nestled seeds +Into an age of sleep, 'twere something: and those men +O'er whom that one word 'ownership' uprears me-- +If I could make them lift a finger up +But of their own free will, I'd own my seizin. +But now--when if I sold them, life and limb, +There's not a sow would litter one pig less +Than when men called her mine.--Possession's naught; +A parchment ghost; a word I am ashamed +To claim even here, lest all the forest spirits, +And bees who drain unasked the free-born flowers, +Should mock, and cry, 'Vain man, not thine, but ours.' + +Wal. Possession's naught? Possession's beef and ale-- +Soft bed, fair wife, gay horse, good steel.--Are they naught? +Possession means to sit astride of the world, +Instead of having it astride of you; +Is that naught? 'Tis the easiest trade of all too; +For he that's fit for nothing else, is fit +To own good land, and on the slowest dolt +His state sits easiest, while his serfs thrive best. + +Lewis. How now? What need then of long discipline, +Not to mere feats of arms, but feats of soul; +To courtesies and high self-sacrifice, +To order and obedience, and the grace +Which makes commands, requests, and service, favour? +To faith and prayer, and pure thoughts, ever turned +To that Valhalla, where the virgin saints +And stainless heroes tend the Queen of heaven? +Why these, if I but need, like stalled ox +To chew the grass cut for me? + +Wal. Why? Because +I have trained thee for a knight, boy, not a ruler. +All callings want their proper 'prentice time +But this of ruling; it comes by mother-wit; +And if the wit be not exceeding great, +'Tis best the wit be most exceeding small; +And he that holds the reins should let the horse +Range on, feed where he will, live and let live. +Custom and selfishness will keep all steady +For half a life.--Six months before you die +You may begin to think of interfering. + +Lewis. Alas! while each day blackens with fresh clouds, +Complaints of ague, fever, crumbling huts, +Of land thrown out to the forest, game and keepers, +Bailiffs and barons, plundering all alike; +Need, greed, stupidity: To clear such ruin +Would task the rich prime of some noble hero-- +But can I nothing do? + +Wal. Oh! plenty, Sir; +Which no man yet has done or e'er will do. +It rests with you, whether the priest be honoured; +It rests with you, whether the knight be knightly; +It rests with you, whether those fields grow corn; +It rests with you, whether those toiling peasants +Lift to their masters free and loyal eyes, +Or crawl, like jaded hacks, to welcome graves. +It rests with you--and will rest. + +Lewis. I'll crowd my court and dais with men of God, +As doth my peerless namesake, King of France. + +Wal. Priests, Sir? The Frenchman keeps two counsellors +Worth any drove of priests. + +Lewis. And who are they? + +Wal. God and his lady-love, [aside] He'll open at that-- + +Lewis. I could be that man's squire. + +Wal [aside] Again run riot-- +Now for another cast, [aloud] If you'd sleep sound, Sir, +You'll let priests pray for you, but school you never. + +Lewis. Mass! who more fitted? + +Wal. None, if you could trust them; +But they are the people's creatures; poor men give them +Their power at the church, and take it back at the ale-house: +Then what's the friar to the starving peasant? +Just what the abbot is to the greedy noble-- +A scarecrow to lear wolves. Go ask the church plate, +Safe in knights' cellars, how these priests are feared. +Bruised reeds when you most need them.--No, my Lord; +Copy them, trust them never. + +Lewis. Copy? wherein? + +Wal. In letting every man +Do what he likes, and only seeing he does it +As you do your work--well. That's the Church secret +For breeding towns, as fast as you breed roe-deer; +Example, but not meddling. See that hollow-- +I knew it once all heath, and deep peat-bog-- +I drowned a black mare in that self-same spot +Hunting with your good father: Well, he gave +One jovial night, to six poor Erfurt monks-- +Six picked-visaged, wan, bird-fingered wights-- +All in their rough hair shirts, like hedgehogs starved-- +I told them, six weeks' work would break their hearts: +They answered, Christ would help, and Christ's great mother, +And make them strong when weakest: So they settled: +And starved and froze. + +Lewis. And dug and built, it seems. + +Wal. Faith, that's true. See--as garden walls draw snails, +They have drawn a hamlet round; the slopes are blue, +Knee-deep with flax, the orchard boughs are breaking +With strange outlandish fruits. See those young rogues +Marching to school; no poachers here, Lord Landgrave,-- +Too much to be done at home; there's not a village +Of yours, now, thrives like this. By God's good help +These men have made their ownership worth something. +Here comes one of them. + +Lewis. I would speak to him-- +And learn his secret.--We'll await him here. + +[Enter Conrad.] + +Con. Peace to you, reverend and war-worn knight, +And you, fair youth, upon whose swarthy lip +Blooms the rich promise of a noble manhood. +Methinks, if simple monks may read your thoughts, +That with no envious or distasteful eyes +Ye watch the labours of God's poor elect. + +Wal. Why--we were saying, how you cunning rooks +Pitch as by instinct on the fattest fallows. + +Con. For He who feeds the ravens, promiseth +Our bread and water sure, and leads us on +By peaceful streams in pastures green to lie, +Beneath our Shepherd's eye. + +Lewis. In such a nook, now, +To nestle from this noisy world-- + +Con. And drop +The burden of thyself upon the threshold. + +Lewis. Think what rich dreams may haunt those lowly roofs! + +Con. Rich dreams,--and more; their dreams will find fulfilment-- +Their discipline breeds strength--'Tis we alone +Can join the patience of the labouring ox +Unto the eagle's foresight,--not a fancy +Of ours, but grows in time to mighty deeds; +Victories in heavenly warfare: but yours, yours, Sir, +Oh, choke them, choke the panting hopes of youth, +Ere they be born, and wither in slow pains, +Cast by for the next bauble! + +Lewis. 'Tis too true! +I dread no toil; toil is the true knight's pastime-- +Faith fails, the will intense and fixed, so easy +To thee, cut off from life and love, whose powers +In one close channel must condense their stream: +But I, to whom this life blooms rich and busy, +Whose heart goes out a-Maying all the year +In this new Eden--in my fitful thought +What skill is there, to turn my faith to sight-- +To pierce blank Heaven, like some trained falconer +After his game, beyond all human ken? + +Wal. And walk into the bog beneath your feet. + +Con. And change it to firm land by magic step! +Build there cloud-cleaving spires, beneath whose shade +Great cities rise for vassals; to call forth +From plough and loom the rank unlettered hinds, +And make them saints and heroes--send them forth +To sway with heavenly craft the spirit of princes; +Change nations' destinies, and conquer worlds +With love, more mighty than the sword; what, Count? +Art thou ambitious? practical? we monks +Can teach you somewhat there too. + +Lewis. Be it so; +But love you have forsworn; and what were life +Without that chivalry, which bends man's knees +Before God's image and his glory, best +Revealed in woman's beauty? + +Con. Ah! poor worldlings! +Little you dream what maddening ecstasies, +What rich ideals haunt, by day and night, +Alone, and in the crowd, even to the death, +The servitors of that celestial court +Where peerless Mary, sun-enthroned, reigns, +In whom all Eden dreams of womanhood, +All grace of form, hue, sound, all beauty strewn +Like pearls unstrung, about this ruined world, +Have their fulfilment and their archetype. +Why hath the rose its scent, the lily grace? +To mirror forth her loveliness, from whom, +Primeval fount of grace, their livery came: +Pattern of Seraphs! only worthy ark +To bear her God athwart the floods of time! + +Lewis. Who dare aspire to her? Alas, not I! +To me she is a doctrine, and a picture:-- +I cannot live on dreams. + +Con. She hath her train:-- +There thou may'st choose thy love: If world-wide lore +Shall please thee, and the Cherub's glance of fire, +Let Catharine lift thy soul, and rapt with her +Question the mighty dead, until thou float +Tranced on the ethereal ocean of her spirit. +If pity father passion in thee, hang +Above Eulalia's tortured loveliness; +And for her sake, and in her strength, go forth +To do and suffer greatly. Dost thou long +For some rich heart, as deep in love as weakness, +Whose wild simplicity sweet heaven-born instincts +Alone keep sane? + +Lewis. I do, I do. I'd live +And die for each and all the three. + +Con. Then go-- +Entangled in the Magdalen's tresses lie; +Dream hours before her picture, till thy lips +Dare to approach her feet, and thou shalt start +To find the canvas warm with life, and matter +A moment transubstantiate to heaven. + +Wal. Ay, catch his fever, Sir, and learn to take +An indigestion for a troop of angels. +Come, tell him, monk, about your magic gardens, +Where not a stringy head of kale is cut +But breeds a vision or a revelation. + +Lewis. Hush, hush, Count! Speak, strange monk, strange words, and +waken +Longings more strange than either. + +Con. Then, if proved, +As I dare vouch thee, loyal in thy love, +Even to the Queen herself thy saintlier soul +At length may soar: perchance--Oh, bliss too great +For thought--yet possible! +Receive some token--smile--or hallowing touch +Of that white hand, beneath whose soft caress +The raging world is smoothed, and runs its course +To shadow forth her glory. + +Lewis. Thou dost tempt me-- +That were a knightly quest. + +Con. Ay, here's true love. +Love's heaven, without its hell; the golden fruit +Without the foul husk, which at Adam's fall +Did crust it o'er with filth and selfishness. +I tempt thee heavenward--from yon azure walls +Unearthly beauties beckon--God's own mother +Waits longing for thy choice-- + +Lewis. Is this a dream? + +Wal. Ay, by the Living Lord, who died for you! +Will you be cozened, Sir, by these air-blown fancies, +These male hysterics, by starvation bred +And huge conceit? Cast off God's gift of manhood, +And, like the dog in the adage, drop the true bone +With snapping at the sham one in the water? +What were you born a man for? + +Lewis. Ay, I know it:-- +I cannot live on dreams. Oh for one friend, +Myself, yet not myself; one not so high +But she could love me, not too pure to pardon +My sloth and meanness! Oh for flesh and blood, +Before whose feet I could adore, yet love! +How easy then were duty! From her lips +To learn my daily task;--in her pure eyes +To see the living type of those heaven-glories +I dare not look on;--let her work her will +Of love and wisdom on these straining hinds;-- +To squire a saint around her labour field, +And she and it both mine:--That were possession! + +Con. The flesh, fair youth-- + +Wal. Avaunt, bald snake, avaunt! +We are past your burrow now. Come, come, Lord Landgrave, +Look round, and find your saint. + +Lewis. Alas! one such-- +One such, I know, who upward from one cradle +Beside me like a sister--No, thank God! no sister!-- +Has grown and grown, and with her mellow shade +Has blanched my thornless thoughts to her own hue, +And even now is budding into blossom, +Which never shall bear fruit, but inward still +Resorb its vital nectar, self-contained, +And leave no living copies of its beauty +To after ages. Ah! be less, sweet maid, +Less than thyself! Yet no--my wife thou might'st be, +If less than thus--but not the saint thou art. +What! shall my selfish longings drag thee down +From maid to wife? degrade the soul I worship? +That were a caitiff deed! Oh, misery! +Is wedlock treason to that purity, +Which is the jewel and the soul of wedlock? +Elizabeth! my saint! [Exit Conrad.] + +Wal. What, Sir? the Princess? +Ye saints in heaven, I thank you! + +Lewis. Oh, who else, +Who else the minutest lineament fulfils +Of this my cherished portrait? + +Wal. So--'tis well. +Hear me, my Lord.--You think this dainty princess +Too perfect for you, eh? That's well again; +For that whose price after fruition falls +May well too high be rated ere enjoyed-- +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. + +Lewis. Loves me! My Count, that word is quickly spoken; +And yet, if it be true, it thrusts me forth +Upon a shoreless sea of untried passion, +From whence is no return. + +Wal. By Siegfried's sword, +My words are true, and I came here to say them, +To thee, my son in all but blood. +Mass, I'm no gossip. Why? What ails the boy? + +Lewis. Loves me! Henceforth let no man, peering down +Through the dim glittering mine of future years, +Say to himself 'Too much! this cannot be!' +To-day, and custom, wall up our horizon: +Before the hourly miracle of life +Blindfold we stand, and sigh, as though God were not. +I have wandered in the mountains, mist-bewildered, +And now a breeze comes, and the veil is lifted, +And priceless flowers, o'er which I trod unheeding, +Gleam ready for my grasp. She loves me then! +She who to me was as a nightingale +That sings in magic gardens, rock-beleaguered, +To passing angels melancholy music-- +Whose dark eyes hung, like far-off evening stars, +Through rosy-cushioned windows coldly shining +Down from the cloud-world of her unknown fancy-- +She, for whom holiest touch of holiest knight +Seemed all too gross--who might have been a saint +And companied with angels--thus to pluck +The spotless rose of her own maidenhood +To give it unto me! + +Wal. You love her then? + +Lewis. Look! if yon solid mountain were all gold, +And each particular tree a band of jewels, +And from its womb the Niebelungen hoard +With elfin wardens called me, 'Leave thy love +And be our Master'--I would turn away-- +And know no wealth but her. + +Wal. Shall I say this to her? +I am no carrier pigeon, Sir, by breed, +But now, between her friends and persecutors, +My life's a burden. + +Lewis. Persecutors! Who? +Alas! I guess it--I had known my mother +Too light for that fair saint,--but who else dare wink +When she is by? My knights? + +Wal. To a man, my Lord. + +Lewis. Here's chivalry! Well, that's soon brought to bar. +The quarrel's mine; my lance shall clear that stain. + +Wal. Quarrel with your knights? Cut your own chair-legs off! +They do but sail with the stream. Her passion, Sir, +Broke shell and ran out twittering before yours did, +And unrequited love is mortal sin +With this chaste world. My boy, my boy, I tell you, +The fault lies nearer home. + +Lewis. I have played the coward-- +And in the sloth of false humility, +Cast by the pearl I dared not to deserve. +How laggard I must seem to her, though she love me; +Playing with hawks and hounds, while she sits weeping! +'Tis not too late. + +Wal. Too late, my royal eyas? +You shall strike this deer yourself at gaze ere long-- +She has no mind to slip to cover. + +Lewis. Come-- +We'll back--we'll back; and you shall bear the message; +I am ashamed to speak. Tell her I love her-- +That I should need to tell her! Say, my coyness +Was bred of worship, not of coldness. + +Wal. Then the serfs +Must wait? + +Lewis. Why not? This day to them, too, blessing brings, +Which clears from envious webs their guardian angel's wings. +[Exeunt.] + + +SCENE III + + +A Chamber in the Castle. Sophia, Elizabeth, Agnes, Isentrude, etc., +re-entering. + +Soph. What! you will not? You hear, Dame Isentrude, +She will not wear her coronet in the church, +Because, forsooth, the crucifix within +Is crowned with thorns. You hear her. + +Eliz. Noble mother! +How could I flaunt this bauble in His face +Who hung there, naked, bleeding, all for me-- +I felt it shamelessness to go so gay. + +Soph. Felt? What then? Every foolish wench has feelings +In these religious days, and thinks it carnal +To wash her dishes, and obey her parents-- +No wonder they ape you, if you ape them-- +Go to! I hate this humble-minded pride, +Self-willed submission--to your own pert fancies; +This fog-bred mushroom-spawn of brain-sick wits, +Who make their oddities their test for grace, +And peer about to catch the general eye; +Ah! I have watched you throw your playmates down +To have the pleasure of kneeling for their pardon. +Here's sanctity--to shame your cousin and me-- +Spurn rank and proper pride, and decency;-- +If God has made you noble, use your rank, +If you but know how. You Landgravine? You mated +With gentle Lewis? Why, belike you'll cowl him, +As that stern prude, your aunt, cowled her poor spouse; +No--one Hedwiga at a time's enough,-- +My son shall die no monk. + +Isen. Beseech you, Madam,-- +Weep not, my darling. + +Soph. Tut--I'll speak my mind. +We'll have no saints. Thank heaven, my saintliness +Ne'er troubled my good man, by day or night. +We'll have no saints, I say; far better for you, +And no doubt pleasanter--You know your place-- +At least you know your place,--to take to cloisters, +And there sit carding wool, and mumbling Latin, +With sour old maids, and maundering Magdalens, +Proud of your frost-kibed feet, and dirty serge. +There's nothing noble in you, but your blood; +And that one almost doubts. Who art thou, child? + +Isen. The daughter, please your highness, +Of Andreas, King of Hungary, your better; +And your son's spouse. + +Soph. I had forgotten, truly-- +And you, Dame Isentrudis, are her servant, +And mine: come, Agnes, leave the gipsy ladies +To say their prayers, and set the Saints the fashion. + +[Sophia and Agnes go out.] + +Isen. Proud hussy! Thou shalt set thy foot on her neck yet, +darling, +When thou art Landgravine. + +Eliz. And when will that be? +No, she speaks truth! I should have been a nun. +These are the wages of my cowardice,-- +Too weak to face the world, too weak to leave it! + +Guta. I'll take the veil with you. + +Eliz. 'Twere but a moment's work,-- +To slip into the convent there below, +And be at peace for ever. And you, my nurse? + +Isen. I will go with thee, child, where'er thou goest. +But Lewis? + +Eliz. Ah! my brother! No, I dare not-- +I dare not turn for ever from this hope, +Though it be dwindled to a thread of mist. +Oh that we two could flee and leave this Babel! +Oh if he were but some poor chapel-priest, +In lonely mountain valleys far away; +And I his serving-maid, to work his vestments, +And dress his scrap of food, and see him stand +Before the altar like a rainbowed saint; +To take the blessed wafer from his hand, +Confess my heart to him, and all night long +Pray for him while he slept, or through the lattice +Watch while he read, and see the holy thoughts +Swell in his big deep eyes!--Alas! that dream +Is wilder than the one that's fading even now! +Who's here? [A Page enters.] + +Page. The Count of Varila, Madam, begs permission to speak with +you. + +Eliz. With me? What's this new terror? +Tell him I wait him. + +Isen [aside]. Ah! my old heart sinks-- +God send us rescue! Here the champion comes. + +[Count Walter enters.] + +Wal. Most learned, fair, and sanctimonious Princess-- +Plague, what comes next? I had something orthodox ready; +'Tis dropped out by the way.--Mass! here's the pith on't.-- +Madam, I come a-wooing; and for one +Who is as only worthy of your love, +As you of his; he bids me claim the spousals +Made long ago between you,--and yet leaves +Your fancy free, to grant or pass that claim: +And being that Mercury is not my planet, +He hath advised himself to set herein, +With pen and ink, what seemed good to him, +As passport to this jewelled mirror, pledge +Unworthy of his worship. [Gives a letter and jewel.] + +Isen. Nunc Domine dimittis servam tuam! + +[Elizabeth looks over the letter and casket, claps her hands and +bursts into childish laughter.] + +Why here's my Christmas tree come after Lent-- +Espousals? pledges? by our childish love? +Pretty words for folks to think of at the wars,-- +And pretty presents come of them! Look, Guta! +A crystal clear, and carven on the reverse +The blessed rood. He told me once--one night, +When we did sit in the garden--What was I saying? + +Wal. My fairest Princess, as ambassador, +What shall I answer? + +Eliz. Tell him--tell him--God! +Have I grown mad, or a child, within the moment? +The earth has lost her gray sad hue, and blazes +With her old life-light; hark! yon wind's a song-- +Those clouds are angels' robes.--That fiery west +Is paved with smiling faces.--I am a woman, +And all things bid me love! my dignity +Is thus to cast my virgin pride away; +And find my strength in weakness.--Busy brain! +Thou keep'st pace with my heart; old lore, old fancies, +Buried for years, leap from their tombs, and proffer +Their magic service to my new-born spirit. +I'll go--I am not mistress of myself-- +Send for him--bring him to me--he is mine! [Exit.] + +Isen. Ah! blessed Saints! how changed upon the moment! +She is grown taller, trust me, and her eye +Flames like a fresh-caught hind's. She that was christened +A brown mouse for her stillness! Good my Lord! +Now shall mine old bones see the grave in peace! + + +SCENE IV + + +The Bridal Feast. Elizabeth, Lewis, Sophia, and Company seated at +the Dais table. Court Minstrel and Court Fool sitting on the Dais +steps. + +Min. How gaily smile the heavens, +The light winds whisper gay; +For royal birth and knightly worth +Are knit to one to-day. + +Fool [drowning his voice]. +So we'll flatter them up, and we'll cocker them up, +Till we turn young brains; +And pamper the brach till we make her a wolf, +And get bit by the legs for our pains. + +Monks [chanting without]. +A fastu et superbia +Domine libera nos. + +Min. 'Neath sandal red and samite, +Are knights and ladies set; +The henchmen tall stride through the hall, +The board with wine is wet. + +Fool. Oh! merrily growls the starving hind, +At my full skin; +And merrily howl wolf, wind, and owl, +While I lie warm within. + +Monks. A luxu et avaritia +Domine libera nos. + +Min. Hark! from the bridal bower, +Rings out the bridesmaid's song; +''Tis the mystic hour of an untried power, +The bride she tarries long.' + +Fool. She's schooling herself and she's steeling herself, +Against the dreary day, +When she'll pine and sigh from her lattice high +For the knight that's far away. + +Monks. A carnis illectamentis +Domine libera nos. + +Min. Blest maid! fresh roses o'er thee +The careless years shall fling; +While days and nights shall new delights +To sense and fancy bring. + +Fool. Satins and silks, and feathers and lace, +Will gild life's pill; +In jewels and gold folks cannot grow old, +Fine ladies will never fall ill. + +Monks. A vanitatibus saeculi +Domine libera nos. + +[Sophia descends from the Dais, leading Elizabeth. Ladies follow.] + +Sophia [to the Fool]. Silence, you screech-owl.-- +Come strew flowers, fair ladies, +And lead into her bower our fairest bride, +The cynosure of love and beauty here, +Who shrines heaven's graces in earth's richest casket. + +Eliz. I come, [aside] Here, Guta, take those monks a fee-- +Tell them I thank them--bid them pray for me. +I am half mazed with trembling joy within, +And noisy wassail round. 'Tis well, for else +The spectre of my duties and my dangers +Would whelm my heart with terror. Ah! poor self! +Thou took'st this for the term and bourne of troubles-- +And now 'tis here, thou findest it the gate +Of new sin-cursed infinities of labour, +Where thou must do, or die! +[aloud] Lead on. I'll follow. [Exeunt.] + +Fool. 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. + + + +ACT II + + + +SCENE I. A.D. 1221-27 + + +Elizabeth's Bower. Night. Lewis sleeping in an Alcove. + +Elizabeth lying on the Floor in the Foreground. + +Eliz. No streak yet in the blank and eyeless east-- +More weary hours to ache, and smart, and shiver +On these bare boards, within a step of bliss. +Why peevish? 'Tis mine own will keeps me here-- +And yet I hate myself for that same will: +Fightings within and out! How easy 'twere, now, +Just to be like the rest, and let life run-- +To use up to the rind what joys God sends us, +Not thus forestall His rod: What! and so lose +The strength which comes by suffering? Well, if grief +Be gain, mine's double--fleeing thus the snare +Of yon luxurious and unnerving down, +And widowed from mine Eden. And why widowed? +Because they tell me, love is of the flesh, +And that's our house-bred foe, the adder in our bosoms, +Which warmed to life, will sting us. They must know-- +I do confess mine ignorance, O Lord! +Mine earnest will these painful limbs may prove. +. . . . . +And yet I swore to love him.