University of Virginia Library

Scene VI

—The exterior of the Stadt-House. Two external flights of stone stairs meet in a landing-place or platform midway in the front of the building. On this platform appear Sir Guisebert Grutt, with the aldermen of sundry guilds and the deans of the several crafts of butchers, fishermen, glaziers, and cordwainers. Also Frans Ackerman, Van Nuitre, and others of the White-Hood party.
A Weaver.
Speak up, Sir Guisebert; speak, Sir Guisebert Grutt.

A Fuller.
Sir Simon Bette,—we'll hear Sir Simon first.

A White-Hood.
Not to waste time, let's hear them both at once;
For bawling as we do, one word in ten
Were much to reach us.

A Glazier.
It is you that bawl,
You villain White-Hoods—And there come the men
That teach it you; but we've a muster here
Shall choke your bawling with a churchyard sod.

Enter Van Artevelde and Van Den Bosch.
Artevelde.
Well met, my friends, if friends you be; if not,
Why then, well met, my foes.

Sir Guisebert
(descending some steps to meet Sir Simon Bette, who comes up from the street).
I' the name of God! Where is the Lord of Occo?

Sir Simon.
Sick, Sir, sick.
He has sent word he's sick and cannot come.

Sir Guisebert.
Pray God his sickness be his death!

Sir Simon.
Amen!
But his Lieutenant and his troop are here.

Van den Bosch
(aside to Artevelde)
There's something that has staggered them: Up, up,
And push them to the point. [Aloud.]
Make way there, Ho!

Artevelde
(coming forward).
Some citizen hath brought this concourse here;
Who is the man, and what hath he to say?

Sir Guisebert.
The noble Earl of Flanders of his grace
Commisions me to speak.

[Some White-Hoods interrupt him with cries of “Ghent!” which are presently lost in the cry of “Flanders!”
Artevelde.
What, silence! peace!
Silence, and hear this noble Earl's behests,
Deliver'd by this thrice puissant Knight.

Sir Guisebert.
First will I speak—not what I'm bid to say,
But what it most imports yourselves to hear.
For though ye cannot choose but know it well,
Yet by these cries I deem that some there are
Would, much like madmen, cast their knowledge off,
And both of that and of their reason reft
Run naked on the sword—which to forefend,
Let me remind you of the things ye know.
Sirs, when this month began ye had four Chiefs
Of great renown and valour,—Jan de Bol,
Arnoul le Clerc, and Launoy and Van Ranst:
Where are they now? and what be ye without them?
Sirs, when the month began ye had good aid
From Brabant, Liege, Dinant, St. Tron, and Huy:
How shall they serve you now? The Earl sits fast
Upon the Quatre-metiers and the Bridge:
What aid of theirs can reach you? What supplies?
I tell you, Sirs, that thirty thousand men
Could barely bring a bullock to your gates.
If thus without, how stand ye then within?
Ask of your Chatelain, the Lord of Occo;
Which worthy Knight will tell you—

Artevelde.
(aside to Van den Bosch)
Mark you that? [Then aloud to Sir Guisebert.]

Where is this sponsor of your speech—where is he?

Sir Guisebert.
He's sick in bed; but were he here, he'd say,
There's not provision in the public stores
To keep you for a week. Such is your plight.
Now hear the offer of your natural Liege.
Moved to compassion by our prayers and tears,
By good Duke Aubert aided, and with him
My Lady of Brabant and Lord Compelant—
To whom our thanks are due,—the Earl says thus:
He will have peace, and take you to his love,
And be your good Lord as in former days;
And all the injuries, hatreds, and ill-will
He had against you he will now forget,
And he will pardon you your past misdeeds,
And he will keep you in your ancient rights;
And for his love and graces thus vouchsafed
He doth demand of you three hundred men,
Such citizens of Ghent as he shall name,
To be surrendered and abide his will.

Van den Bosch.
Three hundred citizens!

Artevelde.
Peace, Van den Bosch.
Hear we this other Knight. Well, worthy Sir,
Hast aught to say, or hast not got thy priming,
That thus thou gaspest like a droughty pump?

Van den Bosch.
Nay, 'tis black bile that chokes him.
Come, up with it!
Be it but a gallon it shall ease thy stomach.

Several Citizens.
Silence! Sir Simon Bette's about to speak.

Sir Simon.
Right worthy Burgesses, good men and rich!
Much trouble ye may guess, and strife had we
To win his Highness to this loving humour;
For if ye rightly think, Sirs, and remember,
You've done him much offence—not of yourselves,
But through ill guidance of ungracious men.
For first ye slew his Bailiff at the cross,
And with the Earl's own banner in his hand,
Which falling down was trampled under foot
Through heedlessness of them that stood about.
Also ye burn'd the castle he loved best
And ravaged all his parks at Andrehen,
All those delightful gardens on the plain:
And ye beat down two gates at Oudenarde
And in the dike ye cast them upside down:
Also ye slew five Knights of his, and worse
Ye brake the font wherein he was baptized.
Wherefore it must be own'd, Sirs, that much cause
He had of quarrel with the town of Ghent.
For what, Sirs, had ye suffered from the Earl
That ye should thus dishonour him? 'Tis true
At Erclo once a Burgess was detain'd
Through misbehaviour of the Bailiff; still
He hath deliver'd many a time and oft
Out of his prisons Burgesses of yours
Only to do you pleasure; and when late
By kinsmen of the Bailiff whom ye slew
Some mariners of yours were sorely maim'd,
(Which was an inconvenience to this town,)
What did the Earl? To prove it not his act
He banish'd out of Flanders them that did it.
Moreover, Sirs, the taxes of the Earl
Were not so heavy, but that, being rich,
Ye might have borne them; they were not the half
Of what ye since have paid to wage this war;
And yet had these been double that were half,
The double would have grieved you less in peace
Than but the half in war. Bethink ye, Sirs,
What were the fowage and the subsidies
When bread was but four mites that's now a groat?
All which consider'd, Sirs, I counsel you
That ye accept this honourable peace,
For mercifully is the Earl inclined,
And ye may surely deem of them he takes
A large and liberal number will be spared,
And many here who least expect his love
May find him-free and gracious. Sirs, what say ye?

