University of Virginia Library

Scene III.

The House Van Merestyn.
Sir Walter D'Arlon and Clara Van Artevelde, she binding up his arm, which is wounded.
Clara.
Rude Knight, you come to see your ladye love,
And cannot stay your stomach for an hour
But you must fight i' the street. Your hungry sword—
Could it keep Lent no longer? By my faith,
You shall do penance at your lady's feet
The live-long night for this.

D'Arlon.
Nay, cry you mercy!
'Twere a sharp trial, one man to keep Lent
Whilst all around kept carnival; the sin
Was in the stomachs of your citizens:
But I will do the penance not the less.

Clara.
Come, come! confess yourself; make a clean breast;
You'd vow'd a vow to some fair dame at Bruges
To kill for her dear love a score of burghers.
Nay,—never cross yourself—'tis Gospel truth.
Hold up this arm—alas! there was a time
When Knights were true and constant to their loves
And had but one a-piece—an honest time;
Knights were Knights then: God mend the age, say I!
True as the steel upon their backs were they,
And their one lady's word was law. Ah, well!
Would I had lived a hundred years ago!

D'Arlon.
Could you live backward for a hundred years,
And then live on a hundred years to come,
You'd not find one to love you in more truth
Than I have loved.

Clara.
What, what! no truer Knight?
A seemly word, forsooth! Hast many more?
No truer knight!—'Tis thus you great Lords live
With flatterers round you all your golden youth,
And know yourselves as much as I know Puck—
Your heads so many bee-hives; honey'd words
Swarm in your ears, and others from your mouth
Go buzzing out to ply for sweets abroad;
And so your summer wastes, till some cold night
The cunning husbandman comes stealthily
And there is fire and brimstone for my Lords!
Hold up this arm—let go my hand, I say!
Am I to tie your bandage with my teeth?

Enter Adriana.
Adriana.
My Lord—good heaven! Your arm—I fear you're hurt.

Clara.
Hold, hush! I'll answer for you. Just a scratch;
A scratch, fair lady,—that and nothing more.
It gives us no concern; we got it thus:
Riding along the streets of this good town,
A score of burghers met us, peaceful drones—
Saying their prayers, belike; howe'er that be,
The senseless sinners were so rapt and lost,
They heeded not our Lordship: whereat we,
Unused to such demeanour, shook ourselves,
And prick'd them with our lance; a fray ensued,
And lo! as we were slaying some fourteen
That stayed our passage, it pleased Providence,
Of whom the meanest may be instruments,
Thus gently to chastise us on the arm,
Doubtless for some good cause, tho' Heaven knows what.

Adriana.
My Lord, you know her; she is ever thus,—
Still driving things against you to your face,
And when you're gone, if I should chance let fall
A word, or but a hint of censure, as—
My Lord of Arlon is too rash, too hot,
Too anything—

Clara.
She sighs and says, too true.

Adriana.
No, verily. But why, my Lord, come here
At nothing less than peril of your life,
Only to hear her rail?

Clara.
Yes, tell us why.

D'Arlon.
Not only that to-day, though till to-day
That was enough. But here is one whose weal
Has charged me with an errand of less love
But graver import. Is't not? Yes, 'tis he!

Enter Artevelde.
Artevelde
(as he enters).
Let my guard wait without.

Clara.
His guard! What's this?

Artevelde.
My Lord of Arlon, God be with you ever,
And guide you upon less adventurous tracks
Than this you tread. I'll speak with you anon.
My Adriana! victim that thou art!
Thy lover should have been some gentle youth
In gay attire, with laughter on his lips,
Who'd nestle in thy bosom all night long,
And ne'er let harness clink upon thine ears
Save only in romaunt and roundelay.
Such is what should be, and behold what is!
A man of many cares new taken up,
To whom there's nothing more can come in life
But what is serious and solicitous:
One who betakes him to his nuptial bed,
His thoughts still busy with the watch and ward,
And if his love breathe louder than her wont
Starts and believes the bells ring backwards: yes,
A man begirt with eighty thousand swords,
Scarce knowing which are in the hands of friends
And which against him; such a sort of man
Thy lover is, his fate for life or death
Link'd to a cause which some deem doomed and lost.
Such is Van Artevelde, for he is now
Chief Captain of the White-Hoods and of Ghent.

Clara.
Nay! is it even so?