--So I do +No more than I have sworn. Am I to blame +If God makes wedlock that, which if it be not, +It were a shame for modest lips to speak it, +And silly doves are better mates than we? +And yet our love is Jesus' due,--and all things +Which share with Him divided empery +Are snares and idols--'To love, to cherish, and to obey!' +. . . . . +O deadly riddle! Rent and twofold life! +O cruel troth! To keep thee or to break thee +Alike seems sin! O thou beloved tempter, + +[Turning toward the bed.] + +Who first didst teach me love, why on thyself +From God divert thy lesson? Wilt provoke Him? +What if mine heavenly Spouse in jealous ire +Should smite mine earthly spouse? Have I two husbands? +The words are horror--yet they are orthodox! + +[Rises and goes to the window.] + +How many many brows of happy lovers +The fragrant lips of night even now are kissing! +Some wandering hand in hand through arched lanes; +Some listening for loved voices at the lattice; +Some steeped in dainty dreams of untried bliss; +Some nestling soft and deep in well-known arms, +Whose touch makes sleep rich life. The very birds +Within their nests are wooing! So much love! +All seek their mates, or finding, rest in peace; +The earth seems one vast bride-bed. Doth God tempt us? +Is't all a veil to blind our eyes from him? +A fire-fly at the candle. 'Tis love leads him; +Love's light, and light is love: O Eden! Eden! +Eve was a virgin there, they say; God knows. +Must all this be as it had never been? +Is it all a fleeting type of higher love? +Why, if the lesson's pure, is not the teacher +Pure also? Is it my shame to feel no shame? +Am I more clean, the more I scent uncleanness? +Shall base emotions picture Christ's embrace? +Rest, rest, torn heart! Yet where? in earth or heaven? +Still, from out the bright abysses, gleams our Lady's silver +footstool, +Still the light-world sleeps beyond her, though the night-clouds +fleet below. +Oh that I were walking, far above, upon that dappled pavement, +Heaven's floor, which is the ceiling of the dungeon where we lie. +Ah, what blessed Saints might meet me, on that platform, sliding +silent, +Past us in its airy travels, angel-wafted, mystical! +They perhaps might tell me all things, opening up the secret +fountains +Which now struggle, dark and turbid, through their dreary prison +clay. +Love! art thou an earth-born streamlet, that thou seek'st the lowest +hollows? +Sure some vapours float up from thee, mingling with the highest +blue. +Spirit-love in spirit-bodies, melted into one existence-- +Joining praises through the ages--Is it all a minstrel's dream? +Alas! he wakes. [Lewis rises.] + +Lewis. Ah! faithless beauty, +Is this your promise, that whene'er you prayed +I should be still the partner of your vigils, +And learn from you to pray? Last night I lay dissembling +When she who woke you, took my feet for yours: +Now I shall seize my lawful prize perforce. +Alas! what's this? These shoulders' cushioned ice, +And thin soft flanks, with purple lashes all, +And weeping furrows traced! Ah! precious life-blood! +Who has done this? + +Eliz. Forgive! 'twas I--my maidens-- + +Lewis. O ruthless hags! + +Eliz. Not so, not so--They wept +When I did bid them, as I bid thee now +To think of nought but love. + +Lewis. Elizabeth! +Speak! I will know the meaning of this madness! + +Eliz. Beloved, thou hast heard how godly souls, +In every age, have tamed the rebel flesh +By such sharp lessons. I must tread their paths, +If I would climb the mountains where they rest. +Grief is the gate of bliss--why wedlock--knighthood-- +A mother's joy--a hard-earned field of glory-- +By tribulation come--so doth God's kingdom. + +Lewis. But doleful nights, and self-inflicted tortures-- +Are these the love of God? Is He well pleased +With this stern holocaust of health and joy? + +Eliz. What! Am I not as gay a lady-love +As ever clipt in arms a noble knight? +Am I not blithe as bird the live-long day? +It pleases me to bear what you call pain, +Therefore to me 'tis pleasure: joy and grief +Are the will's creatures; martyrs kiss the stake-- +The moorland colt enjoys the thorny furze-- +The dullest boor will seek a fight, and count +His pleasure by his wounds; you must forget, love, +Eve's curse lays suffering, as their natural lot, +On womankind, till custom makes it light. +I know the use of pain: bar not the leech +Because his cure is bitter--'Tis such medicine +Which breeds that paltry strength, that weak devotion, +For which you say you love me.--Ay, which brings +Even when most sharp, a stern and awful joy +As its attendant angel--I'll say no more-- +Not even to thee--command, and I'll obey thee. + +Lewis. Thou casket of all graces! fourfold wonder +Of wit and beauty, love and wisdom! Canst thou +Beatify the ascetic's savagery +To heavenly prudence? Horror melts to pity, +And pity kindles to adoring shower +Of radiant tears! Thou tender cruelty! +Gay smiling martyrdom! Shall I forbid thee? +Limit thy depth by mine own shallowness? +Thy courage by my weakness? Where thou darest, +I'll shudder and submit. I kneel here spell-bound +Before my bleeding Saviour's living likeness +To worship, not to cavil: I had dreamt of such things, +Dim heard in legends, while my pitiful blood +Tingled through every vein, and wept, and swore +'Twas beautiful, 'twas Christ-like--had I thought +That thou wert such:-- + +Eliz. You would have loved me still? + +Lewis. I have gone mad, I think, at every parting +At mine own terrors for thee. No; I'll learn to glory +In that which makes thee glorious! Noble stains! +I'll call them rose leaves out of paradise +Strewn on the wreathed snows, or rubies dropped +From martyrs' diadems, prints of Jesus' cross +Too truly borne, alas! + +Eliz. I think, mine own, +I am forgiven at last? + +Lewis. To-night, my sister-- +Henceforth I'll clasp thee to my heart so fast +Thou shalt not 'scape unnoticed. + +Eliz [laughing] We shall see-- +Now I must stop those wise lips with a kiss, +And lead thee back to scenes of simpler bliss. + + +SCENE II + + +A Chamber in the Castle. Elizabeth--the Fool +Isentrudis--Guta singing. + +High among the lonely hills, +While I lay beside my sheep, +Rest came down and filled my soul, +From the everlasting deep. + +Changeless march the stars above, +Changeless morn succeeds to even; +Still the everlasting hills, +Changeless watch the changeless heaven. + +See the rivers, how they run, +Changeless toward the changeless sea; +All around is forethought sure, +Fixed will and stern decree. + +Can the sailor move the main? +Will the potter heed the clay? +Mortal! where the spirit drives, +Thither must the wheels obey. + +Neither ask, nor fret, nor strive: +Where thy path is, thou shall go. +He who made the streams of time +Wafts thee down to weal or woe. + +Eliz. That's a sweet song, and yet it does not chime +With my heart's inner voice. Where had you it, Guta? + +Guta. 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. + +Fool. 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. + +Eliz. Where then, Fool? + +Fool. 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.] + +When I was a greenhorn and young, +And wanted to be and to do, +I puzzled my brains about choosing my line, +Till I found out the way that things go. + +The same piece of clay makes a tile, +A pitcher, a taw, or a brick: +Dan Horace knew life; you may cut out a saint, +Or a bench, from the self-same stick. + +The urchin who squalls in a gaol, +By circumstance turns out a rogue; +While the castle-bred brat is a senator born, +Or a saint, if religion's in vogue. + +We fall on our legs in this world, +Blind kittens, tossed in neck and heels: +'Tis Dame Circumstance licks Nature's cubs into shape, +She's the mill-head, if we are the wheels. + +Then why puzzle and fret, plot and dream? +He that's wise will just follow his nose; +Contentedly fish, while he swims with the stream; +'Tis no business of his where it goes. + +Eliz. Far too well sung for such a saucy song. +So go. + +Fool. Ay, I'll go. Whip the dog out of church, and then rate him +for being no Christian. [Exit Fool.] + +Eliz. Guta, there is sense in that knave's ribaldry: +We must not thus baptize our idleness, +And call it resignation: Which is love? +To do God's will, or merely suffer it? +I do not love that contemplative life: +No! I must headlong into seas of toil, +Leap forth from self, and spend my soul on others. +Oh! contemplation palls upon the spirit, +Like the chill silence of an autumn sun: +While action, like the roaring south-west wind, +Sweeps laden with elixirs, with rich draughts +Quickening the wombed earth. + +Guta. And yet what bliss, +When dying in the darkness of God's light, +The soul can pierce these blinding webs of nature, +And float up to The Nothing, which is all things-- +The ground of being, where self-forgetful silence +Is emptiness,--emptiness fulness,--fulness God,-- +Till we touch Him, and like a snow-flake, melt +Upon His light-sphere's keen circumference! + +Eliz. Hast thou felt this? + +Guta. In part. + +Eliz. Oh, happy Guta! +Mine eyes are dim--and what if I mistook +For God's own self, the phantoms of my brain? +And who am I, that my own will's intent +Should put me face to face with the living God? +I, thus thrust down from the still lakes of thought +Upon a boiling crater-field of labour. +No! He must come to me, not I to Him; +If I see God, beloved, I must see Him +In mine own self:-- + +Guta. Thyself? + +Eliz. Why start, my sister? +God is revealed in the crucified: +The crucified must be revealed in me:-- +I must put on His righteousness; show forth +His sorrow's glory; hunger, weep with Him; +Writhe with His stripes, and let this aching flesh +Sink through His fiery baptism into death, +That I may rise with Him, and in His likeness +May ceaseless heal the sick, and soothe the sad, +And give away like Him this flesh and blood +To feed His lambs--ay--we must die with Him +To sense--and love-- + +Guta. To love? What then becomes +Of marriage vows? + +Eliz. I know it--so speak not of them. +Oh! that's the flow, the chasm in all my longings, +Which I have spanned with cobweb arguments, +Yet yawns before me still, where'er I turn, +To bar me from perfection; had I given +My virgin all to Christ! I was not worthy! +I could not stand alone! + +Guta. Here comes your husband. + +Eliz. He comes! my sun! and every thrilling vein +Proclaims my weakness. + +[Lewis enters.] + +Lewis. Good news, my Princess; in the street below +Conrad, the man of God from Marpurg, stands +And from a bourne-stone to the simple folk +Does thunder doctrine, preaching faith, repentance, +And dread of all foul heresies; his eyes +On heaven still set, save when with searching frown +He lours upon the crowd, who round him cower +Like quails beneath the hawk, and gape, and tremble, +Now raised to heaven, now down again to hell. +I stood beside and heard; like any doe's +My heart did rise and fall. + +Eliz. Oh, let us hear him! +We too need warning; shame, if we let pass, +Unentertained, God's angels on their way. +Send for him, brother. + +Lewis. Let a knight go down +And say to the holy man, the Landgrave Lewis +With humble greetings prays his blessedness +To make these secular walls the spirit's temple +At least to-night. + +Eliz. Now go, my ladies, both-- +Prepare fit lodgings,--let your courtesies +Retain in our poor courts the man of God. + +[Exeunt. Lewis and Elizabeth are left alone.] + +Now hear me, best beloved:--I have marked this man: +And that which hath scared others, draws me towards him: +He has the graces which I want; his sternness +I envy for its strength; his fiery boldness +I call the earnestness which dares not trifle +With life's huge stake; his coldness but the calm +Of one who long hath found, and keeps unwavering, +Clear purpose still; he hath the gift which speaks +The deepest things most simply; in his eye +I dare be happy--weak I dare not be. +With such a guide,--to save this little heart-- +The burden of self-rule--Oh--half my work +Were eased, and I could live for thee and thine, +And take no thought of self. Oh, be not jealous, +Mine own, mine idol! For thy sake I ask it-- +I would but be a mate and help more meet +For all thy knightly virtues. + +Lewis. 'Tis too true! +I have felt it long; we stand, two weakling children, +Under too huge a burden, while temptations +Like adders swarm up round: I must be led-- +But thou alone shall lead me. + +Eliz. I? beloved! +This load more? Strengthen, Lord, the feeble knees! + +Lewis. Yes! thou, my queen, who making thyself once mine, +Hast made me sevenfold thine; I own thee guide +Of my devotions, mine ambition's lodestar, +The Saint whose shrine I serve with lance and lute; +If thou wilt have a ruler, let him be, +Through thee, the ruler of thy slave. [Kneels to her.] + +Eliz. Oh, kneel not-- +But grant my prayer--If we shall find this man, +As well I know him, worthy, let him be +Director of my conscience and my actions +With all but thee--Within love's inner shrine +We shall be still alone--But joy! here comes +Our embassy, successful. + +[Enter Conrad, with Count Walter, Monks, Ladies, etc.] + +Conrad. Peace to this house. + +Eliz. Hail to your holiness. + +Lewis. The odour of your sanctity and might, +With balmy steam and gales of Paradise, +Forestalls you hither. + +Eliz. Bless us doubly, master, +With holy doctrine, and with holy prayers. + +Con. Children, I am the servant of Christ's servants-- +And needs must yield to those who may command +By right of creed; I do accept your bounty-- +Not for myself, but for that priceless name, +Whose dread authority and due commission, +Attested by the seal of His vicegerent, +I bear unworthy here; through my vile lips +Christ and His vicar thank you; on myself-- +And these, my brethren, Christ's adopted poor-- +A menial's crust, and some waste nook, or dog-hutch, +Wherein the worthless flesh may nightly hide, +Are best bestowed. + +Eliz. You shall be where you will-- +Do what you will; unquestioned, unobserved, +Enjoy, refrain; silence and solitude, +The better part which such like spirits choose, +We will provide; only be you our master, +And we your servants, for a few short days: +Oh, blessed days! + +Con. Ah, be not hasty, madam; +Think whom you welcome; one who has no skill +To wink and speak smooth things; whom fear of God +Constrains to daily wrath; who brings, alas! +A sword, not peace: within whose bones the word +Burns like a pent-up fire, and makes him bold +If aught in you or yours shall seem amiss, +To cry aloud and spare not; let me go-- +To pray for you--as I have done long time, +Is sweeter than to chide you. + +Eliz. Then your prayers +Shall drive home your rebukes; for both we need you-- +Our snares are many, and our sins are more. +So say not nay--I'll speak with you apart. + +[Elizabeth and Conrad retire.] + +Lewis [aside]. Well, Walter mine, how like you the good legate? + +Wal. Walter has seen nought of him but his eye; +And that don't please him. + +Lewis. How so, sir! that face +Is pure and meek--a calm and thoughtful eye. + +Wal. 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. + +Lewis. Beware, Sir Count; your keen and worldly wit +Is good for worldly uses, not to tilt +Withal at holy men and holy things. +He pleases well the spiritual sense +Of my most peerless lady, whose discernment +Is still the touchstone of my grosser fancy: +He is her friend, and mine: and you must love him +Even for our sakes alone, [to a bystander] A word with you, sir. + +[In the meantime Elizabeth and Conrad are talking together.] + +Eliz. I would be taught-- + +Con. It seems you claim some knowledge, +By choosing thus your teacher. + +Eliz. I would know more-- + +Con. Go then to the schools--and be no wiser, madam; +And let God's charge here run to waste, to seek +The bitter fruit of knowledge--hunt the rainbow +O'er hill and dale, while wisdom rusts at home. + +Eliz. I would be holy, master-- + +Con. Be so, then. +God's will stands fair: 'tis thine which fails, if any. + +Eliz. I would know how to rule-- + +Con. Then must thou learn +The needs of subjects, and be ruled thyself. +Sink, if thou longest to rise; become most small-- +The strength which comes by weakness makes thee great. + +Eliz. I will. + +Lewis. What, still at lessons? Come, my fairest sister, +Usher the holy man unto his lodgings. [Exeunt.] + +Wal [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? + +I once had a hound, a right good hound, +A hound both fleet and strong: +He ate at my board, and he slept by my bed, +And ran with me all the day long. +But my wife took a priest, a shaveling priest, +And 'such friendships are carnal,' quoth he. +So my wife and her priest they drugged the poor beast, +And the rat's bane is waiting for me. + + +SCENE III + + +The Gateway of a Convent. Night. + +Enter Conrad. + +Con. This night she swears obedience to me! Wondrous Lord! +How hast Thou opened a path, where my young dreams +May find fulfilment: there are prophecies +Upon her, make me bold. Why comes she not? +She should be here by now. Strange, how I shrink-- +I, who ne'er yet felt fear of man or fiend. +Obedience to my will! An awful charge! +But yet, to have the training of her sainthood; +To watch her rise above this wild world's waves +Like floating water-lily, towards heaven's light +Opening its virgin snows, with golden eye +Mirroring the golden sun; to be her champion, +And war with fiends for her; that were a 'quest'; +That were true chivalry; to bring my Judge +This jewel for His crown; this noble soul, +Worth thousand prudish clods of barren clay, +Who mope for heaven because earth's grapes are sour-- +Her, full of youth, flushed with the heart's rich first-fruits, +Tangled in earthly pomp--and earthly love. +Wife? Saint by her face she should be: with such looks +The queen of heaven, perchance, slow pacing came +Adown our sleeping wards, when Dominic +Sank fainting, drunk with beauty:--she is most fair! +Pooh! I know nought of fairness--this I know, +She calls herself my slave, with such an air +As speaks her queen, not slave; that shall be looked to-- +She must be pinioned or she will range abroad +Upon too bold a wing; 't will cost her pain-- +But what of that? there are worse things than pain-- +What! not yet here? I'll in, and there await her +In prayer before the altar: I have need on't: +And shall have more before this harvest's ripe. + +[As Conrad goes out, Elizabeth, Isentrudis, and Guta enter.] + +Eliz. I saw him just before us: let us onward; +We must not seem to loiter. + +Isen. Then you promise +Exact obedience to his sole direction +Henceforth in every scruple? + +Eliz. In all I can, +And be a wife. + +Guta. Is it not a double bondage? +A husband's will is clog enough. Be sure, +Though free, I crave more freedom. + +Eliz. So do I-- +This servitude shall free me--from myself. +Therefore I'll swear. + +Isen. To what? + +Eliz. I know not wholly: +But this I know, that I shall swear to-night +To yield my will unto a wiser will; +To see God's truth through eyes which, like the eagle's, +From higher Alps undazzled eye the sun. +Compelled to discipline from which my sloth +Would shrink, unbidden,--to deep devious paths +Which my dull sight would miss, I now can plunge, +And dare life's eddies fearless. + +Isen. You will repent it. + +Eliz. I do repent, even now. Therefore I'll swear. +And bind myself to that, which once being light, +Will not be less right, when I shrink from it. +No; if the end be gained--if I be raised +To freer, nobler use, I'll dare, I'll welcome +Him and his means, though they were racks and flames. +Come, ladies, let us in, and to the chapel. [Exeunt.] + + +SCENE IV + + +A Chamber. Guta, Isentrudis, and a Lady. + +Lady. Doubtless she is most holy--but for wisdom-- +Say if 'tis wise to spurn all rules, all censures, +And mountebank it in the public ways +Till she becomes a jest? + +Isen. How's this? + +Lady. For one thing-- +Yestreen I passed her in the open street, +Following the vocal line of chanting priests, +Clad in rough serge, and with her soft bare feet +Wooing the ruthless flints; the gaping crowd +Unknowing whom they held, did thrust and jostle +Her tender limbs; she saw me as she passed-- +And blushed and veiled her face, and smiled withal. + +Isen. Oh, think, she's not seventeen yet. + +Guta. Why expect +Wisdom with love in all? Each has his gift-- +Our souls are organ pipes of diverse stop +And various pitch; each with its proper notes +Thrilling beneath the self-same breath of God. +Though poor alone, yet joined, they're harmony. +Besides these higher spirits must not bend +To common methods; in their inner world +They move by broader laws, at whose expression +We must adore, not cavil: here she comes-- +The ministering Saint, fresh from the poor of Christ. + +[Elizabeth enters without cloak or shoes, carrying an empty basket.] + +Isen. What's here, my Princess? Guta, fetch her robes! +Rest, rest, my child! + +Eliz [throwing herself on a seat] Oh! I have seen such things! +I shudder still; your gay looks dazzle me; +As those who long in hideous darkness pent +Blink at the daily light; this room's too bright! +We sit in a cloud, and sing, like pictured angels, +And say, the world runs smooth--while right below +Welters the black fermenting heap of life +On which our state is built: I saw this day +What we might be, and still be Christian women: +And mothers too--I saw one, laid in childbed +These three cold weeks upon the black damp straw; +No nurses, cordials, or that nice parade +With which we try to balk the curse of Eve-- +And yet she laughed, and showed her buxom boy, +And said, Another week, so please the Saints, +She'd be at work a-field. Look here--and here-- + +[Pointing round the room.] + +I saw no such things there; and yet they lived. +Our wanton accidents take root, and grow +To vaunt themselves God's laws, until our clothes, +Our gems, and gaudy books, and cushioned litters +Become ourselves, and we would fain forget +There live who need them not. [Guta offers to robe her.] +Let be, beloved-- +I will taste somewhat this same poverty-- +Try these temptations, grudges, gnawing shames, +For which 'tis blamed; how probe an unfelt evil? +Would'st be the poor man's friend? Must freeze with him-- +Test sleepless hunger--let thy crippled back +Ache o'er the endless furrow; how was He, +The blessed One, made perfect? Why, by grief-- +The fellowship of voluntary grief-- +He read the tear-stained book of poor men's souls, +As I must learn to read it. Lady! lady! +Wear but one robe the less--forego one meal-- +And thou shalt taste the core of many tales +Which now flit past thee, like a minstrel's songs, +The sweeter for their sadness. + +Lady. Heavenly wisdom! +Forgive me! + +Eliz. How? What wrong is mine, fair dame? + +Lady. I thought you, to my shame--less wise than holy. +But you have conquered: I will test these sorrows +On mine own person; I have toyed too long +In painted pinnace down the stream of life, +Witched with the landscape, while the weary rowers +Faint at the groaning oar: I'll be thy pupil. +Farewell. Heaven bless thy labours and thy lesson. + +[Exit.] + +Isen. We are alone. Now tell me, dearest lady, +How came you in this plight? + +Eliz. Oh! chide not, nurse-- +My heart is full--and yet I went not far-- +Even here, close by, where my own bower looks down +Upon that unknown sea of wavy roofs, +I turned into an alley 'neath the wall-- +And stepped from earth to hell.--The light of heaven, +The common air, was narrow, gross, and dun; +The tiles did drop from the eaves; the unhinged doors +Tottered o'er inky pools, where reeked and curdled +The offal of a life; the gaunt-haunched swine +Growled at their christened playmates o'er the scraps. +Shrill mothers cursed; wan children wailed; sharp coughs +Rang through the crazy chambers; hungry eyes +Glared dumb reproach, and old perplexity, +Too stale for words; o'er still and webless looms +The listless craftsmen through their elf-locks scowled; +These were my people! all I had, I gave-- +They snatched it thankless (was it not their own? +Wrung from their veins, returning all too late?); +Or in the new delight of rare possession, +Forgot the giver; one did sit apart, +And shivered on a stone; beneath her rags +Nestled two impish, fleshless, leering boys, +Grown old before their youth; they cried for bread-- +She chid them down, and hid her face and wept; +I had given all--I took my cloak, my shoes +(What could I else? 