University of Virginia Library

Scene VII.

—The House Van Artevelde.
Artevelde and Van den Bosch.
Artevelde.
This is a mighty matter, Van den Bosch,
And much to be revolved ere it be answered.

Van den Bosch.
The people shall elect you with one voice.
I will ensure the White-Hoods, and the rest
Will eagerly accept your nomination,
So to be rid of some that they like less.
Your name is honour'd both of rich and poor;
For all are mindful of the glorious rule
Your father bore, when Flanders, prosperous then,
From end to end obey'd him as one town.

Artevelde.
They may remember it—and, Van den Bosch,
May I not too bethink me of the end
To which this people brought my father? Yes,
Of his good husbandry they gorged the fruits,
Till, drunk with long prosperity, and blind
With too much fatness, they tore up the root
From which their common weal had sprung and grown.

Van den Bosch.
Nay, Master Philip, let the past be past.

Artevelde.
Here on the doorstep of my father's house
The blood of his they spilt is seen no more;
But when I was a child I saw it there;
For so long as my widow-mother lived
Water might touch not that memorial stain.
She loved to show it me, and then with awe,
But hoarding still the purpose of revenge,
I heard the tale—which like a daily prayer
Repeated, to a rooted feeling grew—
How long he fought, how falsely came like friends
The villains Guisebert Grutt and Simon Bette,—
All the base murder of the one by many.
Even such a brutal multitude as they
Who slew my father, yea, who slew their own,
(For like one had he ruled them first and last)
Even such a multitude you'd have me sway.

Van den Bosch.
Why, what if Jacques Artevelde was killed?
He had his reign, and that for many a year,
And a great glory did he gain thereby.
And as for Guisebert Grutt and Simon Bette,
Their breath is in their nostrils as was his;
If you be as stout-hearted as your sire
And mindful of the villainous part they play'd,
Their hour of reckoning is well-nigh come.
Of that, and of this base false-hearted league
They're making with the Earl, these two to us
Shall give account.

Artevelde.
They cannot render back
The golden bowl that's broken at the fountain,
Or mend the wheel that's broken at the cistern,
Or twist again the silver cord that's loosed.
Yea, life for life, vile bankrupts as they are,
Their worthless lives for his of countless price,
Is their whole wherewithal to pay their debt.
Yet retribution is a child of grace,
And I could well baptize it in their blood.

Van den Bosch.
Then will I call the people to the Square
And speak for your election.

Artevelde.
Not so fast.
Your vessel, Van den Bosch, has felt the storm:
She rolls dismasted in an ugly swell,
And you would make a jury-mast of me
Whereon to spread the tatters of your sails.
And what am I?—I fain would be the oak
That, rooted in the vale of life apart,
Welcomes with equal breast each wind that blows,
Nor knows of fair and foul.

Van den Bosch.
Ho! what is this?
I pray you, speak it in the Burghers' tongue;
I lack the scholarship to talk in tropes.

Artevelde.
Then view the matter naked as it stands:
Shall I, who, chary of tranquillity,
Not busy in this factious city's broils,
Nor frequent in the market-place, eschew'd
The even battle,—shall I join the rout?

Van den Bosch.
Times are sore changed, I see; there's none in Ghent
That answers to the name of Artevelde.
Your father did not carp nor question thus
When Ghent besought his aid. The days have been
When not a citizen drew breath in Ghent
But freely would have died in freedom's cause.

Artevelde.
With a good name the cause you christen. True;
In choice of despots is some freedom found,
The only freedom for this turbulent town,
Rule her who may. And in my father's time
We still were independent, if not free;
And wealth from independence, and from wealth
Enfranchisement, will partially proceed.
The cause, I grant you, Van den Bosch, is good;
And were I link'd to earth no otherwise
But that my whole heart centred in myself,
I could have toss'd you this poor life to play with,
Taking no second thought. But as things are,
I will review the matter warily,
And send you word betimes of my resolve.

Van den Bosch.
Betimes it must be; for some two hours hence
I meet the Deans of crafts, and ere we part
Our course must be determined.

Artevelde.
In two hours,
If I be for you, I will send this ring
In token I'm so minded. Fare you well.