Artevelde.
Even so it is.

Adriana.
And you are Captain of these savages!
And you will trample with them through the blood
Of fellow-men,—alas it may be, too,
Of fellow-citizens—for what care they?
And you, the gentle-hearted and the good,
Must lead these monsters where they will!

Artevelde.
Not so;
I purpose but to lead them where I will.

Adriana.
Then they will turn upon you; never yet
Would they endure a Chief that cross'd their mood.

Artevelde.
That is the patience they've to learn from me.
The times have tamed them, and mischance of late
Has forced an iron bit between their teeth
By help whereof I hope to rein them round.

Clara.
Oh, they will murder you!

Artevelde.
It may be so,
But I hope better things. Yet this is sure,
That they shall murder me ere make me go
The way that is not my way for an inch.

Adriana.
Alas! and is it come to this!—Oh God!

Artevelde.
This I foresaw, and things have fallen out
No worse than I forewarn'd you that they might.
The course I follow is a course ordained;
For I feel that within me which accords
With what I have to do. The field is fair,
And I have no perplexity or cloud
Upon my vision. Everything is clear.
And take this with you for your comfort too—
That man is not the most in tribulation
Who, resolute of mind, walks his own way,
With answerable skill to plant his steps.
Men in their places are the men that stand,
And I am strong and stable on my legs;
For though full many a care from this time forth
Must harbour in my head, my heart is fresh,
And there is but one trouble touches it,
The fate foreshown for you.

Adriana.
For me? What fate
Could e'er be nobler? Vex not your heart for that,
Nor think of me so all unworthily,
Nor fancy for me fears I have not: no,
In either fortune to be with you still,
Still to be with you is the single joy
Can find henceforth a corner in my heart;
My glory to be ever by your side
In weal or woe or danger or distress,
In all mishaps or mischiefs that befall you,
In all temptations when bad men beset you,
In all the tempests that must now rave round you,
And, should they wreck you, in the hour of death.
If your ambition, late aroused, was that
Which push'd you on this perilous attempt,
Then I will be ambitious too; if not,
And 'twas but your ill-fortune, be it so;
Then I will be unfortunate no less.
In that will I be like you, and all else
Wherein a woman may; what once I prized,
Serenity, contentment, heavenly peace,
God's blessings on my earlier years bestow'd
I fling them to the winds nor heed their loss,
So that your love outlast them.

Artevelde.
Bride in life,
And bride in death, if bridals then may be,
The last of love for thee were last of all
That through this passage of mortality
Lights on my soul to Heaven. All will be well;
Much happiness shall be thy portion yet;
Love will be with thee, breathing his native air,
And peace around thee through the power of love.
Bring me but through the business of this day—
My Lord, your pardon; we consume your time,
Which, I'm constrained to say, is short in Ghent.
I hitherto have welcomed you amongst us
And kept the secret of your sojourns here;
So doing, partly for respect to you,
And partly for her sake, this foolish girl's,
My pretty Clara's, who will let me say
I had not pleased her else; but now, my Lord,
As you have heard, I hold an office here
With duties appertaining, and must needs
(With sorrow for your sudden going hence)
Proffer my passport,—good till set of sun.

D'Arlon.
If no discourtesy is meant by this
I have but to depart.

Clara.
Depart! and why?

Artevelde.
There's nothing meant but honour, nothing else,
Howe'er to rude appearances enforced.
When there is peace between the Earl and Ghent
'Twill be a joy to me to see again
The gallant Lord of Arlon; till that time
We meet not, save in hostile ranks opposed,
Or captive, I in Bruges or he in Ghent.

D'Arlon.
Sir, it is not for me to say you nay
In a strange town, and all the town your own;
Nor would I willingly distrust your word
That all is honourably meant; for else
I scarce should miss to find a future time
For fair requital.

Artevelde.
On my faith, my Lord,
I love you and respect you.

D'Arlon.
'Tis enough.
Then I depart in peace.

Clara.
Depart! what's this?
What's all the coil about? Say you, depart?
That's when I bid him, not an hour before.
Dismiss him thus, and ne'er to come again!
Then what becomes of me? Oh, I'm a child!
I'm to be whipp'd for crying after him?
But let me tell you, Philip, I'm the child
Of Jacques Artevelde—So look well to it.
An injury to myself I might forgive,
But one to D'Arlon—
[Bursting into tears.
Sir, think twice of that,
Lest you should lose a sister unawares.