'Twas but a moment's want +Which she had borne, and borne, day after day), +And clothed her bare gaunt arms and purpled feet, +Then slunk ashamed away to wealth and honour. + +[Conrad enters.] + +What! Conrad? unannounced! This is too bold! +Peace! I have lent myself--and I must take +The usury of that loan: your pleasure, master? + +Con. Madam, but yesterday, I bade your presence, +To hear the preached word of God; I preached-- +And yet you came not.--Where is now your oath? +Where is the right to bid, you gave to me? +Am I your ghostly guide? I asked it not. +Of your own will you tendered that, which, given, +Became not choice, but duty.--What is here? +Think not that alms, or lowly-seeming garments, +Self-willed humilities, pride's decent mummers, +Can raise above obedience; she from God +Her sanction draws, while these we forge ourselves, +Mere tools to clear her necessary path. +Go free--thou art no slave: God doth not own +Unwilling service, and His ministers +Must lure, not drag in leash; henceforth I leave thee: +Riot in thy self-willed fancies; pick thy steps +By thine own will-o'-the-wisp toward the pit; +Farewell, proud girl. [Exit Conrad.] + +Eliz. O God! What have I done? +I have cast off the clue of this world's maze, +And, like an idiot, let my boat adrift +Above the waterfall!--I had no message-- +How's this? + +Isen. We passed it by, as matter of no moment +Upon the sudden coming of your guests. + +Eliz. No moment! 'Tis enough to have driven him forth-- +And that's enough to damn me: I'll not chide you-- +I can see nothing but my loss; I'll to him-- +I'll go in sackcloth, bathe his feet with tears-- +And know nor sleep nor food till I am forgiven-- +And you must with me, ladies. Come and find him. + +[Exeunt.] + + +SCENE V + + +A Hall in the Castle. In the background a Group of diseased and +deformed Beggars; Conrad entering, Elizabeth comes forward to meet +him. + +Con. What dost thou, daughter? + +Eliz. Ah, my honoured master! +That name speaks pardon, sure. + +Con. What dost thou, daughter? + +Eliz. I have been washing these poor people's feet. + +Con. A wise humiliation. + +Eliz. So I meant it-- +And use it as a penance for my pride; +And yet, alas, through my own vulgar likings +Or stubborn self-conceit, 'tis none to me. +I marvel how the Saints thus tamed their spirits: +Sure to be humbled by such toil, but proves, +Not cures, our lofty mind. + +Con. Thou speakest well-- +The knave who serves unto another's needs +Knows himself abler than the man who needs him; +And she who stoops, will not forget, that stooping +Implies a height to stoop from. + +Eliz. Could I see +My Saviour in His poor! + +Con. Thou shall hereafter: +But now to wash Christ's feet were dangerous honour +For weakling grace; would you be humble, daughter, +You must look up, not down, and see yourself +A paltry atom, sap-transmitting vein +Of Christ's vast vine; the pettiest joint and member +Of His great body; own no strength, no will, +Save that which from the ruling head's command +Through me, as nerve, derives; let thyself die-- +And dying, rise again to fuller life. +To be a whole is to be small and weak-- +To be a part is to be great and mighty +In the one spirit of the mighty whole-- +The spirit of the martyrs and the saints-- +The spirit of the queen, on whose towered neck +We hang, blest ringlets! + +Eliz. Why! thine eyes flash fire! + +Con. But hush! such words are not for courts and halls-- +Alone with God and me, thou shalt hear more. + +[Exit Conrad.] + +Eliz. As when rich chanting ceases suddenly-- +And the rapt sense collapses!--Oh that Lewis +Could feed my soul thus! But to work--to work-- +What wilt thou, little maid? Ah, I forgot thee-- +Thy mother lies in childbed--Say, in time +I'll bring the baby to the font myself. +It knits them unto me, and me to them, +That bond of sponsorship--How now, good dame-- +Whence then so sad? + +Woman. An't please your nobleness, +My neighbour Gretl is with her husband laid +In burning fever. + +Eliz. I will come to them. + +Woman. Alack, the place is foul for such as you; +And fear of plague has cleared the lane of lodgers; +If you could send-- + +Eliz. What? where I am afraid +To go myself, send others? That's strange doctrine. +I'll be with you anon. [Goes up into the Hall.] + +[Isentrudis enters with a basket.] + +Isen. Why, here's a weight--these cordials now, and simples, +Want a stout page to bear them: yet her fancy +Is still to go alone, to help herself.-- +Where will 't all end? In madness, or the grave? +No limbs can stand these drudgeries: no spirit +The fretting harrow which this ruffian priest +Calls education-- +Ah! here comes our Count. + +[Count Walter enters as from a journey.] + +Too late, sir, and too seldom--Where have you been +These four months past, while we are sold for bond-slaves +Unto a peevish friar? + +Wal. Why, my fair rosebud-- +A trifle overblown, but not less sweet-- +I have been pining for you, till my hair +Is as gray as any badger's. + +Isen. I'll not jest. + +Wal. What? has my wall-eyed Saint shown you his temper? + +Isen. The first of his peevish fancies was, that she should eat +nothing which was not honestly and peaceably come by. + +Wal. Why, I heard that you too had joined that sect. + +Isen. 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. + +Wal. 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. + +Isen. True enough. She complained to Conrad of her scruples, and +he told her, that by the law was the knowledge of sin. + +Wal. But what said Lewis? + +Isen. 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. + +Wal. 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? + +Isen. 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? + +Wal. You need not have submitted. + +Isen. 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. + +Wal. And got no quarter, I'll warrant. + +Isen. Don't talk of it--my poor back tingles at the thought. + +Wal. 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. + +Isen. What? + +Wal. 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.] + + +SCENE VI + + +Dawn. A rocky path leading to a mountain Chapel. A Peasant sitting +on a stone with dog and cross-bow. + +Peasant [singing]. + +Over the wild moor, in reddest dawn of morning, +Gaily the huntsman down green droves must roam: +Over the wild moor, in grayest wane of evening, +Weary the huntsman comes wandering home; +Home, home, +If he has one. Who comes here? + +[A Woodcutter enters with a laden ass.] + +What art going about? + +Woodcutter. To warm other folks' backs. + +Peas. Thou art in the common lot--Jack earns and Gill spends-- +therein lies the true division of labour. What's thy name? + +Woodc. Be'est a keeper, man, or a charmer, that dost so catechise +me? + +Peas. 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. + +Woodc. Mary sain us, what be they like? + +Peas. Four-legged kitchens of leather, cooking farmers' crops into +butcher's meat by night, without leave or licence. + +Woodc. By token, thou'rt a deer-stealer? + +Peas. Stealer, quoth he? I have dominion. I do what I like with +mine own. + +Woodc. Thine own? + +Peas. 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. + +Woodc. Then every man has a right to be a poacher. + +Peas. 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. + +Woodc. I had sooner draw in a yoke than hunt in a halter. +Hadst best repent and mend thy ways. + +Peas. 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. + +Woodc. But what if thou be caught and brought up before the Prince? + +Peas. 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. + +Woodc. 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. + +[A white figure comes up the path with lights.] + +Peas. A ghost or a watchman, and one's as bad as the other--so we +may take to cover for the time. + +[Elizabeth enters, meanly clad, carrying her new-born infant; +Isentrudis following with a taper and gold pieces on a salver. +Elizabeth passes, singing.] + +Deep in the warm vale the village is sleeping, +Sleeping the firs on the bleak rock above; +Nought wakes, save grateful hearts, silently creeping +Up to the Lord in the might of their love. + +What Thou hast given to me, Lord, here I bring Thee, +Odour, and light, and the magic of gold; +Feet which must follow Thee, lips which must sing Thee, +Limbs which must ache for Thee ere they grow old. + +What Thou hast given to me, Lord, here I tender, +Life of mine own life, the fruit of my love; +Take him, yet leave him me, till I shall render +Count of the precious charge, kneeling above. + +[They pass up the path. The Peasants come out.] + +Peas. No ghost, but a mighty pretty wench, with a mighty sweet +voice. + +Woodc. Wench, indeed? Where be thy manners? 'Tis her Ladyship-- +the Princess. + +Peas. 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! + +Woodc. 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. + +Peas. Why, then? who dare harm such as her, man? + +Woodc. 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. + +Peas. 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. + +Woodc. 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. + +Peas. 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. + + +SCENE VII + + +The Gateway of a Castle. Elizabeth and her suite standing at the +top of a flight of steps. Mob below. + +Peas. Bread! Bread! Bread! give us bread; we perish. + +1st Voice. Ay, give, give, give! God knows, we're long past +earning. + +2d Voice. Our skeleton children lie along in the roads-- + +3d Voice. Our sheep drop dead about the frozen leas-- + +4th Voice. Our harness and our shoes are boiled for food-- + +Old Man's Voice. Starved, withered, autumn hay that thanks the +scythe! +Send out your swordsmen, mow the dry bents down, +And make this long death short--we'll never struggle. + +All. Bread! Bread! + +Eliz. Ay, bread--Where is it, knights and servants? +Why butler, seneschal, this food forthcomes not! + +Butler. Alas, we've eaten all ourselves: heaven knows +The pages broke the buttery hatches down-- +The boys were starved almost. + +Voice below. Ay, she can find enough to feast her minions. + +Woman's Voice. How can she know what 'tis, for months and months +To stoop and straddle in the clogging fallows, +Bearing about a living babe within you? +And then at night to fat yourself and it +On fir-bark, madam, and water. + +Eliz. My good dame-- +That which you bear, I bear: for food, God knows, +I have not tasted food this live-long day-- +Nor will till you are served. I sent for wheat +From Koln and from the Rhine-land, days ago: +O God! why comes it not? + +[Enter from below, Count Walter, with a Merchant.] + +Wal. Stand back; you'll choke me, rascals: +Archers, bring up those mules. Here comes the corn-- +Here comes your guardian angel, plenty-laden, +With no white wings, but good white wheat, my boys, +Quarters on quarters--if you'll pay for it. + +Eliz. Oh! give him all he asks. + +Wal. The scoundrel wants +Three times its value. + +Merchant. Not a penny less-- +I bought it on speculation--I must live-- +I get my bread by buying corn that's cheap, +And selling where 'tis dearest. Mass, you need it, +And you must pay according to your need. + +Mob. Hang him! hang all regraters--hang the forestalling dog! + +Wal. Driver, lend here the halter off that mule. + +Eliz. Nay, Count; the corn is his, and his the right +To fix conditions for his own. + +Mer. Well spoken! +A wise and royal lady! She will see +The trade protected. Why, I kept the corn +Three months on venture. Now, so help me Saints, +I am a loser by it, quite a loser-- +So help me Saints, I am. + +Eliz. You will not sell it +Save at a price which, by the bill you tender, +Is far beyond our means. Heaven knows, I grudge not-- +I have sold my plate, have pawned my robes and jewels. +Mortgaged broad lands and castles to buy food-- +And now I have no more.--Abate, or trust +Our honour for the difference. + +Mer. Not a penny-- +I trust no nobles. I must make my profit-- +I'll have my price, or take it back again. + +Eliz. Most miserable, cold, short-sighted man, +Who for thy selfish gains dost welcome make +God's wrath, and battenest on thy fellows' woes, +What? wilt thou turn from heaven's gate, open to thee, +Through which thy charity may passport be, +And win thy long greed's pardon? Oh, for once +Dare to be great; show mercy to thyself! +See how that boiling sea of human heads +Waits open-mouthed to bless thee: speak the word, +And their triumphant quire of jubilation +Shall pierce God's cloudy floor with praise and prayers, +And drown the accuser's count in angels' ears. + +[In the meantime Walter, etc., have been throwing down the wheat to +the mob.] + +Mob. God bless the good Count!--Bless the holy Princess-- +Hurrah for wheat--Hurrah for one full stomach. + +Mer. Ah! that's my wheat! treason, my wheat, my money! + +Eliz. Where is the wretch's wheat? + +Wal. Below, my lady; +We counted on the charm of your sweet words, +And so did for him what, your sermon ended, +He would have done himself. + +Knight. 'Twere rude to doubt it. + +Mer. Ye rascal barons! +What! Are we burghers monkeys for your pastime? +We'll clear the odds. [Seizes Walter.] + +Wal. Soft, friend--a worm will turn. + +Voices below. Throw him down. + +Wal. Dost hear that, friend? +Those pups are keen-toothed; they have eat of late +Worse bacon to their bread than thee. Come, come, +Put up thy knife; we'll give thee market-price-- +And if thou must have more--why, take it out +In board and lodging in the castle dungeon. + +[Walter leads him out; the Mob, etc., disperse.] + +Eliz. Now then--there's many a one lies faint at home-- +I'll go to them myself. + +Isen. What now? start forth +In this most bitter frost, so thinly clad? + +Eliz. Tut, tut, I wear my working dress to-day, +And those who work, robe lightly-- + +Isen. Nay, my child, +For once keep up your rank. + +Eliz. Then I had best +Roll to their door in lacqueyed equipage, +And dole my halfpence from my satin purse-- +I am their sister--I must look like one. +I am their queen--I'll prove myself the greatest +By being the minister of all. So come-- +Now to my pastime, [aside] And in happy toil +Forget this whirl of doubt--We are weak, we are weak, +Only when still: put thou thine hand to the plough, +The spirit drives thee on. + +Isen. You live too fast! + +Eliz. Too fast? We live too slow--our gummy blood +Without fresh purging airs from heaven, would choke +Slower and slower, till it stopped and froze. +God! fight we not within a cursed world, +Whose very air teems thick with leagued fiends-- +Each word we speak has infinite effects-- +Each soul we pass must go to heaven or hell-- +And this our one chance through eternity +To drop and die, like dead leaves in the brake, +Or like the meteor stone, though whelmed itself, +Kindle the dry moors into fruitful blaze-- +And yet we live too fast! +Be earnest, earnest, earnest; mad, if thou wilt: +Do what thou dost as if the stake were heaven, +And that thy last deed ere the judgment-day. +When all's done, nothing's done. There's rest above-- +Below let work be death, if work be love! [Exeunt.] + + +SCENE VIII + + +A Chamber in the Castle. Counts Walter, Hugo, etc., Abbot, and +Knights. + +Count Hugo. 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. + +Abbot. To give away the staff of life, eh? + +C. Hugo. The life itself, Sir, the life itself. All that barley, +that would have warmed many an honest fellow's coppers, wasted in +filthy cakes. + +Abbot. The parent of seraphic ale degraded into plebeian dough! +Indeed, Sir, we have no right to lessen wantonly the amount of human +enjoyment! + +C. Wal. In heaven's name, what would you have her do, while the +people were eating grass? + +C. Hugo. 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. + +Abbot. 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! + +C. Wal. How then, man? + +Abbot. 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. + +3d Count. 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. + +C. Wal. What would you say to the Princess, who talks of breaking +up all her parks to wheat next year? + +3d Count. 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. + +C. Hugo. 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.' + +Abbot. Strongly put, though correctly. For the self-interest of +each it is which produces in the aggregate the happy equilibrium of +all. + +C. Wal. 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. + +3d Count. I hold, Sir, that every alms is a fresh badge of slavery. + +C. Wal. I don't deny it. + +3d Count. Then teach them independence. + +C. Wal. 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. + +3d Count. 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. + +C. Wal. In hers? In ours, Sir! + +Abbot. 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. + +C. Wal. How? Teach them to become men by leaving them brutes? + +Abbot. Oh, Sir, there we step in, with the consolations and +instructions of the faith. + +C. Wal. 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? + +3d Count. Then how, in the name of patience, would you have us +alter things? + +C. Wal. We cannot alter them, Sir--but they will be altered, never +fear. + +Omnes. How? How? + +C. Wal. Do you see this hour-glass?--Here's the state: +This air stands for the idlers;--this sand for the workers. +When all the sand has run to the bottom, God in heaven just turns +the hour-glass, and then-- + +C. Hugo. The world's upside down. + +C. Wal. And the Lord have mercy upon us! + +Omnes. On us? Do you call us the idlers? + +C. Wal. 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. + +C. Hugo. But what rascal calls us idlers? + +Omnes. Name, name. + +C. Wal. 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? + +C. Hugo. A tub for Varila! Stand on the table, now, toss back thy +hood like any Franciscan, and preach away. + +C. Wal. 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? + +Omnes. The scoundrel! + +C. Wal. 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? + +Omnes. We'll hang this monk. + +C. Wal. 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. + +Abbot. 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? + +C. Hugo. If he would but come my way! +For 'the mule it was slow, and the lane it was dark, +When out of the copse leapt a gallant young spark. +Says, 'Tis not for nought you've been begging all day: +So remember your toll, since you travel our way.' + +Abbot. Hush! Here comes the Landgrave. + +[Lewis enters.] + +Lewis. Good morrow, gentles. Why so warm, Count Walter? +Your blessing, Father Abbot: what deep matters +Have called our worships to this conference? + +C. Hugo [aside]. Up, Count; you are spokesman. + +3d Count. Exalted Prince, +Whose peerless knighthood, like the remeant sun, +After too long a night, regilds our clay, +Late silvered by the reflex lunar beams +Of your celestial lady's matron graces-- + +Abbot [aside]. Ut vinum optimum amati mei +Dulciter descendens! + +3 Count. Think not we mean to praise or disapprove-- +The acts of saintly souls must only plead +In foro conscientiae: grosser minds, +Whose humbler aim is but the public weal, +Know of no mesh which holds them: yet, great Prince, +Some dare not see their sovereign's strength postponed +To private grace, and sigh, that generous hearts, +And ladies' tenderness, too oft forgetting +That wisdom is the highest charity, +Will interfere, in pardonable haste, +With heaven's stern providence. + +Lewis. We see your drift. +Go, sirrah [to a Page]; pray the Princess to illumine +Our conclave with her beauties. 'Tis our manner +To hear no cause, of gentle or of simple, +Unless the accused and the accuser both +Meet face to face. + +3d Count. Excuse, high-mightiness,-- +We bring no accusation; facts, your Highness, +Wait for your sentence, not our praejudicium. + +Lewis. Give us the facts, then, Sir; in the lady's presence, +Her nearness to ourselves--perchance her reasons-- +May make them somewhat dazzling. + +Abbot. Nay, my Lord; +I, as a Churchman, though with these your nobles +Both in commission and opinion one, +Am yet most loth, my Lord, to set my seal +To aught which this harsh world might call complaint +Against a princely saint--a chosen vessel-- +An argosy celestial--in whom error +Is but the young luxuriance of her grace. +The Count of Varila, as bound to neither, +For both shall speak, and all which late has passed +Upon the matter of this famine open. + +C. Wal. Why, if I must speak out--then I'll confess +To have stood by, and seen the Landgravine +Do most strange deeds; and in her generation +Show no more wit than other babes of light. +First, she has given away, to starving rascals, +The stores of grain she might have sold, good lack! +For any price she asked; has pawned your jewels, +And mortgaged sundry farms, and all for food. +Has sunk vast sums in fever-hospitals, +For rogues whom famine sickened--almshouses +For sluts whose husbands died--schools for their brats. +Most sad vagaries! but there's worse to come. +The dulness of the Court has ruined trade: +The jewellers and clothiers don't come near us; +The sempstresses, my lord, and pastrycooks +Have quite forgot their craft; she has turned all heads +And made the ladies starve, and wear old clothes, +And run about with her to nurse the sick, +Instead of putting gold in circulation +By balls, sham-fights, and dinners; 'tis most sad, sir, +But she has swept your treasury out as clean-- +As was the widow's cruse, who fed Elijah. + +Lewis. Ruined, no doubt! Lo! here the culprit comes. + +[Elizabeth enters.] + +Come hither, dearest. These, my knights and nobles, +Lament your late unthrift (your conscience speaks +The causes of their blame); and wish you warned, +As wisdom is the highest charity, +No more to interfere, from private feeling, +With heaven's stern laws, or maim the sovereign's wealth, +To save superfluous villains' worthless lives. + +Eliz. Lewis! + +Lewis. Not I, fair, but my counsellors, +In courtesy, need some reply. + +Eliz. My Lords; +Doubtless, you speak as your duty bids you: +I know you love my husband: do you think +My love is less than yours? 'Twas for his honour +I dare not lose a single silly sheep +Of all the flock which God had trusted to him. +True, I had hoped by this--No matter what-- +Since to your sense it bears a different hue. +I keep no logic. For my gifts, thank God, +They cannot be recalled; for those poor souls, +My pensioners--even for my husband's knightly name, +Oh! ask not back that slender loan of comfort +My folly has procured them: if, my Lords, +My public censure, or disgraceful penance +May expiate, and yet confirm my waste, +I offer this poor body to the buffets +Of sternest justice: when I dared not spare +My husband's lands, I dare not spare myself. + +Lewis. No! no! My noble sister? What? my Lords! +If her love move you not, her wisdom may. +She knows a deeper statecraft, Sirs, than you: +She will not throw away the substance, Abbot, +To save the accident; waste living souls +To keep, or hope to keep, the means of life. +Our wisdom and our swords may fill our coffers, +But will they breed us men, my Lords, or mothers? +God blesses in the camp a noble rashness: +Then why not in the storehouse? He that lends +To Him, need never fear to lose his venture. +Spend on, my Queen. You will not sell my castles? +Nay, you must leave us Neuburg, love, and Wartburg. +Their worn old stones will hardly pay the carriage, +And foreign foes may pay untimely visits. + +C. Wal. And home foes, too; if these philosophers +Put up the curb, my Lord, a half-link tighter, +The scythes will be among our horses' legs +Before next harvest. + +Lewis. Fear not for our welfare: +We have a guardian here, well skilled to keep +Peace for our seneschal, while angels, stooping +To catch the tears she sheds for us in absence, +Will sain us from the roaming adversary +With scents of Paradise. Farewell, my Lords. + +Eliz. Nay,--I must pray your knighthoods--You must honour +Our dais and bower as private guests to-day. +Thanks for your gentle warning; may my weakness +To such a sin be never tempted more! + +[Exeunt Elizabeth and Lewis.] + +C. Wal. 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? + +C. Hugo. Where, and a plague? Where? + +C. Wal. 