Van den Bosch.
Philip Van Artevelde, a greater man
Than ever Ghent beheld we'll make of you,
If you be bold enough to try this venture.
God give you heart to do so, and farewell.

[Exit Van den Bosch.
Artevelde.
Is it vain-glory which thus whispers me
That 'tis ignoble to have led my life
In idle meditations—that the times
Demand me, echoing my father's name?
Oh! what a fiery heart was his! such souls
Whose sudden visitations daze the world,
Vanish like lightning, but they leave behind
A voice that in the distance far away
Wakens the slumbering ages. Father! Yes,
Thy life is eloquent, and more persuades
Unto dominion than thy death deters;
For that reminds me of a debt of blood
Descended with my patrimony to me,
Whose paying off would clear my soul's estate.

Enter Clara.
Clara.
Was some one here? I thought I heard you speak.

Artevelde.
You heard me speak?

Clara.
I surely thought I heard you,
Just now, as I came in.

Artevelde.
It may be so.

Clara.
Was no one here then?

Artevelde.
No one, as you see.

Clara.
Why then I trust the orator your tongue
Found favour with the audience your ears;
But this poor orator of mine finds none,
For all at once I see they droop and flag.
Will you not listen? I've a tale to tell.

Artevelde.
My fairest, sweetest, best beloved girl!
Who in the whole world would protect thy youth
If I were gone?

Clara.
Gone! where? what ails you, Philip?

Artevelde.
Nowhere, my love. Well, what have you to tell?

Clara.
When I came home, on entering the hall
I stared to see the household all before me.
There was the steward sitting on the bench,
His head upon his hands between his knees;
In the oak chair old Ursel sate upright
Swaying her body—so—from side to side,
Whilst maids and varlets stood disconsolate round.
What cheer? quoth I. But not a soul replied.
Is Philip well? Yea, Madam, God be praised.
Then what dost look so gloomy for, my friend?
Alack a-day, the stork! then all chimed in,
The stork, the stork, the stork! What, he is sick?
No, Madam; sick!—he's gone—he's flown away!
Why then, quoth I, God speed him! speaking so
To raise their hearts, but they were all-too-heavy.
And, Philip, to say truth, I could have wish'd
This had not happen'd.

Artevelde.
I remember now,
I thought I miss'd his clatter all night long.

Clara.
Old Ursel says the sign proved never false
In all her time,—and she's so very old!
And then she says that Roger was esteem'd
The wisest stork in Ghent, and flew away
But twice before—the first time in the night
Before my father took that office up
Which proved so fatal in the end; and then
The second time, the night before he died.

Artevelde.
Sooner or later, something, it is certain,
Must bring men to their graves. Our every act
Is death's forerunner. It is but the date
That puzzles us to fix. My father lived
In that ill-omen'd office many a year,
And men had augur'd he must die at last
Without the stork to aid. If this be all
The wisest of his tribe can prophesy,
I am as wise as he. Enough of this.
You have been visiting your friend to-day,—
The Lady Adriana.

Clara.
I come thence:
She is impatiently expecting you.

Artevelde.
Can she with such impatience flatter one
So slothful and obscure as Artevelde?

Clara.
How mean you?

Artevelde.
Clara, know I not your sex?
Is she not one of you? Are you not all,
All from the shade averse? All prompt and prone
To make your idol of the million's idol?
Had I been one of these rash White-Hood chiefs
Who live by military larceny,
Then might I well believe that she would wait
Impatiently my coming.

Clara.
There you're wrong;
She never loved the White-Hoods.

Artevelde.
She were wise
In that unloving humour to abide;
To wed a White-Hood, other ills apart,
Would put in jeopardy her fair possessions.
Fatal perchance it might be to her wealth;
Fatal it surely would be to her weal.
Farewell her peace, if such a one she loved.

Clara.
Go ask her, Philip,—ask her whom she loves,
And she will tell you it is no such man.
Why go you not?

Artevelde.
My mind is not at ease.
Yet I am going—to my chamber now,
Where let me own an undisturb'd half hour
Of rumination;—afterward to her.