D'Arlon.
Nay, Clara, nay, be not so troubled.

Artevelde.
There—
You see the humour she is of, my Lord;
But be my sins confess'd, the fault is mine.
An orphan sister and an only one,
What could I less but let her have her will
In all things possible? An easy man
She still has found me, and knows nothing yet
Of opposition to her high commands.
You, if you e'er should take her to yourself,
May teach her better doctrine. Dry these tears,
Clara, my love; nor let this Knight discern
His future trials thus presignified
In rain and lightning; let him not, my love.

Clara
(weeping).
When will he come again?

Artevelde.
When peace comes; yes,
We'll make him welcome then to bower and hall,
And thou shalt twine a garland for his brow
Of olive and of laurels won from me.

D'Arlon.
Be pacified, sweet Clara; dry your tears.
He but deals with me as he has the right
And deems himself in duty bound; such things
Shall jar no string between us.

Artevelde.
Nobly said.
I leave her in your hands, and hope your aid
For bringing her to reason.

D'Arlon.
I entreat
One word in private with you ere we part.

Artevelde.
Take in my sister, Adriana—go,
Impart to her a portion of that strength
Whereby your spirit, ruler of itself,
Rules what betides it: teach her to subdue
Her woman's wifulness.

[Exeunt Adriana and Clara.
D'Arlon.
My errand here
Is not so wholly idle as no doubt
You deem it. I would first have warned you off
The office which, with most unhappy haste,
Already you have clutch'd. Since that is vain
I next would bid you to beware false friends;
Look that there be no treason in your camp;
I may not now say more; but be assured
'Twill be your life you fight for.

Artevelde.
Gallant friend,
It is a grief to me that we should meet
In opposition thus. I'll look around
And profit by your warning if I may.
Trust me, 'twould irk my heart no less than yours
(And may this show in all my acts henceforth!)
To enter in alliance with foul play
For any earthly meed. Sir, fare you well.

D'Arlon.
Whenso' the choice and noblest of my friends
Are bid to memory's feast, then, Artevelde,
The place of honour shall be yours. Farewell.

[Exit.
Enter the Captain of Artevelde's Guard.
Captain.
Sir, there's a messenger from Van den Bosch
Who craves to see you instantly: another
Says the Lord Occo waits your leisure.

Artevelde
(after a pause).
Ha!
Lord Occo, saidst thou? Tell me, what of him?

Captain.
He waits your leisure, Sir.

Artevelde.
And when comes that?
He shall not wait my leisure. And what more?

Captain.
Sir, Van den Bosch would see you.

Artevelde.
So he shall:
I will attend the Lord of Occo first,
And Van den Bosch shall find me at my house
Some half hour hence. How look we, Sir, abroad?

Captain.
The citizens are trooping to the Square.
'Tis said Sir Simon and Sir Guisebert pass
From door to door incessantly.

Artevelde.
To beg?

Captain.
To gain a strong attendance.

Artevelde.
Woe the while!
A bear, a fiddle, and a pair of apes
Had sped the service better. Well; what else?

Captain.
Both mean and notable and rich and poor
Have they solicited, assuring all
That when it shall be heard what terms of peace
Are offer'd, they will hug the messengers
That after painful travail for their love
Have brought them such good tidings.

Artevelde.
Hug them? Ay,
With such a hugging as shall stop their breath.
But what! Thou look'st not over cheerily;
Think'st thou the Knights have made some way then, ha?

Captain.
The deacons of eight crafts have ta'en their part,
And many of the aldermen.

Artevelde.
Is't so?

Captain.
And all the men of lineage.

Artevelde.
As thou hearest.

Captain.
The citizens pass'd by me in the street
By scores and hundreds, and of them I saw
The most were plainly not for us.

Artevelde.
Build up,
And then pull down, and then again build up,—
And always in the ruins some are—Well?

Captain.
And I'm afeared, though loth to think it, some
Amongst your guard have fallen from their faith
At seeing us outnumbered thus.

Artevelde.
Is't so?
Why, wherefore should I wish that it were not?
The more faint hearts fall off the better; so
Sick fear shall purge us to a sounder health.
Now to the Lord of Occo. Follow thou
With such as follow me; the rest discard.