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.] + +C. Wal [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.] + + +SCENE IX + + +Elizabeth's bower. Elizabeth and Lewis sitting together. + +Song + +Eliz. Oh that we two were Maying +Down the stream of the soft spring breeze; +Like children with violets playing +In the shade of the whispering trees! + +Oh that we two sat dreaming +On the sward of some sheep-trimmed down +Watching the white mist steaming +Over river and mead and town! + +Oh that we two lay sleeping +In our nest in the churchyard sod, +With our limbs at rest on the quiet earth's breast, +And our souls at home with God! + +Lewis. Ah, turn away those swarthy diamonds' blaze! +Mine eyes are dizzy, and my faint sense reels +In the rich fragrance of those purple tresses. +Oh, to be thus, and thus, day after day! +To sleep, and wake, and find it yet no dream-- +My atmosphere, my hourly food, such bliss +As to have dreamt of, five short years agone, +Had seemed a mad conceit. + +Eliz. Five years agone? + +Lewis. I know not; for upon our marriage-day +I slipped from time into eternity; +Where each day teems with centuries of life, +And centuries were but one wedding morn. + +Eliz. Lewis, I am too happy! floating higher +Than e'er my will had dared to soar, though able; +But circumstance, which is the will of God, +Beguiled my cowardice to that, which, darling, +I found most natural, when I feared it most. +Love would have had no strangeness in mine eyes, +Save from the prejudice which others taught me-- +They should know best. Yet now this wedlock seems +A second infancy's baptismal robe, +A heaven, my spirit's antenatal home, +Lost in blind pining girlhood--found now, found! +[Aside] What have I said? Do I blaspheme? Alas! +I neither made these thoughts, nor can unmake them. + +Lewis. Ay, marriage is the life-long miracle, +The self-begetting wonder, daily fresh; +The Eden, where the spirit and the flesh +Are one again, and new-born souls walk free, +And name in mystic language all things new, +Naked, and not ashamed. [Eliz. hides her face.] + +Eliz. O God! were that true! + +[Clasps him round the neck.] + +There, there, no more-- +I love thee, and I love thee, and I love thee-- +More than rich thoughts can dream, or mad lips speak; +But how, or why, whether with soul or body, +I will not know. Thou art mine.--Why question further? +[Aside] Ay if I fall by loving, I will love, +And be degraded!--how? by my own troth-plight? +No, but my thinking that I fall.--'Tis written +That whatsoe'er is not of faith is sin.-- +O Jesu Lord! Hast Thou not made me thus? +Mercy! My brain will burst: I cannot leave him! + +Lewis. Beloved, if I went away to war-- + +Eliz. O God! More wars? More partings? + +Lewis. Nay, my sister-- +My trust but longs to glory in its surety: +What would'st thou do? + +Eliz. What I have done already. +Have I not followed thee, through drought and frost, +Through flooded swamps, rough glens, and wasted lands, +Even while I panted most with thy dear loan +Of double life? + +Lewis. My saint! but what if I bid thee +To be my seneschal, and here with prayers, +With sober thrift, and noble bounty shine, +Alone and peerless? And suppose--nay, start not-- +I only said suppose--the war was long, +Our camps far off, and that some winter, love, +Or two, pent back this Eden stream, where now +Joys upon joys like sunlit ripples pass, +Alike, yet ever new.--What would'st thou do, love? + +Eliz. A year? A year! A cold, blank, widowed year! +Strange, that mere words should chill my heart with fear-- +This is no hall of doom, +No impious Soldan's feast of old, +Where o'er the madness of the foaming gold, +A fleshless hand its woe on tainted walls enrolled. +Yet by thy wild words raised, +In Love's most careless revel, +Looms through the future's fog a shade of evil, +And all my heart is glazed.-- +Alas! What would I do? +I would lie down and weep, and weep, +Till the salt current of my tears should sweep +My soul, like floating weed, adown a fitful sleep, +A lingering half-night through. +Then when the mocking bells did wake +My hollow eyes to twilight gray, +I would address my spiritless limbs to pray, +And nerve myself with stripes to meet the weary day, +And labour for thy sake. +Until by vigils, fasts, and tears, +The flesh was grown so spare and light, +That I could slip its mesh, and flit by night +O'er sleeping sea and land to thee--or Christ--till morning light. +Peace! Why these fears? +Life is too short for mean anxieties: +Soul! thou must work, though blindfold. +Come, beloved, +I must turn robber.--I have begged of late +So soft, I fear to ask.--Give me thy purse. + +Lewis. No, not my purse:--stay--Where is all that gold +I gave you, when the Jews came here from Koln? + +Eliz. Oh, those few coins? I spent them all next day +On a new chapel on the Eisenthal; +There were no choristers but nightingales-- +No teachers there save bees: how long is this? +Have you turned niggard? + +Lewis. Nay; go ask my steward-- +Take what you will--this purse I want myself. + +Eliz. Ah! now I guess. You have some trinket for me-- +You promised late to buy no more such baubles-- +And now you are ashamed.--Nay, I must see-- + +[Snatches his purse. Lewis hides his face.] + +Ah, God! what's here? A new crusader's cross? +Whose? Nay, nay--turn not from me; I guess all-- +You need not tell me; it is very well-- +According to the meed of my deserts: +Yes--very well. + +Lewis. Ah, love!--look not so calm-- + +Eliz. Fear not--I shall weep soon. +How long is it since you vowed? + +Lewis. A week or more. + +Eliz. Brave heart! And all that time your tenderness +Kept silence, knowing my weak foolish soul. [Weeps.] +O love! O life! Late found, and soon, soon lost! +A bleak sunrise,--a treacherous morning gleam,-- +And now, ere mid-day, all my sky is black +With whirling drifts once more! The march is fixed +For this day month, is't not? + +Lewis. Alas, too true! + +Eliz. Oh break not, heart! + +[Conrad enters.] + +Ah! here my master comes. +No weeping before him. + +Lewis. Speak to the holy man: +He can give strength and comfort, which poor I +Need even more than you. Here, saintly master, +I leave her to your holy eloquence. Farewell! +God help us both! [Exit Lewis.] + +Eliz [rising]. You know, Sir, that my husband has taken the cross! + +Con. I do; all praise to God! + +Eliz. But none to you: +Hard-hearted! Am I not enough your slave? +Can I obey you more when he is gone +Than now I do? Wherein, pray, has he hindered +This holiness of mine, for which you make me +Old ere my womanhood? [Conrad offers to go.] +Stay, Sir, and tell me +Is this the outcome of your 'father's care'? +Was it not enough to poison all my joys +With foulest scruples?--show me nameless sins, +Where I, unconscious babe, blessed God for all things, +But you must thus intrigue away my knight +And plunge me down this gulf of widowhood! +And I not twenty yet--a girl--an orphan-- +That cannot stand alone! Was I too happy? +O God! what lawful bliss do I not buy +And balance with the smart of some sharp penance? +Hast thou no pity? None? Thou drivest me +To fiendish doubts: Thou, Jesus' messenger? + +Con. This to your master! + +Eliz. This to any one +Who dares to part me from my love. + +Con. 'Tis well-- +In pity to your weakness I must deign +To do what ne'er I did--excuse myself. +I say, I knew not of your husband's purpose; +God's spirit, not I, moved him: perhaps I sinned +In that I did not urge it myself. + +Eliz. Thou traitor! +So thou would'st part us? + +Con. Aught that makes thee greater +I'll dare. This very outburst proves in thee +Passions unsanctified, and carnal leanings +Upon the creatures thou would'st fain transcend. +Thou badest me cure thy weakness. Lo, God brings thee +The tonic cup I feared to mix:--be brave-- +Drink it to the lees, and thou shalt find within +A pearl of price. + +Eliz. 'Tis bitter! + +Con. Bitter, truly: +Even I, to whom the storm of earthly love +Is but a dim remembrance--Courage! Courage! +There's glory in't; fulfil thy sacrifice; +Give up thy noblest on the noblest service +God's sun has looked on, since the chosen twelve +Went conquering, and to conquer, forth. If he fall-- + +Eliz. Oh, spare mine ears! + +Con. He falls a blessed martyr, +To bid thee welcome through the gates of pearl; +And next to his shall thine own guerdon be +If thou devote him willing to thy God. +Wilt thou? + +Eliz. Have mercy! + +Con. Wilt thou? Sit not thus +Watching the sightless air: no angel in it +But asks thee what I ask: the fiend alone +Delays thy coward flesh. Wilt thou devote him? + +Eliz. I will devote him;--a crusader's wife! +I'll glory in it. Thou speakest words from God-- +And God shall have him! Go now--good my master; +My poor brain swims. [Exit Conrad.] +Yes--a crusader's wife! +And a crusader's widow! + +[Bursts into tears, and dashes herself on the floor.] + + +SCENE X + + +A street in the town of Schmalcald. Bodies of Crusading troops +defiling past. Lewis and Elizabeth with their suite in the +foreground. + +Lewis. Alas! the time is near; I must be gone-- +There are our liegemen; how you'll welcome us, +Returned in triumph, bowed with paynim spoils, +Beneath the victor cross, to part no more! + +Eliz. Yes--we shall part no more, where next we meet. +Enough to have stood here once on such an errand! + +Lewis. The bugle calls.--Farewell, my love, my lady, +Queen, sister, saint! One last long kiss--Farewell! + +Eliz. One kiss--and then another--and another-- +Till 'tis too late to go--and so return-- +O God! forgive that craven thought! There, take him +Since Thou dost need him. I have kept him ever +Thine, when most mine; and shall I now deny Thee? +Oh! go--yes, go--Thou'lt not forget to pray, + +[Lewis goes.] + +With me, at our old hour? Alas! he's gone +And lost--thank God he hears me not--for ever. +Why look'st thou so, poor girl? I say, for ever. +The day I found the bitter blessed cross, +Something did strike my heart like keen cold steel, +Which quarries daily there with dead dull pains-- +Whereby I know that we shall meet no more. +Come! Home, maids, home! Prepare me widow's weeds-- +For he is dead to me, and I must soon +Die too to him, and many things; and mark me-- +Breathe not his name, lest this love-pampered heart +Should sicken to vain yearnings--Lost! lost! lost! + +Lady. Oh stay, and watch this pomp. + +Eliz. Well said--we'll stay; so this bright enterprise +Shall blanch our private clouds, and steep our soul +Drunk with the spirit of great Christendom. + +CRUSADER CHORUS. + +[Men-at-Arms pass, singing.] + +The tomb of God before us, +Our fatherland behind, +Our ships shall leap o'er billows steep, +Before a charmed wind. + +Above our van great angels +Shall fight along the sky; +While martyrs pure and crowned saints +To God for rescue cry. + +The red-cross knights and yeomen +Throughout the holy town, +In faith and might, on left and right, +Shall tread the paynim down. + +Till on the Mount Moriah +The Pope of Rome shall stand; +The Kaiser and the King of France +Shall guard him on each hand. + +There shall he rule all nations, +With crozier and with sword; +And pour on all the heathen +The wrath of Christ the Lord. + +[Women--bystanders.] + +Christ is a rock in the bare salt land, +To shelter our knights from the sun and sand: +Christ the Lord is a summer sun, +To ripen the grain while they are gone. + +Then you who fight in the bare salt land, +And you who work at home, +Fight and work for Christ the Lord, +Until His kingdom come. + +[Old Knights pass.] + +Our stormy sun is sinking; +Our sands are running low; +In one fair fight, before the night, +Our hard-worn hearts shall glow. + +We cannot pine in cloister; +We cannot fast and pray; +The sword which built our load of guilt +Must wipe that guilt away. + +We know the doom before us; +The dangers of the road; +Have mercy, mercy, Jesu blest, +When we lie low in blood. + +When we lie gashed and gory, +The holy walls within, +Sweet Jesu, think upon our end, +And wipe away our sin. + +[Boy Crusaders pass.] + +The Christ-child sits on high: +He looks through the merry blue sky; +He holds in His hand a bright lily-band, +For the boys who for Him die. + +On holy Mary's arm, +Wrapt safe from terror and harm, +Lulled by the breeze in the paradise trees, +Their souls sleep soft and warm. + +Knight David, young and true, +The giant Soldan slew, +And our arms so light, for the Christ-child's right, +Like noble deeds can do. + +[Young Knights pass.] + +The rich East blooms fragrant before us; +All Fairyland beckons us forth; +We must follow the crane in her flight o'er the main, +From the frosts and the moors of the North. + +Our sires in the youth of the nations +Swept westward through plunder and blood, +But a holier quest calls us back to the East, +We fight for the kingdom of God. + +Then shrink not, and sigh not, fair ladies, +The red cross which flames on each arm and each shield, +Through philtre and spell, and the black charms of hell, +Shall shelter our true love in camp and in field. + +[Old Monk, looking after them.] + +Jerusalem, Jerusalem! +The burying place of God! +Why gay and bold, in steel and gold, +O'er the paths where Christ hath trod? + +[The Scene closes.] + + + +ACT III + + + +SCENE I + + +A chamber in the Wartburg. Elizabeth sitting in widow's weeds; Guta +and Isentrudis by her. + +Isen. What? Always thus, my Princess? Is this wise, +By day with fasts and ceaseless coil of labour; +About the ungracious poor--hands, eyes, feet, brain +O'ertasked alike--'mid sin and filth, which make +Each sense a plague--by night with cruel stripes, +And weary watchings on the freezing stone, +To double all your griefs, and burn life's candle, +As village gossips say, at either end? +The good book bids the heavy-hearted drink, +And so forget their woe. + +Eliz. 'Tis written too +In that same book, nurse, that the days shall come +When the bridegroom shall be taken away--and then-- +Then shall they mourn and fast: I needed weaning +From sense and earthly joys; by this way only +May I win God to leave in mine own hands +My luxury's cure: oh! I may bring him back, +By working out to its full depth the chastening +The need of which his loss proves: I but barter +Less grief for greater--pain for widowhood. + +Isen. And death for life--your cheeks are wan and sharp +As any three-days' moon--you are shifting always +Uneasily and stiff, now, on your seat, +As from some secret pain. + +Eliz. Why watch me thus? +You cannot know--and yet you know too much-- +I tell you, nurse, pain's comfort, when the flesh +Aches with the aching soul in harmony, +And even in woe, we are one: the heart must speak +Its passion's strangeness in strange symbols out, +Or boil, till it bursts inly. + +Guta. Yet, methinks, +You might have made this widowed solitude +A holy rest--a spell of soft gray weather, +Beneath whose fragrant dews all tender thoughts +Might bud and burgeon. + +Eliz. That's a gentle dream; +But nature shows nought like it: every winter, +When the great sun has turned his face away, +The earth goes down into the vale of grief, +And fasts, and weeps, and shrouds herself in sables, +Leaving her wedding-garlands to decay-- +Then leaps in spring to his returning kisses-- +As I may yet!-- + +Isen. There, now--my foolish child! +You faint: come--come to your chamber-- + +Eliz. Oh, forgive me! +But hope at times throngs in so rich and full, +It mads the brain like wine: come with me, nurse, +Sit by me, lull me calm with gentle tales +Of noble ladies wandering in the wild wood, +Fed on chance earth-nuts, and wild strawberries, +Or milk of silly sheep, and woodland doe. +Or how fair Magdalen 'mid desert sands +Wore out in prayer her lonely blissful years, +Watched by bright angels, till her modest tresses +Wove to her pearled feet their golden shroud. +Come, open all your lore. + +[Sophia and Agnes enter.] + +My mother-in-law! + +[Aside] Shame on thee, heart! why sink, whene'er we meet? + +Soph. Daughter, we know of old thy strength, of metal +Beyond us worldlings: shrink not, if the time +Be come which needs its use-- + +Eliz. What means this preface? Ah! your looks are big +With sudden woes--speak out. + +Soph. Be calm, and hear +The will of God toward my son, thy husband. + +Eliz. What? is he captive? Why then--what of that? +There are friends will rescue him--there's gold for ransom-- +We'll sell our castles--live in bowers of rushes-- +O God! that I were with him in the dungeon! + +Soph. He is not taken. + +Eliz. No! he would have fought to the death! +There's treachery! What paynim dog dare face +His lance, who naked braved yon lion's rage, +And eyed the cowering monster to his den? +Speak! Has he fled? or worse? + +Soph. Child, he is dead. + +Eliz [clasping her hands on her knees.]. The world is dead to me, +and all its smiles! + +Isen. Oh, woe! my Prince! and doubly woe, my daughter. + +[Elizabeth springs up and rushes out.] + +Oh, stop her--stop my child! She will go mad-- +Dash herself down--Fly--Fly--She is not made +Of hard, light stuff, like you. + +Soph. I had expected some such passionate outbreak +At the first news: you see now, Lady Agnes, +These saints, who fain would 'wean themselves from earth,' +Still yield to the affections they despise +When the game's earnest--Now--ere they return-- +Your brother, child, is dead-- + +Agnes. I know it too well. +So young--so brave--so blest!--And she--she loved him-- +Oh! I repent of all the foolish scoffs +With which I crossed her. + +Soph. Yes--the Landgrave's dead-- +Attend to me--Alas! my son! my son! +He was my first-born! But he has a brother-- +Agnes! we must not let this foreign gipsy, +Who, as you see, is scarce her own wits' mistress, +Flaunt sovereign over us, and our broad lands, +To my son's prejudice--There are barons, child, +Who will obey a knight, but not a saint: +I must at once to them. + +Agnes. Oh, let me stay. + +Soph. As you shall please--Your brother's landgravate +Is somewhat to you, surely--and your smiles +Are worth gold pieces in a court intrigue. +For her, on her own principles, a downfall +Is a chastening mercy--and a likely one. + +Agnes. Oh! let me stay, and comfort her! + +Soph. Romance! +You girls adore a scene--as lookers on. + +[Exit Sophia.] + +Agnes [alone]. Well spoke the old monks, peaceful watching life's +turmoil, +'Eyes which look heavenward, weeping still we see: +God's love with keen flame purges, like the lightning flash, +Gold which is purest, purer still must be.' + +[Guta enters.] + +Alas! Returned alone! Where has my sister been? + +Guta. Thank heaven you hear alone, for such sad sight would haunt +Henceforth your young hopes--crush your shuddering fancy down +With dread of like fierce anguish. +You saw her bound forth: we towards her bower in haste +Ran trembling: spell-bound there, before her bridal-bed +She stood, while wan smiles flickered, like the northern dawn, +Across her worn cheeks' ice-field; keenest memories then +Rushed with strong shudderings through her--as the winged shaft +Springs from the tense nerve, so her passion hurled her forth +Sweeping, like fierce ghost, on through hall and corridor, +Tearless, with wide eyes staring, while a ghastly wind +Moaned on through roof and rafter, and the empty helms +Along the walls ran clattering, and above her waved +Dead heroes' banners; swift and yet more swift she drove +Still seeking aimless; sheer against the opposing wall +At last dashed reckless--there with frantic fingers clutched +Blindly the ribbed oak, till that frost of rage +Dissolved itself in tears, and like a babe, +With inarticulate moans, and folded hands, +She followed those who led her, as if the sun +On her life's dial had gone back seven years, +And she were once again the dumb sad child +We knew her ere she married. + +Isen [entering]. As after wolf wolf presses, leaping through the +snow-glades, +So woe on woe throngs surging up. + +Guta. What? treason? + +Isen. Treason, and of the foulest. From her state she's rudely +thrust; +Her keys are seized; her weeping babies pent from her: +The wenches stop their sobs to sneer askance, +And greet their fallen censor's new mischance. + +Agnes. Alas! Who dared to do this wrong? + +Isen. Your mother and your mother's son-- +Judge you, if it was knightly done. + +Guta. See! see! she comes, with heaving breast, +With bursting eyes, and purpled brow: +Oh that the traitors saw her now! +They know not, sightless fools, the heart they break. + +[Elizabeth enters slowly.] + +Eliz. He is in purgatory now! Alas! +Angels! be pitiful! deal gently with him! +His sins were gentle! That's one cause left for living-- +To pray, and pray for him: why all these months +I prayed,--and here's my answer: Dead of a fever! +Why thus? so soon! Only six years for love! +While any formal, heartless matrimony, +Patched up by Court intrigues, and threats of cloisters, +Drags on for six times six, and peasant slaves +Grow old on the same straw, and hand in hand +Slip from life's oozy bank, to float at ease. + +[A knocking at the door.] + +That's some petitioner. +Go to--I will not hear them: why should I work, +When he is dead? Alas! was that my sin? +Was he, not Christ, my lodestar? Why not warn me? +Too late! What's this foul dream? Dead at Otranto-- +Parched by Italian suns--no woman by him-- +He was too chaste! Nought but rude men to nurse!-- +If I had been there, I should have watched by him-- +Guessed every fancy--God! I might have saved him! + +[A servant-man bursts in.] + +Servant. Madam, the Landgrave gave me strict commands-- + +Isen. The Landgrave, dolt? + +Eliz. I might have saved him! + +Servant [to Isen.] Ay, saucy madam!-- +The Landgrave Henry, lord and master, +Freer than the last, and yet no waster, +Who will not stint a poor knave's beer, +Or spin out Lent through half the year. +Why--I see double! + +Eliz. Who spoke there of the Landgrave? What's this drunkard? +Give him his answer--'Tis no time for mumming-- + +Serv. The Landgrave Henry bade me see you out +Safe through his gates, and that at once, my Lady. +Come! + +Eliz. Why--that's hasty--I must take my children +Ah! I forgot--they would not let me see them. +I must pack up my jewels-- + +Serv. You'll not need it-- +His Lordship has the keys. + +Eliz. He has indeed. +Why, man!--I am thy children's godmother-- +I nursed thy wife myself in the black sickness-- +Art thou a bird, that when the old tree falls, +Flits off, and sings in the sapling? + +[The man seizes her arm.] + +Keep thine hands off-- +I'll not be shamed--Lead on. Farewell, my Ladies. +Follow not! There's want to spare on earth already; +And mine own woe is weight enough for me. +Go back, and say, Elizabeth has yet +Eternal homes, built deep in poor men's hearts; +And, in the alleys underneath the wall, +Has bought with sinful mammon heavenly treasure, +More sure than adamant, purer than white whales' bone, +Which now she claims. Lead on: a people's love shall right me. +[Exit with Servant.] + +Guta. Where now, dame? + +Isen. Where, but after her? + +Guta. True heart! +I'll follow to the death. [Exeunt.] + + +SCENE II + + +A street. Elizabeth and Guta at the door of a Convent. Monks in +the porch. + +Eliz. You are afraid to shelter me--afraid. +And so you thrust me forth, to starve and freeze. +Soon said. Why palter o'er these mean excuses, +Which tempt me to despise you? + +Monks. Ah! my lady, +We know your kindness--but we poor religious +Are bound to obey God's ordinance, and submit +Unto the powers that be, who have forbidden +All men, alas! to give you food or shelter. + +Eliz. Silence! I'll go. Better in God's hand than man's. +He shall kill us, if we die. This bitter blast +Warping the leafless willows, yon white snow-storms, +Whose wings, like vengeful angels, cope the vault, +They are God's,--We'll trust to them. + +[Monks go in.] + +Guta. Mean-spirited! +Fair frocks hide foul hearts. Why, their altar now +Is blazing with your gifts. + +Eliz. How long their altar? +To God I gave--and God shall pay me back. +Fool! to have put my trust in living man, +And fancied that I bought God's love, by buying +The greedy thanks of these His earthly tools! +Well--here's one lesson learnt! I thank thee, Lord! +Henceforth I'll straight to Thee, and to Thy poor. +What? Isentrudis not returned? Alas! +Where are those children? +They will not have the heart to keep them from me-- +Oh! have the traitors harmed them? + +Guta. Do not think it. +The dowager has a woman's heart. + +Eliz. Ay, ay-- +But she's a mother--and mothers will dare all things-- +Oh! Love can make us fiends, as well as angels. +My babies! Weeping? Oh, have mercy, Lord! +On me heap all thy wrath--I understand it: +What can blind senseless terror do for them? + +Guta. Plead, plead your penances! Great God, consider +All she has done and suffered, and forbear +To smite her like a worldling! + +Eliz. Silence, girl! +I'd plead my deeds, if mine own character, +My strength of will had fathered them: but no-- +They are His, who worked them in me, in despite +Of mine own selfish and luxurious will-- +Shall I bribe Him with His own? For pain, I tell thee +I need more pain than mine own will inflicts, +Pain which shall break that will.--Yet spare them, Lord! +Go to--I am a fool to wish them life-- +And greater fool to miscall life, this headache-- +This nightmare of our gross and crude digestion-- +This fog which steams up from our freezing clay-- +While waking heaven's beyond. No! slay them, traitors! +Cut through the channels of those innocent breaths +Whose music charmed my lone nights, ere they learn +To love the world, and hate the wretch who bore them! + +[Weeps.] + +Guta. This storm will blind us both: come here, and shield you +Behind this buttress. + +Eliz. What's a wind to me? +I can see up the street here, if they come-- +They do not come!--Oh! my poor weanling lambs-- +Struck dead by carrion ravens! +What then, I have borne worse. But yesterday +I thought I had a husband--and now--now! +Guta! He called a holy man before he died? + +Guta. The Bishop of Jerusalem, 'tis said, +With holy oil, and with the blessed body +Of Him for whom he died, did speed him duly +Upon his heavenward flight. + +Eliz. O happy bishop! +Where are those children? If I had but seen him! +I could have borne all then. One word--one kiss! +Hark! What's that rushing? White doves--one--two--three-- +Fleeing before the gale. My children's spirits! +Stay, babies--stay for me! What! Not a moment? +And I so nearly ready to be gone? + +Guta. Still on your children? + +Eliz. Oh! this grief is light +And floats a-top--well, well; it hides a while +That gulf too black for speech--My husband's dead! +I dare not think on't. +A small bird dead in the snow! Alas! poor minstrel! +A week ago, before this very window, +He warbled, may be, to the slanting sunlight; +And housewives blest him for a merry singer: +And now he freezes at their doors, like me. +Poor foolish brother! didst thou look for payment? + +Guta. But thou hast light in darkness: he has none-- +The bird's the sport of time, while our life's floor +Is laid upon eternity; no crack in it +But shows the underlying heaven. + +Eliz. Art sure? +Does this look like it, girl? No--I'll trust yet-- +Some have gone mad for less; but why should I? +Who live in time, and not eternity. +'Twill end, girl, end; no cloud across the sun +But passes at the last, and gives us back +The face of God once more. + +Guta. See here they come, +Dame Isentrudis and your children, all +Safe down the cliff path, through the whirling snow-drifts. + +Eliz. O Lord, my Lord! I thank thee! +Loving and merciful, and tender-hearted, +And even in fiercest wrath remembering mercy. +Lo! here's my ancient foe. What want you, Sir? + +[Hugo enters.] + +Hugo. Want? Faith, 'tis you who want, not I, my Lady-- +I hear, you are gone a begging through the town; +So, for your husband's sake, I'll take you in; +For though I can't forget your scurvy usage, +He was a very honest sort of fellow, +Though mad as a March hare; so come you in. + +Eliz. But know you, Sir, that all my husband's vassals +Are bidden bar their doors to me? + +Hugo. I know it: +And therefore come you in; my house is mine: +No upstarts shall lay down the law to me; +Not they, mass: but mind you, no canting here-- +No psalm-singing; all candles out at eight: +Beggars must not be choosers. Come along! + +Eliz. I thank you, Sir; and for my children's sake +I do accept your bounty. [aside] Down, proud heart-- +Bend lower--lower ever: thus God deals with thee. +Go, Guta, send the children after me. [Exeunt severally.] + +[Two Peasants enter.] + +1st Peas. 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? + +2d Peas. 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. + +[Guta enters.] + +Guta. Well met, fair sirs! I know you kind and loyal, +And bound by many a favour to my mistress: +Say, will you bear this letter for her sake +Unto her aunt, the rich and holy lady +Who rules the nuns of Kitzingen? + +2d Peas. If I do, pickle me in a barrel among cabbage. +She told me once, God's curse would overtake me, +For grinding of the poor: her turn's come now. + +Guta. Will you, then, help her? She will pay you richly. + +1st Peas. Ay? How, dame? How? Where will the money come from? + +Guta. God knows-- + +1st Peas. And you do not. + +Guta. Why, but last winter, +When all your stacks were fired, she lent you gold. + +1st Peas. Well--I'll be generous: as the times are hard, +Say, if I take your letter, will you promise +To marry me yourself? + +Guta. Ay, marry you, +Or anything, if you'll but go to-day: +At once, mind. [Giving him the letter.] + +1st Peas. Ay, I'll go. Now, you'll remember? + +Guta. Straight to her ladyship at Kitzingen. +God and His saints deal with you, as you deal +With us this day. [Exit.] + +2d Peas. What! art thou fallen in love promiscuously? + +1st Peas. Why, see, now, man; she has her mistress' ear; +And if I marry her, no doubt they'll make me +Bailiff, or land-steward; and there's noble pickings +In that same line. + +2d Peas. Thou hast bought a pig in a poke: +Her priest will shrive her off from such a bargain. + +1st Peas. Dost think? Well--I'll not fret myself about it. +See, now, before I start, I must get home +Those pigs from off the forest; chop some furze; +And then to get my supper, and my horse's: +And then a man will need to sit a while, +And take his snack of brandy for digestion; +And then to fettle up my sword and buckler; +And then, bid 'em all good-bye: and by that time +'Twill be 'most nightfall--I'll just go to-morrow. +Off--here she comes again. [Exeunt.] + +[Isentrudis and Guta enter, with the children.] + +Guta. I warned you of it; I knew she would not stay +An hour, thus treated like a slave--an idiot. + +Isen. Well, 'twas past bearing: so we are thrust forth +To starve again. Are all your jewels gone? + +Guta. All pawned and eaten--and for her, you know, +She never bore the worth of one day's meal +About her dress. We can but die--No foe +Can ban us from that rest. + +Isen. Ay, but these children!--Well--if it must be, +Here, Guta, pull off this old withered hand +My wedding-ring; the man who gave it me +Should be in heaven--and there he'll know my heart. +Take it, girl, take it. Where's the Princess now? +She stopped before a crucifix to pray; +But why so long? + +Guta. Oh! prayer, to her rapt soul, +Is like the drunkenness of the autumn bee, +Who, scent-enchanted, on the latest flower, +Heedless of cold, will linger listless on, +And freeze in odorous dreams. + +Isen. Ah! here she comes. + +Guta. Dripping from head to foot with wet and mire! +How's this? + +[Elizabeth entering.] + +Eliz. How? Oh, my fortune rises to full flood: +I met a friend just now, who told me truths +Wholesome and stern, of my deceitful heart-- +Would God I had known them earlier!--and enforced +Her lesson so, as I shall ne'er forget it +In body or in mind. + +Isen. What means all this? + +Eliz. You know the stepping-stones across the ford. +There as I passed, a certain aged crone, +Whom I had fed, and nursed, year after year, +Met me mid-stream--thrust past me stoutly on-- +And rolled me headlong in the freezing mire. +There as I lay and weltered,--'Take that, Madam, +For all your selfish hypocritic pride +Which thought it such a vast humility +To wash us poor folk's feet, and use our bodies +For staves to build withal your Jacob's-ladder. +What! you would mount to heaven upon our backs? +The ass has thrown his rider.' She crept on-- +I washed my garments in the brook hard by-- +And came here, all the wiser. + +Guta. Miscreant hag! + +Isen. Alas, you'll freeze. + +Guta. Who could have dreamt the witch +Could harbour such a spite? + +Eliz. Nay, who could dream +She would have guessed my heart so well? Dull boors +See deeper than we think, and hide within +Those leathern hulls unfathomable truths, +Which we amid thought's glittering mazes lose. +They grind among the iron facts of life, +And have no time for self-deception. + +Isen. Come-- +Put on my cloak--stand here, behind the wall. +Oh! is it come to this? She'll die of cold. + +Guta. Ungrateful fiend! + +Eliz. Let be--we must not think on't. +The scoff was true--I thank her--I thank God-- +This too I needed. I had built myself +A Babel-tower, whose top should reach to heaven, +Of poor men's praise and prayers, and subtle pride +At mine own alms. 'Tis crumbled into dust! +Oh! I have leant upon an arm of flesh-- +And here's its strength! I'll walk by faith--by faith +And rest my weary heart on Christ alone-- +On him, the all-sufficient! +Shame on me! dreaming thus about myself, +While you stand shivering here. [To her little Son.] +Art cold, young knight? +Knights must not cry--Go slide, and warm thyself. +Where shall we lodge to-night? + +Isen. There's no place open, +But that foul tavern, where we lay last night. + +Elizabeth's Son [clinging to her]. O mother, mother! go not to that +house-- +Among those fierce lank men, who laughed, and scowled, +And showed their knives, and sang strange ugly songs +Of you and us. O mother! let us be! + +Eliz. Hark! look! His father's voice!--his very eye-- +Opening so slow and sad, then sinking down +In luscious rest again! + +Isen. Bethink you, child-- + +Eliz. Oh yes--I'll think--we'll to our tavern friends; +If they be brutes, 'twas my sin left them so. + +Guta. 'Tis but for a night or two: three days will bring +The Abbess hither. + +Isen. And then to Bamberg straight +For knights and men-at-arms! Your uncle's wrath-- + +Guta [aside]. Hush! hush! you'll fret her, if you talk of +vengeance. + +Isen. Come to our shelter. + +Children. Oh stay here, stay here! +Behind these walls. + +Eliz. Ay--stay a while in peace. The storms are still. +Beneath her eider robe the patient earth +Watches in silence for the sun: we'll sit +And gaze up with her at the changeless heaven, +Until this tyranny be overpast. +Come. [aside] Lost! Lost! Lost! +[They enter a neighbouring ruin.] + + +SCENE III + + +A Chamber in the Bishop's Palace at Bamberg. Elizabeth and Guta. + +Guta. You have determined? + +Eliz. Yes--to go with him. +I have kept my oath too long to break it now. +I will to Marpurg, and there waste away +In meditation and in pious deeds, +Till God shall set me free. + +Guta. How if your uncle +Will have you marry? Day and night, they say, +He talks of nothing else. + +Eliz. Never, girl, never! +Save me from that at least, O God! + +Guta. He spoke +Of giving us, your maidens, to his knights +In carnal wedlock: but I fear him not: +For God's own word is pledged to keep me pure-- +I am a maid. + +Eliz. And I, alas! am none! +O Guta! dost thou mock my widowed love? +I was a wife--'tis true: I was not worthy-- +But there was meaning in that first wild fancy; +'Twas but the innocent springing of the sap-- +The witless yearning of an homeless heart-- +Do I not know that God has pardoned me? +But now--to rouse and turn of mine own will, +In cool and full foreknowledge, this worn soul +Again to that, which, when God thrust it on me, +Bred but one shame of ever-gnawing doubt, +Were--No, my burning cheeks! We'll say no more. +Ah! loved and lost! Though God's chaste grace should fail me, +My weak idolatry of thee would give +Strength that should keep me true: with mine own hands +I'd mar this tear-worn face, till petulant man +Should loathe its scarred and shapeless ugliness. + +Guta. But your poor children? What becomes of them? + +Eliz. Oh! she who was not worthy of a husband +Does not deserve his children. What are they, darlings, +But snares to keep me from my heavenly spouse +By picturing the spouse I must forget? +Well--'tis blank horror. Yet if grief's good for me, +Let me down into grief's blackest pit, +And follow out God's cure by mine own deed. + +Guta. What will your kinsfolk think? + +Eliz. What will they think! +What pleases them. That argument's a staff +Which breaks whene'er you lean on't. Trust me, girl, +That fear of man sucks out love's soaring ether, +Baffles faith's heavenward eyes, and drops us down, +To float, like plumeless birds, on any stream. +Have I not proved it? +There was a time with me, when every eye +Did scorch like flame: if one looked cold on me, +I straight accused myself of mortal sins: +Each fopling was my master: I have lied +From very fear of mine own serving-maids.-- +That's past, thank God's good grace! + +Guta. And now you leap +To the other end of the line. + +Eliz. In self-defence. +I am too weak to live by half my conscience; +I have no wit to weigh and choose the mean; +Life is too short for logic; what I do +I must do simply; God alone must judge-- +For God alone shall guide, and God's elect-- +I shrink from earth's chill frosts too much to crawl-- +I have snapped opinion's chains, and now I'll soar +Up to the blazing sunlight, and be free. + +[The bishop of Bamberg enters. Conrad following.] + +Bishop. The Devil plagued St. Antony in the likeness of a lean +friar! Between mad monks and mad women, bedlam's broke loose, I +think. + +Con. When the Spirit first descended on the elect, seculars then, +too, said mocking, 'These men are full of new wine.' + +Bishop. 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. + +Eliz. Let me settle your cushion, uncle. + +Bishop. 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! + +Eliz. Uncle, I give but what to me is worthless. He loves these +baubles--let him keep them, then: I have my dower. + +Bishop. 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. + +Eliz. Uncle, I soar now at a higher pitch-- +To be henceforth the bride of Christ alone. + +Bishop. Ahem!--a pious notion--in moderation. We must be moderate, +my child, moderate: I hate overdoing anything--especially religion. + +Con. Madam, between your uncle and myself +This question in your absence were best mooted. + +[Exit Elizabeth.] + +Bishop. How, priest? do you order her about like a servant-maid? + +Con. The saints forbid! Now--ere I lose a moment-- + +[Kneeling.] + +[Aside] All things to all men be--and so save some-- +[Aloud] Forgive, your grace, forgive me, +If mine unmannered speech in aught have clashed +With your more tempered and melodious judgment: +Your courage will forgive an honest warmth. +God knows, I serve no private interests. + +Bishop. Your order's, hey? to wit? + +Con. My lord, my lord, +There may be higher aims: but what I said, +I said but for our Church, and our cloth's honour. +Ladies' religion, like their love, we know, +Requires a gloss of verbal exaltation, +Lest the sweet souls should understand themselves; +And clergymen must talk up to the mark. + +Bishop. We all know, Gospel preached in the mother-tongue +Sounds too like common sense. + +Con. Or too unlike it: +You know the world, your grace; you know the sex-- + +Bishop. Ahem! As a spectator. + +Con. Philosophice-- +Just so--You know their rage for shaven crowns-- +How they'll deny their God--but not their priest-- +Flirts--scandal-mongers--in default of both come +Platonic love--worship of art and genius-- +Idols which make them dream of heaven, as girls +Dream of their sweethearts, when they sleep on bridecake. +It saves from worse--we are not all Abelards. + +Bishop [aside]. Some of us have his tongue, if not his face. + +Con. There lies her fancy; do but balk her of it-- +She'll bolt to cloisters, like a rabbit scared. +Head her from that--she'll wed some pink-faced boy-- +The more low-bred and penniless, the likelier. +Send her to Marpurg, and her brain will cool. +Tug at the kite, 'twill only soar the higher: +Give it but line, my lord, 'twill drop like slate. +Use but that eagle's glance, whose daring foresight +In chapter, camp, and council, wins the wonder +Of timid trucklers--Scan results and outcomes-- +The scale is heavy in your grace's favour. + +Bishop. Bah! priest! What can this Marpurg-madness do for me? + +Con. Leave you the tutelage of all her children. + +Bishop. Thank you--to play the dry-nurse to three starving brats. + +Con. The minor's guardian guards the minor's lands. + +Bishop. Unless they are pitched away in building hospitals. + +Con. Instead of fattening in your wisdom's keeping. + +Bishop. Well, well,--but what gross scandal to the family! + +Con. The family, my lord, would gain a saint. + +Bishop. Ah! monk, that canonisation costs a frightful sum. + +Con. These fees, just now, would gladly be remitted. + +Bishop. These are the last days, faith, when Rome's too rich to +take! + +Con. The Saints forbid, my lord, the fisher's see +Were so o'ercursed by Mammon! But you grieve, +I know, to see foul weeds of heresy +Of late o'errun your diocese. + +Bishop. Ay, curse them! +I've hanged some dozens. + +Con. Worthy of yourself! +But yet the faith needs here some mighty triumph-- +Some bright example, whose resplendent blaze +May tempt that fluttering tribe within the pale +Of Holy Church again-- + +Bishop. To singe their wings? + +Con. They'll not come near enough. Again--there are +Who dare arraign your prowess, and assert +A churchman's energies were better spent +In pulpits than the tented field. Now mark-- +Mark, what a door is opened. Give but scope +To this her huge capacity for sainthood-- +Set her, a burning and a shining light +To all your people--Such a sacrifice, +Such loan to God of your own flesh and blood, +Will silence envious tongues, and prove you wise +For the next world as for this; will clear your name +From calumnies which argue worldliness; +Buy of itself the joys of paradise; +And clench your lordship's interest with the pontiff. + +Bishop. Well, well, we'll think on't. + +Con. Sir, I doubt you not. + +[Re-enter Elizabeth.] + +Eliz. Uncle, I am determined. + +Bishop. So am I. +You shall to Marpurg with this holy man. + +Eliz. Ah, there you speak again like my own uncle. +I'll go--to rest [aside] and die. I only wait +To see the bones of my beloved laid +In some fit resting-place. A messenger +Proclaims them near. O God! + +Bishop. We'll go, my child, +And meeting them with all due honour, show +In our own worship, honourable minds. + +[Exit Elizabeth.] + +A messenger! How far off are they, then? + +Serv. Some two days' journey, sir. + +Bishop. Two days' journey, and nought prepared? +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. + +Con. Pardon me, blessedness--but holy rule-- + +Bishop. 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. + +[Exeunt, following the Bishop.] + + +SCENE IV + + +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. + +1st Lady. See! the procession comes--the mob streams in +At every door. Hark! how the steeples thunder +Their solemn bass above the wailing choir. + +2d Lady. They will stop at the screen. + +Knight. And there, as I hear, open the coffin. Push forward, +ladies, to that pillar: thence you will see all. + +1st Peas. 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! + +2d Peas. We have changed him, but not mended him, say I, friend. + +1st Peas. 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. + +2d Peas. Ay, that's your poor-man's plaster: that's your right +grease for this world's creaking wheels. + +1st Peas. 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 salvum fac regem, 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. + +2d Peas. Who's the warp, then? + +1st Peas. 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. + +Old Woman. Pity they only brought his bones home! He would have +made a lovely corpse, surely. He was a proper man! + +1st Lady. 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! + +2d Lady. And for hunting, another Siegfried. + +Knight. If he was Siegfried the gay, she was Chriemhild the grim; +and as likely to prove a firebrand as the girl in the ballad. + +1st Lady. Gay, indeed! His smiles were like plumcake, the sweeter +the deeper iced. I never saw him speak civil word to woman, but to +her. + +2d Lady. 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. + +'Pluck your apples while they're ripe, +And pull your flowers in May, O!' + +Eh! Mother? + +Old Woman. 'Till when she grew wizened, and he grew cold, +The balance lay even 'twixt young and old.' + +Monk. 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. + +Old Woman. 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? + +Knight. The monk has vanished. + +1st Peas. It's ill letting out waters, he finds. Who is that old +gentleman, sir, holds the Princess so tight by the hand? + +Knight. Her uncle, knave, the Bishop. + +1st Peas. Very right, he: for she's almost a born natural, poor +soul. It was a temptation to deal with her. + +2d Peas. Thou didst cheat her shockingly, Frank, time o' the +famine, on those nine sacks of maslin meal. + +Knight. Go tell her of it, rascal, and she'll thank you for it, and +give you a shilling for helping her to a 'cross.' + +Old Woman. 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! + +Eliz. [in a low voice]. I saw all Israel scattered on the hills +As sheep that have no shepherd! O my people! +Who crowd with greedy eyes round this my jewel, +Poor ivory, token of his outward beauty-- +Oh! had ye known his spirit!--Let his wisdom +Inform your light hearts with that Saviour's likeness +For whom he died! So had you kept him with you; +And from the coming evils gentle Heaven +Had not withdrawn the righteous: 'tis too late! + +1st Lady. There, now, she smiles; do you think she ever loved him? + +Knight. 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. + +1st Lady. What will she do now, when this farce is over? + +2d Lady. 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. + +Knight. Will you pray to her, my fair queen? + +2d Lady. Not I, sir; the old Saints send me lovers enough, and to +spare--yourself for one. + +1st Lady. There is the giant-killer slain. But see--they have +stopped: who is that raising the coffin lid? + +2d Lady. Her familiar spirit, Conrad the heretic-catcher. + +Knight. I do defy him! Thou art my only goddess; +My saint, my idol, my--ahem! + +1st Lady. That well's run dry. +Look, how she trembles--Now she sinks, all shivering, +Upon the pavement--Why, you'll see nought there +Flirting behind the pillar--Now she rises-- +And choking down that proud heart, turns to the altar-- +Her hand upon the coffin. + +Eliz. I thank thee, gracious Lord, who hast fulfilled +Thine handmaid's mighty longings with the sight +Of my beloved's bones, and dost vouchsafe +This consolation to the desolate. +I grudge not, Lord, the victim which we gave Thee, +Both he and I, of his most precious life, +To aid Thine holy city: though Thou knowest +His sweetest presence was to this world's joy +As sunlight to the taper--Oh! hadst Thou spared-- +Had Thy great mercy let us, hand in hand, +Have toiled through houseless shame, on beggar's dole, +I had been blest: Thou hast him, Lord, Thou hast him-- +Do with us what Thou wilt! If at the price +Of this one silly hair, in spite of Thee, +I could reclothe these wan bones with his manhood, +And clasp to my shrunk heart my hero's self-- +I would not give it! +I will weep no more-- +Lead on, most holy; on the sepulchre +Which stands beside the choir, lay down your burden. + +[To the people.] + +Now, gentle hosts, within the close hard by, +Will we our court, as queen of sorrows, hold-- +The green graves underneath us, and above +The all-seeing vault, which is the eye of God, +Judge of the widow and the fatherless. +There will I plead my children's wrongs, and there, +If, as I think, there boil within your veins +The deep sure currents of your race's manhood, +Ye'll nail the orphans' badge upon your shields, +And own their cause for God's. We name our champions-- +Rudolf, the Cupbearer, Leutolf of Erlstetten, +Hartwig of Erba, and our loved Count Walter, +Our knights and vassals, sojourners among you. +Follow us. + +[Exit Elizabeth, etc.; the crowd following.] + + + +ACT IV + + + +SCENE I + + +Night. The church of a convent. Elizabeth, Conrad, Gerard, Monks, +an Abbess, Nuns, etc., in the distance. + +Conrad. What's this new weakness? At your own request +We come to hear your self-imposed vows-- +And now you shrink: where are the high-flown fancies +Which but last week, beside your husband's bier, +You vapoured forth? Will you become a jest? +You might have counted this tower's cost, before +You blazoned thus your plans abroad. + +Eliz. Oh! spare me! + +Con. Spare? Spare yourself; and spare big easy words, +Which prove your knowledge greater than your grace. + +Eliz. Is there no middle path? No way to keep +My love for them, and God, at once unstained? + +Con. If this were God's world, Madam, and not the devil's, +It might be done. + +Eliz. God's world, man! Why, God made it-- +The faith asserts it God's. + +Con. Potentially-- +As every christened rogue's a child of God, +Or those old hags, Christ's brides--Think of your horn-book-- +The world, the flesh, and the devil--a goodly leash! +And yet God made all three. I know the fiend; +And you should know the world: be sure, be sure. +The flesh is not a stork among the cranes. +Our nature, even in Eden gross and vile, +And by miraculous grace alone upheld, +Is now itself, and foul, and damned, must die +Ere we can live; let halting worldlings, madam, +Maunder against earth's ties, yet clutch them still. + +Eliz. And yet God gave them to me-- + +Con. In the world; +Your babes are yours according to the flesh; +How can you hate the flesh, and love its fruit? + +Eliz. The Scripture bids me love them. + +Con. Truly so, +While you are forced to keep them; when God's mercy +Doth from the flesh and world deliverance offer, +Letting you bestow them elsewhere, then your love +May cease with its own usefulness, and the spirit +Range in free battle lists; I'll not waste reasons-- +We'll leave you, Madam, to the Spirit's voice. + +[Conrad and Gerard withdraw.] + +Eliz. [alone]. Give up his children! Why, I'd not give up +A lock of hair, a glove his hand had hallowed: +And they are his gift; his pledge; his flesh and blood +Tossed off for my ambition! Ah! my husband! +His ghost's sad eyes upbraid me! Spare me, spare me! +I'd love thee still, if I dared; but I fear God. +And shall I never more see loving eyes +Look into mine, until my dying day? +That's this world's bondage: Christ would have me free, +And 'twere a pious deed to cut myself +The last, last strand, and fly: but whither? whither? +What if I cast away the bird i' the hand +And found none in the bush? 'Tis possible-- +What right have I to arrogate Christ's bride-bed? +Crushed, widowed, sold to traitors? I, o'er whom +His billows and His storms are sweeping? God's not angry: +No, not so much as we with buzzing fly; +Or in the moment of His wrath's awakening +We should be--nothing. No--there's worse than that-- +What if He but sat still, and let be be? +And these deep sorrows, which my vain conceit +Calls chastenings--meant for me--my ailments' cure-- +Were lessons for some angels far away, +And I the corpus vile for the experiment? +The grinding of the sharp and pitiless wheels +Of some high Providence, which had its mainspring +Ages ago, and ages hence its end? +That were too horrible!-- +To have torn up all the roses from my garden, +And planted thorns instead; to have forged my griefs, +And hugged the griefs I dared not forge; made earth +A hell, for hope of heaven; and after all, +These homeless moors of life toiled through, to wake, +And find blank nothing! Is that angel-world +A gaudy window, which we paint ourselves +To hide the dead void night beyond? The present? +Why here's the present--like this arched gloom, +It hems our blind souls in, and roofs them over +With adamantine vault, whose only voice +Is our own wild prayers' echo: and our future?-- +It rambles out in endless aisles of mist, +The farther still the darker--O my Saviour! +My God! where art Thou? That's but a tale about Thee, +That crucifix above--it does but show Thee +As Thou wast once, but not as Thou art now-- +Thy grief, but not Thy glory: where's that gone? +I see it not without me, and within me +Hell reigns, not Thou! + +[Dashes herself down on the altar steps.] + +[Monks in the distance chanting.] + +'Kings' daughters were among thine honourable women'-- + +Eliz. Kings' daughters! I am one! + +Monks. 'Hearken, O daughter, and consider; incline thine ear: +Forget also thine own people, and thy father's house, +So shall the King have pleasure in thy beauty: +For He is thy Lord God, and worship thou Him.' + +Eliz. [springing up]. I will forget them! +They stand between my soul and its allegiance. +Thou art my God: what matter if Thou love me? +I am Thy bond-slave, purchased with Thy life-blood; +I will remember nothing, save that debt. +Do with me what Thou wilt. Alas, my babies! +He loves them--they'll not need me. + +[Conrad advancing.] + +Con. How now, Madam! +Have these your prayers unto a nobler will +Won back that wandering heart? + +Eliz. God's will is spoken! +The flesh is weak; the spirit's fixed, and dares,-- +Stay! confess, sir, +Did not yourself set on your brothers here +To sing me to your purpose? + +Con. As I live +I meant it not; yet had I bribed them to it, +Those words were no less God's. + +Eliz. I know it, I know it; +And I'll obey them: come, the victim's ready. + +[Lays her hand on the altar. Gerard, Abbess, and Monks descend and +advance.] + +All worldly goods and wealth, which once I loved, +I do now count but dross: and my beloved, +The children of my womb, I now regard +As if they were another's. God is witness +My pride is to despise myself; my joy +All insults, sneers, and slanders of mankind; +No creature now I love, but God alone. +Oh, to be clear, clear, clear, of all but Him! +Lo, here I strip me of all earthly helps-- + +[Tearing off her clothes.] + +Naked and barefoot through the world to follow +My naked Lord--And for my filthy pelf-- + +Con. Stop, Madam-- + +Eliz. Why so, sir? + +Con. Upon thine oath! +Thy wealth is God's, not thine--How darest renounce +The trust He lays on thee? I do command thee, +Being, as Aaron, in God's stead, to keep it +Inviolate, for the Church and thine own needs. + +Eliz. Be it so--I have no part nor lot in't-- +There--I have spoken. + +Abbess. O noble soul! which neither gold, nor love, +Nor scorn can bend! + +Gerard. And think what pure devotions, +What holy prayers must they have been, whose guerdon +Is such a flood of grace! + +Nuns. What love again! +What flame of charity, which thus prevails +In virtue's guest! + +Eliz. Is self-contempt learnt thus? +I'll home. + +Abbess. And yet how blest, in these cool shades +To rest with us, as in a land-locked pool, +Touched last and lightest by the ruffling breeze. + +Eliz. No! no! no! no! I will not die in the dark: +I'll breathe the free fresh air until the last, +Were it but a month--I have such things to do-- +Great schemes--brave schemes--and such a little time! +Though now I am harnessed light as any foot-page. +Come, come, my ladies. [Exeunt Elizabeth, etc.] + +Ger. Alas, poor lady! + +Con. Why alas, my son? +She longs to die a saint, and here's the way to it. + +Ger. Yet why so harsh? why with remorseless knife +Home to the stem prune back each bough and bud? +I thought the task of education was +To strengthen, not to crush; to train and feed +Each subject toward fulfilment of its nature, +According to the mind of God, revealed +In laws, congenital with every kind +And character of man. + +Con. A heathen dream! +Young souls but see the gay and warm outside, +And work but in the shallow upper soil. +Mine deeper, and the sour and barren rock +Will stop you soon enough. Who trains God's Saints, +He must transform, not pet--Nature's corrupt throughout-- +A gaudy snake, which must be crushed, not tamed, +A cage of unclean birds, deceitful ever; +Born in the likeness of the fiend, which Adam +Did at the Fall, the Scripture saith, put on. +Canst thou draw out Leviathan with a hook, +To make him sport for thy maidens? Scripture saith +Who is the prince of this world--so forget not. + +Ger. Forgive, if my more weak and carnal judgment +Be startled by your doctrines, and doubt trembling +The path whereon you force yourself and her. + +Con. Startled? Belike--belike--let doctrines be; +Thou shalt be judged by thy works; so see to them, +And let divines split hairs: dare all thou canst; +Be all thou darest;--that will keep thy brains full. +Have thy tools ready, God will find thee work-- +Then up, and play the man. Fix well thy purpose-- +Let one idea, like an orbed sun, +Rise radiant in thine heaven; and then round it +All doctrines, forms, and disciplines will range +As dim parhelia, or as needful clouds, +Needful, but mist-begotten, to be dashed +Aside, when fresh shall serve thy purpose better. + +Ger. How? dashed aside? + +Con. Yea, dashed aside--why not? +The truths, my son, are safe in God's abysses-- +While we patch up the doctrines to look like them. +The best are tarnished mirrors--clumsy bridges, +Whereon, as on firm soil, the mob may walk +Across the gulf of doubt, and know no danger. +We, who see heaven, may see the hell which girds it. +Blind trust for them. When I came here from Rome, +Among the Alps, all through one frost-bound dawn, +Waiting with sealed lips the noisy day, +I walked upon a marble mead of snow-- +An angel's spotless plume, laid there for me: +Then from the hillside, in the melting noon, +Looked down the gorge, and lo! no bridge, no snow-- +But seas of writhing glacier, gashed and scored +With splintered gulfs, and fathomless crevasses, +Blue lips of hell, which sucked down roaring rivers +The fiends who fled the sun. The path of Saints +Is such; so shall she look from heaven, and see +The road which led her thither. Now we'll go, +And find some lonely cottage for her lodging; +Her shelter now is but a crumbling ruin +Roofed in with pine boughs--discipline more healthy +For soul, than body: She's not ripe for death. + +[Exeunt.] + + +SCENE II + + +Open space in a suburb of Marpurg, near Elizabeth's Hut. Count +Walter and Count Pama of Hungary entering. + +C. Pama. I have prepared my nerves for a shock. + +C. Wal. 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. + +C. Pama. Creeping, I opine, into widows' houses, and for a pretence +making long prayers. + +C. Wal. 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. + +C. Pama. What's that? + +C. Wal. 'Ask, and it shall be given you.' + +C. Pama. Ah! So we are to take nothing literally, that they may +take literally everything themselves? + +C. Wal. 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. + +[Conrad advances from the Hut.] + +Con. And what may Count Walter's valour want here? + +[Count Walter turns his back.] + +C. Pama. I come, Sir Priest, from Andreas, king renowned +Of Hungary, ambassador unworthy +Unto the Landgravine, his saintly daughter; +And fain would be directed to her presence. + +Con. That is as I shall choose. But I'll not stop you. +I do not build with straw. I'll trust my pupils +To worldlings' honeyed tongues, who make long prayers, +And enter widows' houses for pretence. +There dwells the lady, who has chosen too long +The better part, to have it taken from her. +Besides that with strange dreams and revelations +She has of late been edified. + +C. Wal. Bah! but they will serve your turn--and hers. + +Con. What do you mean? + +C. Wal. 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? + +Con. 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? + +C. Wal. 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! + +Con. God hath appointed that our virtuous deeds +Each merit their rewards. + +C. Wal. 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. + +Con. Out on thee, heretic! + +C. Wal. [drawing]. Liar! At last? + +C. Pama. In God's name, sir, what if the Princess find us? + +C. Wal. 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. + +[They move towards the cottage.] + +Con. [alone]. Were I as once I was, I could revenge: +But now all private grudges wane like mist +In the keen sunlight of my full intent; +And this man counts but for some sullen bull +Who paws and mutters at unheeding pilgrims +His empty wrath: yet let him bar my path, +Or stay me but one hour in my life-purpose, +And I will fell him as a savage beast, +God's foe, not mine. Beware thyself, Sir Count! + +[Exit. The Counts return from the Cottage.] + +C. Pama. Shortly she will return; here to expect her +Is duty both, and honour. Pardon me-- +Her humours are well known here? Passers by +Will guess who 'tis we visit? + +C. Wal. Very likely. + +C. Pama. Well, travellers see strange things--and do them too. +Hem! this turf-smoke affects my breath: we might +Draw back a space. + +C. Wal. Certie, we were in luck, +Or both our noses would have been snapped off +By those two she-dragons; how their sainthoods squealed +To see a brace of beards peep in! Poor child! +Two sweet companions for her loneliness! + +C. Pama. But ah! what lodging! 'Tis at that my heart bleeds! +That hut, whose rough and smoke-embrowned spars +Dip to the cold clay floor on either side! +Her seats bare deal!--her only furniture +Some earthen crock or two! Why, sir, a dungeon +Were scarce more frightful: such a choice must argue +Aberrant senses, or degenerate blood! + +C. Wal. What? Were things foul? + +C. Pama. I marked not, sir. + +C. Wal. I did. +You might have eat your dinner off the floor. + +C. Pama. Off any spot, sir, which a princess' foot +Had hallowed by its touch. + +C. Wal. Most courtierly. +Keep, keep those sweet saws for the lady's self. +[Aside] Unless that shock of the nerves shall send them flying. + +C. Pama. Yet whence this depth of poverty? I thought +You and her champions had recovered for her +Her lands and titles. + +C. Wal. Ay; that coward Henry +Gave them all back as lightly as he took them: +Certie, we were four gentle applicants-- +And Rudolph told him some unwelcome truths-- +Would God that all of us might hear our sins, +As Henry heard that day! + +C. Pama. Then she refused them? + +C. Wal. 'It ill befits,' quoth she, 'my royal blood, +To take extorted gifts; I tender back +By you to him, for this his mortal life, +That which he thinks by treason cheaply bought; +To which my son shall, in his father's right, +By God's good will, succeed. For that dread height +May Christ by many woes prepare his youth!' + +C. Pama. Humph! + +C. Wal. Why here--no, 't cannot be-- + +C. Pama. What hither comes +Forth from the hospital, where, as they told us, +The Princess labours in her holy duties? +A parti-coloured ghost that stalks for penance? +Ah! a good head of hair, if she had kept it +A thought less lank; a handsome face too, trust me, +But worn to fiddle-strings; well, we'll be knightly-- + +[As Elizabeth meets him.] + +Stop, my fair queen of rags and patches, turn +Those solemn eyes a moment from your distaff, +And say, what tidings your magnificence +Can bring us of the Princess? + +Eliz. I am she. + +[Count Pama crosses himself and falls on his knees.] + +C. Pama. O blessed saints and martyrs! Open, earth! +And hide my recreant knighthood in thy gulf! +Yet, mercy, Madam! for till this strange day +Who e'er saw spinning wool, like village-maid, +A royal scion? + +C. Wal. [kneeling]. My beloved mistress! + +Eliz. Ah! faithful friend! Rise, gentles, rise, for shame; +Nay, blush not, gallant sir. You have seen, ere now, +Kings' daughters do worse things than spinning wool, +Yet never reddened. Speak your errand out. + +C. Pama. I from your father, Madam-- + +Eliz. Oh! I divine; +And grieve that you so far have journeyed, sir, +Upon a bootless quest. + +C. Pama. But hear me, Madam-- +If you return with me (o'erwhelming honour! +For such mean bodyguard too precious treasure) +Your father offers to you half his wealth; +And countless hosts, whose swift and loyal blades +From traitorous grasp shall vindicate your crown. + +Eliz. Wealth? I have proved it, and have tossed it from me: +I will not stoop again to load with clay. +War? I have proved that too: should I turn loose +On these poor sheep the wolf whose fangs have gored me, +God's bolt would smite me dead. + +C. Pama. Madam, by his gray hairs he doth entreat you. + +Eliz. Alas! small comfort would they find in me! +I am a stricken and most luckless deer, +Whose bleeding track but draws the hounds of wrath +Where'er I pause a moment. He has children +Bred at his side, to nurse him in his age-- +While I am but an alien and a changeling, +Whom, ere my plastic sense could impress take +Either of his feature or his voice, he lost. + +C. Pama. Is it so? Then pardon, Madam, but your father +Must by a father's right command-- + +Eliz. Command! Ay, that's the phrase of the world: well--tell +him, +But tell him gently too--that child and father +Are names, whose earthly sense I have forsworn, +And know no more: I have a heavenly spouse, +Whose service doth all other claims annul. + +C. Wal. Ah, lady, dearest lady, be but ruled! +Your Saviour will be there as near as here. + +Eliz. What? Thou too, friend? Dost thou not know me better? +Wouldst have me leave undone what I begin? +[To Count Pama] My father took the cross, sir: so did I: +As he would die at his post, so will I die: +He is a warrior: ask him, should I leave +This my safe fort, and well-proved vantage-ground, +To roam on this world's flat and fenceless steppes? + +C. Pama. Pardon me, Madam, if my grosser wit +Fail to conceive your sense. + +Eliz. It is not needed. +Be but the mouthpiece to my father, sir; +And tell him--for I would not anger him-- +Tell him, I am content--say, happy--tell him +I prove my kin by prayers for him, and masses +For her who bore me. We shall meet on high. +And say, his daughter is a mighty tree, +From whose wide roots a thousand sapling suckers, +Drink half their life; she dare not snap the threads, +And let her offshoots wither. So farewell. +Within the convent there, as mine own guests, +You shall be fitly lodged. Come here no more. + +C. Wal. C. Pama. Farewell, sweet Saint! [Exeunt.] + +Eliz. May God go with you both. +No! I will win for him a nobler name, +Than captive crescents, piles of turbaned heads, +Or towns retaken from the Tartar, give. +In me he shall be greatest; my report +Shall through the ages win the quires of heaven +To love and honour him; and hinds, who bless +The poor man's patron saint, shall not forget +How she was fathered with a worthy sire. [Exit.] + + +SCENE III + + +Night. Interior of Elizabeth's hut. A leprous boy sleeping on a +Mattress. Elizabeth watching by him.] + +Eliz. My shrunk limbs, stiff from many a blow, +Are crazed with pain. +A long dim formless fog-bank, creeping low, +Dulls all my brain. + +I remember two young lovers, +In a golden gleam. +Across the brooding darkness shrieking hovers +That fair, foul dream. + +My little children call to me, +'Mother! so soon forgot?' +From out dark nooks their yearning faces startle me, +Go, babes! I know you not! + +Pray! pray! or thou'lt go mad. +. . . . . +The past's our own: +No fiend can take that from us! Ah, poor boy! +Had I, like thee, been bred from my black birth-hour +In filth and shame, counting the soulless months +Only by some fresh ulcer! I'll be patient-- +Here's something yet more wretched than myself. +Sleep thou on still, poor charge--though I'll not grudge +One moment of my sickening toil about thee, +Best counsellor--dumb preacher, who dost warn me +How much I have enjoyed, how much have left, +Which thou hast never known. How am I wretched? +The happiness thou hast from me, is mine, +And makes me happy. Ay, there lies the secret-- +Could we but crush that ever-craving lust +For bliss, which kills all bliss, and lose our life, +Our barren unit life, to find again +A thousand lives in those for whom we die. +So were we men and women, and should hold +Our rightful rank in God's great universe, +Wherein, in heaven and earth, by will or nature, +Nought lives for self--All, all--from crown to footstool-- +The Lamb, before the world's foundations slain-- +The angels, ministers to God's elect-- +The sun, who only shines to light a world-- +The clouds, whose glory is to die in showers-- +The fleeting streams, who in their ocean-graves +Flee the decay of stagnant self-content-- +The oak, ennobled by the shipwright's axe-- +The soil, which yields its marrow to the flower-- +The flower, which feeds a thousand velvet worms, +Born only to be prey for every bird-- +All spend themselves for others: and shall man, +Earth's rosy blossom--image of his God-- +Whose twofold being is the mystic knot +Which couples earth and heaven--doubly bound +As being both worm and angel, to that service +By which both worms and angels hold their life-- +Shall he, whose every breath is debt on debt, +Refuse, without some hope of further wage +Which he calls Heaven, to be what God has made him? +No! let him show himself the creature's lord +By freewill gift of that self-sacrifice +Which they perforce by nature's law must suffer. +This too I had to learn (I thank thee, Lord!), +To lie crushed down in darkness and the pit-- +To lose all heart and hope--and yet to work. +What lesson could I draw from all my own woes-- +Ingratitude, oppression, widowhood-- +While I could hug myself in vain conceits +Of self-contented sainthood--inward raptures-- +Celestial palms--and let ambition's gorge +Taint heaven, as well as earth? Is selfishness +For time, a sin--spun out to eternity +Celestial prudence? Shame! Oh, thrust me forth, +Forth, Lord, from self, until I toil and die +No more for Heaven and bliss, but duty, Lord, +Duty to Thee, although my meed should be +The hell which I deserve! + +[Sleeps.] + +[Two women enter.] + +1st Woman. What! snoring still? 'Tis nearly time to wake her +To do her penance. + +2d Woman. Wait a while, for love: +Indeed, I am almost ashamed to punish +A bag of skin and bones. + +1st Woman. 'Tis for her good: +She has had her share of pleasure in this life +With her gay husband; she must have her pain. +We bear it as a thing of course; we know +What mortifications are, although I say it +That should not. + +2d Woman. Why, since my old tyrant died, +Fasting I've sought the Lord, like any Anna, +And never tasted fish, nor flesh, nor fowl, +And little stronger than water. + +1st Woman. Plague on this watching! +What work, to make a saint of a fine lady! +See now, if she had been some labourer's daughter, +She might have saved herself, for aught he cared; +But now-- + +2d Woman. Hush! here the master comes: +I hear him.-- + +[Conrad enters.] + +Con. My peace, most holy, wise, and watchful wardens! +She sleeps? Well, what complaints have you to bring +Since last we met? How? blowing up the fire? +Cold is the true saint's element--he thrives +Like Alpine gentians, where the frost is keenest-- +For there Heaven's nearest--and the ether purest-- +[Aside] And he most bitter. + +2d Woman. Ah! sweet master, +We are not yet as perfect as yourself. + +Con. But how has she behaved? + +1st Woman. Just like herself-- +Now ruffling up like any tourney queen; +Now weeping in dark corners; then next minute +Begging for penance on her knees. + +2d Woman. One trick's cured; +That lust of giving; Isentrude and Guta, +The hussies, came here begging but yestreen, +Vowed they were starving. + +Con. Did she give to them? + +2d Woman. She told them that she dared not. + +Con. Good. For them, +I will take measures that they shall not want: +But see you tell her not: she must be perfect. + +1st Woman. Indeed, there's not much chance of that a while. +There's others, might be saints, if they were young, +And handsome, and had titles to their names, +If they were helped toward heaven, now-- + +Con. Silence, horse-skull! +Thank God, that you are allowed to use a finger +Towards building up His chosen tabernacle. + +2d Woman. I consider that she blasphemes the means of grace. + +Con. Eh? that's a point, indeed. + +2d Woman. Why, yesterday, +Within the church, before a mighty crowd, +She mocked at all the lovely images, +And said 'the money had been better spent +On food and clothes, instead of paint and gilding: +They were but pictures, whose reality +We ought to bear within us.' + +Con. Awful doctrine! + +1st Woman. Look at her carelessness, again--the distaff +Or woolcomb in her hands, even on her bed. +Then, when the work is done, she lets those nuns +Cheat her of half the price. + +2d Woman. The Aldenburgers. + +Con. Well, well, what more misdoings? +[aside] Pah! I am sick on't. +[Aloud] Go sit, and pray by her until she wakes. + +]The women retire. Conrad sits down by the fire.] + +I am dwindling to a peddling chamber-chaplain, +Who hunts for crabs and ballads in maids' sleeves, +I, who have shuffled kingdoms. Oh! 'tis easy +To beget great deeds; but in the rearing of them-- +The threading in cold blood each mean detail, +And furzebrake of half-pertinent circumstance-- +There lies the self-denial. + +Women [in a low voice]. Master! sir! look here! + +Eliz. [rising]. Have mercy, mercy, Lord! + +Con. What is it, my daughter? No--she answers not-- +Her eyeballs through their sealed lids are bursting, +And yet she sleeps: her body does but mimic +The absent soul's enfranchised wanderings +In the spirit-world. + +Eliz. Oh! she was but a worldling! +And think, good Lord, if that this world is hell, +What wonder if poor souls whose lot is fixed here, +Meshed down by custom, wealth, rank, pleasure, ignorance, +Do hellish things in it? Have mercy, Lord; +Even for my sake, and all my woes, have mercy! + +Con. There! she is laid again--Some bedlam dream. +So--here I sit; am I a guardian angel +Watching by God's elect? or nightly tiger, +Who waits upon a dainty point of honour +To clutch his prey, till it shall wake and move? +We'll waive that question: there's eternity +To answer that in. +How like a marble-carven nun she lies +Who prays with folded palms upon her tomb, +Until the resurrection! Fair and holy! +O happy Lewis! Had I been a knight-- +A man at all--What's this? I must be brutal, +Or I shall love her: and yet that's no safeguard; +I have marked it oft: ay--with that devilish triumph +Which eyes its victim's writhings, still will mingle +A sympathetic thrill of lust--say, pity. + +Eliz. [awaking]. I am heard! She is saved! +Where am I? What! have I overslept myself? +Oh, do not beat me! I will tell you all-- +I have had awful dreams of the other world. + +1st Woman. Ay! ay! a fine excuse for lazy women, +Who cry nightmare with lying on their backs. + +Eliz. I will be heard! I am a prophetess! +God hears me, why not ye? + +Con. Quench not the Spirit: +If He have spoken, daughter, we must listen. + +Eliz. Methought from out the red and heaving earth +My mother rose, whose broad and queenly limbs +A fiery arrow did impale, and round +Pursuing tongues oozed up of nether fire, +And fastened on her: like a winter-blast +Among the steeples, then she shrieked aloud, +'Pray for me, daughter; save me from this torment, +For thou canst save!' And then she told a tale; +It was not true--my mother was not such-- +O God! The pander to a brother's sin! + +1st Woman. There now? The truth is out! I told you, sister, +About that mother-- + +Con. Silence, hags! what then? + +Eliz. She stretched her arms, and sank. Was it a sin +To love that sinful mother? There I lay-- +And in the spirit far away I prayed; +What words I spoke, I know not, nor how long; +Until a small still voice sighed, 'Child, thou art heard:' +Then on the pitchy dark a small bright cloud +Shone out, and swelled, and neared, and grew to form, +Till from it blazed my pardoned mother's face +With nameless glory! Nearer still she pressed, +And bent her lips to mine--a mighty spasm +Ran crackling through my limbs, and thousand bells +Rang in my dizzy ears--And so I woke. + +Con. 'Twas but a dream. + +Eliz. 'Twas more! 'twas more! I've tests: +From youth I have lived in two alternate worlds, +And night is live like day. This was no goblin! +'Twas a true vision, and my mother's soul +Is freed by my poor prayers from penal files, +And waits for me in bliss. + +Con. Well--be it so then. +Thou seest herein what prize obedience merits. +Now to press forwards: I require your presence +Within the square, at noon, to witness there +The fiery doom--most just and righteous doom-- +Of two convicted and malignant heretics, +Who at the stake shall expiate their crime, +And pacify God's wrath against this land. + +Eliz. No! no! I will not go! + +Con. What's here? Thou wilt not? +I'll drive thee there with blows. + +Eliz. Then I will bear them, +Even as I bore the last, with thankful thoughts +Upon those stripes my Lord endured for me. +Oh, spare them, sir! poor blindfold sons of men! +No saint but daily errs,--and must they burn, +Ah, God! for an opinion? + +Con. Fool! opinions? +Who cares for their opinions? 'Tis rebellion +Against the system which upholds the world +For which they die: so, lest the infection spread, +We must cut off the members, whose disease +We'd pardon, could they keep it to themselves. + +[Elizabeth weeps.] + +Well, I'll not urge it,--Thou hast other work-- +But for thy petulant words do thou this penance: +I do forbid thee here, to give henceforth +Food, coin, or clothes, to any living soul. +Thy thriftless waste doth scandalise the elect, +And maim thine usefulness: thou dost elude +My wise restrictions still: 'Tis great, to live +Poor, among riches; when thy wealth is spent, +Want is not merit, but necessity. + +Eliz. Oh, let me give! +That only pleasure have I left on earth! + +Con. And for that very cause thou must forego it, +And so be perfect. She who lives in pleasure +Is dead, while yet she lives; grace brings no merit +When 'tis the express of our own self-will. +To shrink from what we practise; do God's work +In spite of loathings; that's the path of saints. +I have said. [Exit with the women.] + +Eliz. Well! I am freezing fast--I have grown of late +Too weak to nurse my sick; and now this outlet, +This one last thawing spring of fellow-feeling, +Is choked with ice--Come, Lord, and set me free. +Think me not hasty! measure not mine age, +O Lord, by these my four-and-twenty winters. +I have lived three lives--three lives. +For fourteen years I was an idiot girl: +Then I was born again; and for five years, +I lived! I lived! and then I died once more;-- +One day when many knights came marching by, +And stole away--we'll talk no more of that. +And so these four years since, I have been dead, +And all my life is hid with Christ in God. +Nunc igitur dimittas, Domine, servam tuam. + + +SCENE IV + + +The same. Elizabeth lying on straw in a corner. A crowd of women +round her. Conrad entering. + +Con. As I expected-- +A sermon-mongering herd about her death-bed, +Stifling her with fusty sighs, as flocks of rooks +Despatch, with pious pecks, a wounded brother. +Cant, howl, and whimper! Not an old fool in the town +Who thinks herself religious, but must see +The last of the show and mob the deer to death. +[Advancing] Hail! holy ones! How fares your charge to-day? + +Abbess. After the blessed sacrament received, +As surfeited with those celestial viands, +And with the blood of life intoxicate, +She lay entranced: and only stirred at times +To eructate sweet edifying doctrine +Culled from your darling sermons. + +Woman. Heavenly grace +Imbues her so throughout, that even when pricked +She feels no pain. + +Con. A miracle, no doubt. +Heaven's work is ripe, and like some more I know, +Having begun in the spirit, in the flesh +She's now made perfect: she hath had warnings, too, +Of her decease; and prophesied to me, +Three weeks ago, when I lay like to die, +That I should see her in her coffin yet. + +Abbess. 'Tis said, she heard in dreams her Saviour call her +To mansions built for her from everlasting. + +Con. Ay, so she said. + +Abbess. But tell me, in her confession +Was there no holy shame--no self-abhorrence +For the vile pleasures of her carnal wedlock? + +Con. She said no word thereon: as for her shrift, +No Chrisom child could show a chart of thoughts +More spotless than were hers. + +Nun. Strange, she said nought; +I had hoped she had grown more pure. + +Con. When, next, I asked her, +How she would be interred; 'In the vilest weeds,' +Quoth she, 'my poor hut holds; I will not pamper +When dead, that flesh, which living I despised. +And for my wealth, see it to the last doit +Bestowed upon the poor of Christ.' + +2d Woman. O grace! + +3d Woman. O soul to this world poor, but rich toward God! + +Eliz. [awaking]. Hark! how they cry for bread! +Poor souls! be patient! +I have spent all-- +I'll sell myself for a slave--feed them with the price. +Come, Guta! Nurse! We must be up and doing! +Alas! they are gone, and begging! +Go! go! They'll beat me, if I give you aught: +I'll pray for you, and so you'll go to Heaven. +I am a saint--God grants me all I ask. +But I must love no creature. Why, Christ loved-- +Mary he loved, and Martha, and their brother-- +Three friends! and I have none! +When Lazarus lay dead, He groaned in spirit, +And wept--like any widow--Jesus wept! +I'll weep, weep, weep! pray for that 'gift of tears.' +They took my friends away, but not my eyes, +Oh, husband, babes, friends, nurse! To die alone! +Crack, frozen brain! Melt, icicle within! + +Women. Alas! sweet saint! By bitter pangs she wins +Her crown of endless glory! + +Con. But she wins it! +Stop that vile sobbing! she's unmanned enough +Without your maudlin sympathy. + +Eliz. What? weeping? +Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me-- +Weep for yourselves. + +Women. We do, alas! we do! +What are we without you? [A pause.] + +Woman. Oh, listen, listen! +What sweet sounds from her fast-closed lips are welling, +As from the caverned shaft, deep miners' songs? + +Eliz. [in a low voice]. Through the stifling room +Floats strange perfume; +Through the crumbling thatch +The angels watch, +Over the rotting roof-tree. +They warble, and flutter, and hover, and glide, +Wafting old sounds to my dreary bedside, +Snatches of songs which I used to know +When I slept by my nurse, and the swallows +Called me at day-dawn from under the eaves. +Hark to them! Hark to them now-- +Fluting like woodlarks, tender and low-- +Cool rustling leaves--tinkling waters-- +Sheepbells over the lea-- +In their silver plumes Eden-gales whisper-- +In their hands Eden-lilies--not for me--not for me-- +No crown for the poor fond bride! +The song told me so, +Long, long ago, +How the maid chose the white lily; +But the bride she chose +The red red rose, +And by its thorn died she. +Well--in my Father's house are many mansions-- +I have trodden the waste howling ocean-foam, +Till I stand upon Canaan's shore, +Where Crusaders from Zion's towers call me home, +To the saints who are gone before. + +Con. Still on Crusaders? [Aside.] + +Abbess. What was that sweet song, which just now, my Princess, +You murmured to yourself? + +Eliz. Did you not hear +A little bird between me and the wall, +That sang and sang? + +Abbess. We heard him not, fair Saint. + +Eliz. I heard him, and his merry carol revelled +Through all my brain, and woke my parched throat +To join his song: then angel melodies +Burst through the dull dark, and the mad air quivered +Unutterable music. Nay, you heard him. + +Abbess. Nought save yourself. + +Eliz. Slow hours! Was that the cock-crow? + +Woman. St. Peter's bird did call. + +Eliz. Then I must up-- +To matins, and to work--No, my work's over. +And what is it, what? +One drop of oil on the salt seething ocean! +Thank God, that one was born at this same hour, +Who did our work for us: we'll talk of Him: +We shall go mad with thinking of ourselves-- +We'll talk of Him, and of that new-made star, +Which, as he stooped into the Virgin's side, +From off His finger, like a signet-gem, +He dropped in the empyrean for a sign. +But the first tear He shed at this His birth-hour, +When He crept weeping forth to see our woe, +Fled up to Heaven in mist, and hid for ever +Our sins, our works, and that same new-made star. + +Woman. Poor soul! she wanders! + +Con. Wanders, fool? her madness +Is worth a million of your paters, mumbled +At every station between-- + +Eliz. Oh! thank God +Our eyes are dim! What should we do, if he, +The sneering fiend, who laughs at all our toil, +Should meet us face to face? + +Con. We'd call him fool. + +Eliz. There! There! Fly, Satan, fly! 'Tis gone! + +Con. The victory's gained at last! +The fiend is baffled, and her saintship sure! +O people blest of Heaven! + +Eliz. O master, master, +You will not let the mob, when I lie dead, +Make me a show--paw over all my limbs-- +Pull out my hair--pluck off my finger-nails-- +Wear scraps of me for charms and amulets, +As if I were a mummy, or a drug? +As they have done to others--I have seen it-- +Nor set me up in ugly naked pictures +In every church, that cold world-hardened wits +May gossip o'er my secret tortures? Promise-- +Swear to me! I demand it! + +Con. No man lights +A candle, to be hid beneath a bushel: +Thy virtues are the Church's dower: endure +All which the edification of the faithful +Makes needful to be published. + +Eliz. O my God! +I had stripped myself of all, but modesty! +Dost Thou claim yet that victim? Be it so. +Now take me home! I have no more to give Thee! +So weak--and yet no pain--why, now naught ails me! +How dim the lights burn! Here-- +Where are you, children? +Alas! I had forgotten. +Now I must sleep--for ere the sun shall rise, +I must begone upon a long, long journey +To him I love. + +Con. She means her heavenly Bridegroom-- +The Spouse of souls. + +Eliz. I said, to him I love. +Let me sleep, sleep. +You will not need to wake me--so--good-night. + +[Folds herself into an attitude of repose. The scene closes.] + + + +ACT V + + + +SCENE I. A.D. 1235. + + +A Convent at Marpurg. Cloisters of the infirmary. Two aged monks +sitting. + +1st Monk. 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! + +2d Monk. 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. + +1st Monk. '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. + +2d Monk. A tame fool, and a gay one--Munditiae mundanis. + +1st Monk. Catch him a fat fly--my hand shaketh. + +2d Monk. If one of your new-lights were here, now, he'd pluck him +for a fiend, as Dominic did the live sparrow in chapel. + +1st Monk. There will be precious offerings made to-day, of which +our house will get its share. + +2d Monk. Not we; she always favoured the Franciscans most. + +1st Monk. 'Twas but fair--they were her kith and kin. +She lately put on the habit of their third minors. + +2d Monk. 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-- + +1st Monk. While we poor publicans-- + +2d Monk. Shall not come home all of us justified, I think. + +1st Monk. How? Is there scandal among us? + +2d Monk. Ask not--ask not. Even a fool, when he holds his peace, +is counted wise. Of all sins, avoid that same gossiping. + +1st Monk. 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? + +2d Monk. 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. + +1st Monk. Who carries his poll screwed on over-tight, and sits with +his eyes shut in chapel? + +2d Monk. 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. + +1st Monk. How now? + +2d Monk. 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. + +1st Monk. And what said Conrad? + +2d Monk. 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. + +1st Monk. 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? + +2d Monk. Thou hast indeed. Thou knowest that the old paths are +best, and livest in most pious abhorrence of all amendment. + +1st Monk. Do you hear that shout? There is the procession +returning from the tomb. + +2d Monk. Hark to the tramp of the horse-hoofs! A gallant show, +I'll warrant! + +1st Monk. 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! + +2d Monk. 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. + +[Gerard enters across the court.] + +1st Monk. A kindly youth and a godly, but--reformation-bitten, like +the rest. + +2d Monk. Never care. Boys must take the reigning madness in +religion, as they do the measles--once for all. + +1st Monk. Once too often for him. His face is too, too like Abel's +in the chapel-window. Ut sis vitalis metuo, puer! + +Ger. Hail, fathers. I have asked permission of the prior to +minister your refection, and bring you thereby the first news of the +pageant. + +1st Monk. Blessings on thee for a good boy. Give us the trenchers, +and open thy mouth while we open ours. + +2d Monk. Most splendid all, no doubt? + +Ger. A garden, sir, +Wherein all rainbowed flowers were heaped together; +A sea of silk and gold, of blazoned banners, +And chargers housed; such glorious press, be sure, +Thuringen-land ne'er saw. + +2d Monk. Just hear the boy! +Who rode beside the bier? + +Ger. Frederic the Kaiser, +Henry the Landgrave, brother of her husband; +The Princesses, too, Agnes, and her mother; +And every noble name, sir, at whose war-cry +The Saxon heart leaps up; with them the prelates +Of Treves, of Coln, and Maintz--why name them all? +When all were there, whom this our fatherland +Counts worthy of its love. + +1st Monk. 'Twas but her right. +Who spoke the oration? + +Ger. Who but Conrad? + +2d Monk. Well-- +That's honour to our house. + +1st Monk. Come, tell us all. + +2d Monk. In order, boy: thou hast a ready tongue. + +Ger. He raised from off her face the pall, and 'Lo!' +He cried, 'that saintly flesh which ye of late +With sacrilegious hands, ere yet entombed, +Had in your superstitious selfishness +Almost torn piecemeal. Fools! Gross-hearted fools! +These limbs are God's, not yours: in life for you +They spent themselves; now till the judgment-day +By virtue of the Spirit embalmed they lie-- +Touch them who dare. No! Would you find your Saint, +Look up, not down, where even now she prays +Beyond that blazing orb for you and me. +Why hither bring her corpse? Why hide her clay +In jewelled ark beneath God's mercy-seat-- +A speck of dust among these boundless aisles, +Uprushing pillars, star-bespangled roofs, +Whose colours mimic Heaven's unmeasured blue, +Save to remind you, how she is not here, +But risen with Him that rose, and by His blaze +Absorbed, lives in the God for whom she died? +Know her no more according to the flesh; +Or only so, to brand upon your thoughts +How she was once a woman--flesh and blood, +Like you--yet how unlike! Hark while I tell ye.' + +2d Monk. How liked the mob all this? They hate him sore. + +Ger. Half awed, half sullen, till his golden lips +Entranced all ears with tales so sad and strange, +They seemed one life-long miracle: bliss and woe, +Honour and shame--her daring--Heaven's stern guidance, +Did each the other so outblaze. + +1st Monk. Great signs +Did wait on her from youth. + +2d Monk. There went a tale +Of one, a Zingar wizard, who, on her birthnight, +He here in Eisenach, she in Presburg lying, +Declared her natal moment, and the glory +Which should befall her by the grace of God. + +Ger. He spoke of that, and many a wonder more, +Melting all hearts to worship--how a robe +Which from her shoulders, at a royal feast, +To some importunate as alms she sent, +By miracle within her bower was hung again: +And how on her own couch the Incarnate Son +In likeness of a leprous serf, she laid: +And many a wondrous tale till now unheard; +Which, from her handmaid's oath and attestation, +Siegfried of Maintz to far Perugia sent, +And sainted Umbria's labyrinthine hills, +Even to the holy Council, where the Patriarchs +Of Antioch and Jerusalem, and with them +A host of prelates, magnates, knights, and nobles, +Decreed and canonised her sainthood's palm. + +1st Monk. Mass, they could do no less. + +Ger. So thought my master-- +For 'Thus,' quoth he, 'the primates of the Faith +Have, in the bull which late was read to you, +Most wisely ratified the will of God +Revealed in her life's splendour; for the next count-- +These miracles wherewith since death she shines-- +Since ye must have your signs, ere ye believe, +And since without such tests the Roman Father +Allows no saints to take their seats in heaven, +Why, there ye have them; not a friar, I find, +Or old wife in the streets, but counts some dozens +Of blind, deaf, halt, dumb, palsied, and hysterical, +Made whole at this her tomb. A corpse or two +Was raised, they say, last week: Will that content you? +Will that content her? Earthworms! Would ye please the dead, +Bring sinful souls, not limping carcases +To test her power on; which of you hath done that? +Has any glutton learnt from her to fast? +Or oily burgher dealt away his pelf? +Has any painted Jezebel in sackcloth +Repented of her vanities? Your patron? +Think ye, that spell and flame of intercession, +Melting God's iron will, which for your sakes +She purchased by long agonies, was but meant +To save your doctors' bills? If any soul +Hath been by her made holier, let it speak!' + +2d Monk. Well spoken, Legate! Easier asked than answered. + +Ger. Not so, for on the moment, from the crowd +Sprang out a gay and gallant gentleman +Well known in fight and tourney, and aloud +With sobs and blushes told, how he long time +Had wallowed deep in mire of fleshly sin, +And loathed, and fell again, and loathed in vain; +Until the story of her saintly grace +Drew him unto her tomb; there long prostrate +With bitter cries he sought her, till at length +The image of her perfect loveliness +Transfigured all his soul, and from his knees +He rose new-born, and, since that blessed day, +In chastest chivalry, a spotless knight, +Maintains the widow's and the orphan's cause. + +1st Monk. Well done! and what said Conrad? + +Ger. Oh, he smiled, +As who should say, ''Twas but the news I looked for.' +Then, pointing to the banners borne on high, +Where the sad story of her nightly penance +Was all too truly painted--'Look!' he cried, +''Twas thus she schooled her soft and shuddering flesh +To dare and suffer for you!' Gay ladies sighed, +And stern knights wept, and growled, and wept again. +And then he told her alms, her mighty labours, +Among God's poor, the schools wherein she taught; +The babes she brought to the font, the hospitals +Founded from her own penury, where she tended +The leper and the fever-stricken serf +With meanest office; how a dying slave +Who craved in vain for milk she stooped to feed +From her own bosom. At that crowning tale +Of utter love, the dullest hearts caught fire +Contagious from his lips--the Spirit's breath +Low to the earth, like dewy-laden corn, +Bowed the ripe harvest of that mighty host; +Knees bent, all heads were bare; rich dames aloud +Bewailed their cushioned sloth; old foes held out +Long parted hands; low murmured vows and prayers +Gained courage, till a shout proclaimed her saint, +And jubilant thunders shook the ringing air, +Till birds dropped stunned, and passing clouds bewept +With crystal drops, like sympathising angels, +Those wasted limbs, whose sainted ivory round +Shed Eden-odours: from his royal head +The Kaiser took his crown, and on the bier +Laid the rich offering; dames tore off their jewels-- +Proud nobles heaped with gold and gems her corse +Whom living they despised: I saw no more-- +Mine eyes were blinded with a radiant mist-- +And I ran here to tell you. + +1st Monk. Oh, fair olive, +Rich with the Spirit's unction, how thy boughs +Rain balsams on us! + +2d Monk. Thou didst sell thine all-- +And bought'st the priceless pearl! + +1st Monk. Thou holocaust of Abel, +By Cain in vain despised! + +2d Monk. Thou angels' playmate +Of yore, but now their judge! + +Ger. Thou alabaster, +Broken at last, to fill the house of God +With rich celestial fragrance! + +[Etc. etc., ad libitum.] + + +SCENE II + + +A room in a convent at Mayence. Conrad alone. + +Con. The work is done! Diva Elizabeth! +And I have trained one saint before I die! +Yet now 'tis done, is't well done? On my lips +Is triumph: but what echo in my heart? +Alas! the inner voice is sad and dull, +Even at the crown and shout of victory. +Oh! I had hugged this purpose to my heart, +Cast by for it all ruth, all pride, all scruples; +Yet now its face, that seemed as pure as crystal, +Shows fleshly, foul, and stained with tears and gore! +We make, and moil, like children in their gardens, +And spoil with dabbled hands, our flowers i' the planting. +And yet a saint is made! Alas, those children! +Was there no gentler way? I know not any: +I plucked the gay moth from the spider's web; +What if my hasty hand have smirched its feathers? +Sure, if the whole be good, each several part +May for its private blots forgiveness gain, +As in man's tabernacle, vile elements +Unite to one fair stature. Who'll gainsay it? +The whole is good; another saint in heaven; +Another bride within the Bridegroom's arms; +And she will pray for me!--And yet what matter? +Better that I, this paltry sinful unit, +Fall fighting, crushed into the nether pit, +If my dead corpse may bridge the path to Heaven, +And damn itself, to save the souls of others. +A noble ruin: yet small comfort in it; +In it, or in aught else---- +A blank dim cloud before mine inward sense +Dulls all the past: she spoke of such a cloud-- +I struck her for't, and said it was a fiend-- +She's happy now, before the throne of God-- +I should be merry; yet my heart's floor sinks +As on a fast day; sure some evil bodes. +Would it were here, that I might see its eyes! +The future only is unbearable! +We quail before the rising thunderstorm +Which thrills and whispers in the stifled air, +Yet blench not, when it falls. Would it were here! + +[Pause.] + +I fain would sleep, yet dare not: all the air +Throngs thick upon me with the pregnant terror +Of life unseen, yet near. I dare not meet them, +As if I sleep I shall do--I again? +What matter what I feel, or like, or fear? +Come what God sends. Within there--Brother Gerard! + +[Gerard enters.] + +Watch here an hour, and pray.--The fiends are busy. +So--hold my hand. [Crosses himself.] Come on, I fear you not. +[Sleeps.] + +[Gerard sings.] + +Qui fugiens rnundi gravia +Contempsit carnis bravia, +Cupidinisque somnia, +Lucratur, perdens, omnia. + +Hunc gestant ulnis angeli, +Ne lapis officiat pedi; +Ne luce timor occupet, +Aut nocte pestis incubet. + +Huic coeli lilia germinant; +Arrisus sponsi permanent; +Ac nomen in fidelibus +Quam filiorum medius. [Sleeps.] + +. . . . . + +Conrad [awaking]. Stay! Spirits, stay! Art thou a hell-born +phantasm, +Or word too true, sent by the mother of God? +Oh, tell me, queen of Heaven! +O God! if she, the city of the Lord, +Who is the heart, the brain, the ruling soul +Of half the earth; wherein all kingdoms, laws, +Authority, and faith do culminate, +And draw from her their sanction and their use; +The lighthouse founded on the rock of ages, +Whereto the Gentiles look, and still are healed; +The tree whose rootlets drink of every river, +Whose boughs drop Eden fruits on seaward isles; +Christ's seamless coat, rainbowed with gems and hues +Of all degrees and uses, rend, and tarnish, +And crumble into dust! +Vanitas vanitatum, omnia vanitas! +Oh! to have prayed, and toiled--and lied--for this! +For this to have crushed out the heart of youth, +And sat by calm, while living bodies burned! +How! Gerard; sleeping! +Couldst thou not watch with me one hour, my son? + +Ger. [awaking]. How! have I slept? Shame on my vaporous brain! +And yet there crept along my hand from thine +A leaden languor, and the drowsy air +Teemed thick with humming wings--I slept perforce. +Forgive me (while for breach of holy rule +Due penance shall seem honour) my neglect. + +Con. I should have beat thee for't, an hour agone-- +Now I judge no man. What are rules and methods? +I have seen things which make my brain-sphere reel: +My magic teraph-bust, full-packed, and labelled, +With saws, ideas, dogmas, ends, and theories, +Lies shivered into dust. Pah! we do squint +Each through his loophole, and then dream, broad heaven +Is but the patch we see. But let none know; +Be silent, Gerard, wary. + +Ger. Nay--I know nought +Of that which moves thee: though I fain would ask-- + +Con. I saw our mighty Mother, Holy Church, +Sit like a painted harlot: round her limbs +An oily snake had coiled, who smiled, and smiled, +And lisped the name of Jesus--I'll not tell thee: +I have seen more than man can see, and live: +God, when He grants the tree of knowledge, bans +The luckless seer from off the tree of life, +Lest he become as gods, and burst with pride; +Or sick at sight of his own nothingness, +Lie down, and be a fiend: my time is near: +Well--I have neither child, nor kin, nor friend, +Save thee, my son; I shall go lightly forth. +Thou knowest we start for Marpurg on the morrow? +Thou wilt go with me? + +Ger. Ay, to death, my master; +Yet boorish heretics, with grounded throats, +Mutter like sullen bulls; the Count of Saym, +And many gentlemen, they say, have sworn +A fearful oath: there's danger in the wind. + +Con. They have their quarrel; I was keen and hasty: +Gladio qui utitur, peribit gladio. +When Heaven is strong, then Hell is strong: Thou fear'st not? + +Ger. No! though their name were legion! 'Tis for thee +Alone I quake, lest by some pious boldness +Thou quench the light of Israel. + +Con. Light? my son! +There shall no light be quenched, when I lie dark. +Our path trends outward: we will forth to-morrow. +Now let's to chapel; matin bells are ringing. [Exeunt.] + + +SCENE III + + +A road between Eisenach and Marpurg. Peasants waiting by the +roadside. Walter of Varila, the Count of Saym, and other gentlemen +entering on horseback. + +Gent. Talk not of honour--Hell's aflame within me: +Foul water quenches fire as well as fair; +If I do meet him he shall die the death, +Come fair, come foul: I tell you, there are wrongs +The fumbling piecemeal law can never touch, +Which bring of themselves to the injured, right divine, +Straight from the fount of right, above all parchments, +To be their own avengers: dainty lawyers, +If one shall slay the adulterer in the act, +Dare not condemn him: girls have stabbed their tyrants, +And common sense has crowned them saints; yet what-- +What were their wrongs to mine? All gone! All gone! +My noble boys, whom I had trained, poor fools, +To win their spurs, and ride afield with me! +I could have spared them--but my wife! my lady! +Those dainty limbs, which no eyes but mine-- +Before that ruffian mob--Too much for man! +Too much, stern Heaven!--Those eyes, those hands, +Those tender feet, where I have lain and worshipped-- +Food for fierce flames! And on the self-same day-- +The day that they were seized--unheard--unargued-- +No witness, but one vile convicted thief-- +The dog is dead and buried: Well done, henchmen! +They are not buried! Pah! their ashes flit +About the common air; we pass them--breathe them! +The self-same day! If I had had one look! +One word--one single tiny spark of word, +Such as two swallows change upon the wing! +She was no heretic: she knelt for ever +Before the blessed rood, and prayed for me. +Art sure he comes this road? + +C. Saym. My messenger +Saw him start forth, and watched him past the crossways. +An hour will bring him here. + +C. Wal. How! ambuscading? +I'll not sit by, while helpless priests are butchered. +Shame, gentles! + +C. Saym. On my word, I knew not on't +Until this hour; my quarrel's not so sharp, +But I may let him pass: my name is righted +Before the Emperor, from all his slanders; +And what's revenge to me? + +Gent. Ay, ay--forgive and forget-- +The vermin's trapped--and we'll be gentle-handed, +And lift him out, and bid his master speed him, +Him and his firebrands. He shall never pass me. + +C. Wal. I will not see it; I'm old, and sick of blood. +She loved him, while she lived; and charged me once, +As her sworn liegeman, not to harm the knave. +I'll home: yet, knights, if aught untoward happen, +And you should need a shelter, come to me: +My walls are strong. Home, knaves! we'll seek our wives, +And beat our swords to ploughshares--when folks let us. + +[Exeunt Count Walter and suite.] + +C. Saym. He's gone, brave heart!--But--sir, you will not dare? +The Pope's own Legate--think--there's danger in't. + +Gent. Look, how athwart yon sullen sleeping flats +That frowning thunder-cloud sails pregnant hither;-- +And black against its sheeted gray, one bird +Flags fearful onward--'Tis his cursed soul! +Now thou shalt quake, raven!--The self-same day!-- +He cannot 'scape! The storm is close upon him! +There! There! the wreathing spouts have swallowed him! +He's gone! and see, the keen blue spark leaps out +From crag to crag, and every vaporous pillar +Shouts forth his death-doom! 'Tis a sign, a sign! + +[A heretic preacher mounts a stone. Peasants gather round him.] + +These are the starved unlettered hinds, forsooth, +He hunted down like vermin--for a doctrine. +They have their rights, their wrongs; their lawless laws, +Their witless arguings, which unconscious reason +Informs to just conclusions. We will hear them. + +Preacher. 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! + +Gent. He speaks God's truth! We are Heaven's justicers! Our woes +anoint us kings! Peace--Hark again!-- + +Preacher. 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! + +[Chanting heard in the distance.] + +Peasant. Hush! here the psalm-singers come! + +[Conrad enters on a mule, chanting the Psalter, Gerard following.] + +Con. My peace with you, my children! + +1st Voice. Psalm us no psalms; bless us no devil's blessings: +Your balms will break our heads. [A murmur rises.] + +2d Voice. You are welcome, sir; we are a-waiting for you. + +3d Voice. Has he been shriven to-day? + +4th Voice. Where is your ergo, Master Conrad? Faugh! +How both the fellows smell of smoke! + +5th Voice. A strange leech he, to suck, and suck, and suck, +And look no fatter for't! + +Old Woman. Give me back my sons! + +Old Man. Give me back the light of mine eyes, +Mine only daughter! +My only one! He hurled her over the cliffs! +Avenge me, lads; you are young! + +4th Voice. We will, we will: why smit'st him not, thou with the +pole-axe? + +3d Voice. Nay, now, the first blow costs most, and heals last; +Besides, the dog's a priest at worst. + +C. Saym. Mass! How the shaveling rascal stands at bay! +There's not a rogue of them dare face his eye! +True Domini canes! 'Ware the bloodhound's teeth, curs! + +Preacher. What! Are ye afraid? The huntsman's here at last +Without his whip! Down with him, craven hounds! +I'll help ye to't. [Springs from the stone.] + +Gent. Ay, down with him! Mass, have these yelping boors +More heart than I? [Spurs his horse forward.] + +Mob. A knight! a champion! + +Voice. He's not mortal man! +See how his eyes shine! 'Tis the archangel! +St. Michael come to the rescue! Ho! St. Michael! + +[He lunges at Conrad. Gerard turns the lance aside, and throws his +arms round Conrad.] + +Ger. My master! my master! The chariot of Israel and the horses +thereof! +Oh call down fire from Heaven! + +[A peasant strikes down Gerard. Conrad, over the body.] + +Alas! my son! This blood shall cry for vengeance +Before the throne of God! + +Gent. And cry in vain! +Follow thy minion! Join Folquet in hell! + +[Bears Conrad down on his lance-point.] + +Con. I am the vicar of the Vicar of Christ: +Who touches me doth touch the Son of God. + +[The mob close over him.] + +O God! A martyr's crown! Elizabeth! [Dies.] + + + +NOTES TO ACT 1 + + + +The references, unless it be otherwise specified, are to the Eight +Books concerning Saint Elizabeth, by Dietrich the Thuringian; in +Basnage's Canisius, Vol. IV. p. 113 (Antwerp; 1725). + +Page 21. Cf. Lib. I. section 3. Dietrich is eloquent about her +youthful inclination for holy places, and church doors, even when +shut, and gives many real proofs of her 'sanctae indolis,' from the +very cradle. + +P. 22. 'St. John's sworn maid.' Cf. Lib. I. section 4. 'She chose +by lot for her patron, St. John the protector of virginity.' + +Ibid. 'Fit for my princess.' Cf. Lib. I. section 2. 'He sent with +his daughter vessels of gold, silver baths, jewels, _pillows all of +silk_. No such things, so precious or so many, were ever seen in +Thuringen-land.' + +P. 23. 'Most friendless.' Cf. Lib. I. sections 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.' + +Ibid. 'In one cradle.' Cf. Lib. I. section 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.' + +Ibid. 'If thou love him.' Cf. Lib. I. section 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. 24. 'To his charge.' Cf. Lib. I. section 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. 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, Lit. Southern Europe, Cap. III.- +VI. + +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. 37. 'All gold.' Cf. Lib. I. section 7, for Walter's +interference and Lewis's answer, which I have paraphrased. + +P. 38. 'Is crowned with thorns.' Cf. Lib. I. section 5, for this +anecdote and her defence, which I have in like manner paraphrased. + +P. 39. 'Their pardon.' Cf. Lib. I section 3, for this quaint +method of self-humiliation. + +Ibid. 'You know your place.' Cf. Lib. I. section 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. 41. 'Childish laughter.' Cf. Lib. I. section 7. 'The holy +maiden, receiving the mirror, showed her joy by delighted laughter;' +and again, II. section 8, "They loved each other in the charity of +the Lord, to a degree beyond all belief.' + +Ibid. 'A crystal clear.' Cf. Lib. I. section 7. + +P. 43. 'Our fairest bride.' Cf. Lib. I. section 8. 'No one +henceforth dared oppose the marriage by word or plot, . . . and all +mouths were stopped.' + + + +NOTES TO ACT II + + + +Pp. 45-49. Cf. Lib. II. sections 1, 5, 11, et passim. + +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 naivete and deep-hearted sympathy, and have no wish to +disgust _all_ 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 Vies des Saints and St. +Francois 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. + +'Erat inter eos honorabile connubium, et thorus immaculatus, non in +ardore libidmis, sed in conjugalis sanctimoniae 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 +_true husband of her soul_. + +'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: _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_.' + +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."' + +'Fugiebat oblectamenta carnalia, et ideo stratum molliorem, et viri +contubernium secretissimum, quantum licuit, declinavit. Quem +quamvis praecordialis amoris affectu deligeret, querulabatur tamen +dolens, quod virginalis decorem floris non meruit conservare. +Castigabat etiam plagis multis, et lacerabat diris verberibus carnem +puella innocens et pudica. + +'In principio quidem diebus quadragesimae, sextisque feriis aliis +occultas solebat accipere disciplinas, laetam coram hominibus se +ostentrans. Post vero convalescens et proficiens in gratia, deserto +dilecti thoro surgens, fecit se in secreto cubiculo per ancillarum +manus graviter saepissime verberari, ad lectumque mariti reversa +hilarem se exhibuit et jocundam. + +'Vere felices conjuges, in quorum consortio tanta munditia, in +colloquio pudicitia reperta est. In quibus amor Christi +concupiscentiam extinxit, devotio refrenavit petulantiam, fervor +spiritus excussit somnolentiam, oratio tutavit conscientiam, +charitas benefaciendi facultatem tribuit et laetitiam!' + +P. 58. 'In every scruple.' Cf. Lib. III. section 9, how Lewis +'consented that Elizabeth his wife should make a vow of obedience +and continence at the will of the said Conrad, salva jure +matrimonii.' + +P. 59. 'The open street.' Cf. Lib. II. section 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. 60. 'The poor of Christ.' Cf. Lib. II. sections 6, 11, et +passim. Elizabeth's labours among the poor are too well known +throughout one half at least of Christendom, where she is, par +excellence, the patron of the poor, to need quotations. + +P. 61. 'I'll be thy pupil.' Cf. Lib. II section 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. 62. 'Conrad enters.' Cf. Lib. III. section 9, where this story +of the disobeyed message and the punishment inflicted by Conrad for +it is told word for word. + +P. 66. 'Peaceably come by.' Cf. Lib. II. section 6. + +P. 67. 'Bond-slaves.' Cf. Note 11. + +P. 69. 'Elizabeth passes.' Cf. Lib. II. section 5. 'This most +Christian mother, impletis purgationis suae 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. 71. 'Give us bread.' Cf. Lib. III. section 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 praebuit!'--See p. 153. + +P 80. 'Ladies' tenderness.' Cf. Lib. III. section 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. 87. 'A crusader's cross.' Cf. Lib. IV. section 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 _not_ +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. 90. 'I must be gone.' Cf. Lib. IV. section 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.' + +Then follows Dietrich's only poetic attempt, which Basnage calls a +'carmen ineptum, 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:-- + +Quibus valefaciens cum moerore +Commisit suis fratribus natos cum uxore: +Matremque deosculatos filiali more, +Vix eam alloquitur cordis prae dolore, +Illis mota viscera, corda tremuerunt, +Dum alter in alterius colla irruerunt, +Expetentes oscula, quae vix receperunt +Propter multitudines, quae eos compresserunt. +Mater tenens filiuin, uxorque maritum, +In diversa pertrahunt, et tenent invitum, +Fratres cum militibus velut compeditum +Stringunt, nec discedere sinunt expeditum. +Erat in exercitu maximus tumultus, +Cum carorum cernerent alternari vultus. +Flebant omnes pariter, senex et adultus, +Turbae cum militibus, cultus et incultus. +Eja! Quis non plangeret, cum videret flentes +Tot honestos nobiles, tam diversas gentes, +Cum Thuringis Saxones illuc venientes, +Ut viderent socios suos abscedentes. +Amico luctamine cuncti certavere, +Quis eum diutius posset retinere; +uidam collo brachiis, quidam inhaesere +Vestibus, nec poterat cuiguam respondere, +Tandem se de manibus eximens suorum +Magnatorum socius et peregrinorum, +Admixtus tandem, caetui cruce signatorum +Non visurus amplius terram. Thuringorum! + +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. + +'And thus this Prince of Peace, '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.' + +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.' + + + +NOTES TO ACT III. + + + +P. 94. 'On the freezing stone.' Cf. Lib. II. section 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. section 3, just quoted. + +P. 96. 'The will of God.' Cf. Lib. IV. section 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, usque +quaque, if a wall had not stopped her; and others coming up, led her +away from the wall to which she had clung. + +Ibid. 'Yon lion's rage.' Cf. Lib. III. section 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. + +Pp. 99-100, 103-108. Cf. Lib. IV. section 7. + +'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. 100. 'White whales' bone' (i.e. the tooth of the narwhal); a +common simile in the older poets. + +P. 104. 'The nuns of Kitzingen.' Cf. Lib. V. section 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. 106. 'Aged crone.' Cf. Lib. IV. section 8, where this whole +story is related word for word. + +P. 109. 'I'd mar this face.' Cf. Lib. V. section 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. 110. 'Botenstain.' Cf. ibid. 'The bishop commanded that she +should be taken to Botenstain with her maids, until he should give +her away in marriage.' + +P. 111. 'Bear children.' Ibid. '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 continentiae."' + +P. 113. 'The tented field.' All records of the worthy Bishop on +which I have fallen, describe him as 'virum militia 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 115. 'Lewis's bones.' Cf. Lib. V. section 3. + +P 118. 'I thank thee.' Cf. Lib. V. section 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 _boiled_.) 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.) + +Ibid. 'The close hard by.' Cf. Lib. V section 4. + + + +NOTES TO ACT IV + + + +P 120. 'Your self imposed vows.' Cf. Lib. IV. section 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 "omnmo se exuit et nudavit," stripped +herself utterly naked, to follow Him naked, in the steps of +poverty.' + +P 123. 'All worldly goods.' A paraphrase of her own words. + +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 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 totidem verbis 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 126. 'With pine boughs.' Cf. Lib. VI. section 2. 'Entering a +certain desolate court she betook herself, "sub gradu cujusdam +caminatae," 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.' + +Ibid. 'Count Pama.' Cf. Lib. VI. section 6. + +P 127. 'Isentrudis and Guta.' Cf. Lib. VII. section 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 128. 'A leprous boy.' Cf. Lib. VI. section 8. + +She had several of these proteges, 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. + +Ibid. 'Mighty to save.' Cf. Lib. VII. section 7. When we read +amongst other matters, how the objects of her prayers used to become +while she was speaking so intensely _hot_, 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 130. 'Lands and titles'. Cf. Lib. V. section 7,8. + +P 131. 'Spinning wool.' Cf. Lib. VI. section 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 135. 'To do her penance.' Cf. Lib. VII. section 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 136. 'That she dared not.' Cf. Lib. VII. section 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 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."' + +Ibid. 'Even on her bed.' Cf. Lib. VI sections 5, 6. + +P 139. 'My mother rose.' Cf. Lib. VI section 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. 'Reginam occidere nolite timere bonum est. Si omnes +consentiunt ego non contradico.' To be read as a full consent, or +as a flat refusal, according to the success of the plot. + +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.' + +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. 142. 'Eructate sweet doctrine.' The expressions are Dietrich's +own. + +Ibid. 'In her coffin yet.' Cf. Lib. VIII. section I. + +Ibid. 'So she said.' Cf. Ibid. + +Ibid. '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.e. the poor). + +P. 143. 'Martha, and their brother,' etc. + +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."' + +Again, section 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, affectu et effectu (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 daemon.' + +'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."' + +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. 145. ' I demand it.' How far I am justified in putting such +fears into her mouth the reader may judge. Cf. Lib. VIII. section +5. 'The devotion of the people demanding it, her body was left +unburied till the fourth day in the midst of a multitude.' . . . + +'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, et mamillarum papillas," 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. 146. 'And yet no pain.' Cf. Lib. VIII section 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. 147. 'Canonisation.' Cf. Lib. VIII. section 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. + +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.' + +Ibid. '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. 149. 'Lest he fall.' Cf. Fleury, Eccl. Annals, 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 trop legerement +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. 150. 'The Kaiser.' Cf. Lib. VIII. section 12, for a list of the +worthies present. + +P. 151. 'A Zingar wizard.' Cf. Lib. I. section 1. The Magician's +name was Klingsohr. He has been introduced by Novalis into his +novel of Heinrich Von Ofterdingen, as present at the famous contest +of the Minnesingers on the Wartburg. Here is Dietrich's account:-- + +'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). + +'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." + +'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. 151. 'A robe.' Cf. Lib. II. section 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. 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.) + +Ibid. 'Sainthood's palm.' Cf. Lib. VIII. sections 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.e. 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.' . . . + +Then follow four chapters, headed severally-- + +Section 9. 'Of the solemn canonisation of the Blessed Elizabeth.' + +Secion 10. 'Of the translation of the Blessed Elizabeth (and how +the corpse when exposed diffused round a miraculous fragrance).' + +Section 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.' + +Section 12. 'Of the sublime persons who were present, and their +oblations.' + +Section 13. 'A consideration of the divine mercy about this +matter.' + +'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. + +Section 14. 'Of the sacred oil which flowed from the bones of +Elizabeth.' I subjoin the 'Epilogus.' + +'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, "puta sedecim" 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.' + +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. 153. 'Gallant gentleman.' Cf. Lib. VIII. section 6. + +P. 154. 'Took his crown.' Cf. Lib. VIII. section 12. + +Ibid. 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. 162. 'Domini canes,' 'The Lord's hounds,' a punning sobriquet of +the Dominican inquisitors, in allusion to their profession. + +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, Lit. +of Southern Europe, Cap. 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