Artevelde.
First, if it be your pleasure, hear me speak.
[Great tumult and cries of “Flanders!”
What, Sirs, not hear me? was it then for this
Ye made me your chief Captain yesternight,—
To snare me in a trust, whereof I bear
The name aud danger only, not the power?
[The tumult increases.
Sirs, if we needs must come to blows, so be it;
For I have friends can deal them.

Sir Simon
(aside to Sir Guisebert).
Mercy! No—
Had Occo now been here! but lacking him
It must not come to that.

Sir Guisebert.
My loving friends,
Let us behave like brethren as we are,
And not like listed combatants. Ho, peace!
Hear this young bachelor of high renown,
Who writes himself your Captain since last night,
When a few score of varlets, being drunk,
In mirth and sport so dubbed him. Peace, Sirs, peace!

Artevelde.
Peace let it be, if so ye will; if not,
We are as ready as yourselves for blows.

One of the Citizens.
Speak, Master Philip, speak, and you'll be heard.

Artevelde.
I thank you, Sirs; I knew it could not be
But men like you must listen to the truth.
Sirs, ye have heard these Knights discourse to you
Of your ill fortunes, numbering in their glee
The worthy leaders ye have lately lost:
True, they were worthy men, most gallant chiefs,
And ill would it become us to make light
Of the great loss we suffer by their fall:
They died like heroes; for no recreant step
Had e'er dishonour'd them,—no stain of fear,
No base despair, no cowardly recoil:
They had the hearts of freemen to the last,
And the free blood that bounded in their veins
Was shed for freedom with a liberal joy.
But had they guess'd, or could they but have dream'd,
The great examples which they died to show
Should fall so flat, should shine so fruitless here,
That men should say, “For liberty these died,
Wherefore let us be slaves,”—had they thought this,
Oh then with what an agony of shame
Their blushing faces buried in the dust
Had their great spirits parted hence for heaven!
What! shall we teach our chroniclers henceforth
To write that in five bodies were contain'd
The sole brave hearts of Ghent! which five defunct,
The heartless town by brainless counsel led
Deliver'd up her keys, stript off her robes,
And so with all humility besought
Her haughty Lord to scourge her lightly! No,
It shall not be—no verily! for now,
Thus looking on you as ye gather round,
Mine eye can single out full many a man
Who lacks but opportunity to shine
As great and glorious as the chiefs that fell.
But lo! the Earl is mercifully moved!
And surely if we, rather than revenge
The slaughter of our bravest, cry them shame,
And fall upon our knees, and say we've sinn'd,
Then will the Earl take pity on his thralls
And pardon us our letch for liberty!
What pardon it shall be, if we know not,
Yet Ypres, Courtray, Grammont, Bruges, they know;
For never can those towns forget the day
When by the hangman's hands five hundred men,
The bravest of each guild, were done to death
In those base butcheries that he call'd pardons.
And did it seal their pardons, all this blood?
Had they the Earl's good love from that time forth?
Oh, Sirs! look round you lest ye be deceived;
Forgiveness may be spoken with the tongue,
Forgiveness may be written with the pen,
But think not that the parchment and mouth pardon
Will e'er eject old hatreds from the heart.
There's that betwixt you been men ne'er forget
Till they forget themselves, till all's forgot,
Till the deep sleep falls on them in that bed
From which no morrow's mischief knocks them up.
There's that betwixt you been which you yourselves,
Should ye forget, would then not be yourselves;
For must it not be thought some base men's souls
Have ta'en the seats of yours and turn'd you out
If in the coldness of a craven heart
Ye should forgive this bloody-minded man
For all his black and murderous monstrous crimes?
Think of your mariners, three hundred men,
After long absence in the Indian seas,
Upon their peaceful homeward voyage bound,
And now, all dangers conquer'd as they thought,
Warping the vessels up their native stream,
Their wives and children waiting them at home
In joy, with festal preparation made,—
Think of these mariners, their eyes torn out,
Their hands chopp'd off, turn'd staggering into Ghent
To meet the blasted eye-sight of their friends!
And was not this the Earl? 'Twas none but he!
No Hauterive of them all had dared to do it
Save at the express instance of the Earl.
And now what asks he? Pardon me, Sir Knights,
[To Grutt and Bette.
I had forgotten, looking back and back
From felony to felony foregoing,
This present civil message which ye bring:
Three hundred citizens to be surrender'd
Up to that mercy which I tell you of—
That mercy which your mariners proved—which steep'd
Courtray and Ypres, Grammont, Bruges, in blood!
Three hundred citizens,—a secret list—
No man knows who—not one can say he's safe—
Not one of you so humble but that still
The malice of some secret enemy
May whisper him to death—and hark—look to it!
Have some of you seem'd braver than their peers,
Their courage is their surest condemnation;
They are marked men—and not a man stands here
But may be so.—Your pardon, Sirs, again!
[To Grutt and Bette.
You are the pickers and the choosers here,
And doubtless you're all safe, ye think—ha! ha!
But we have pick'd and chosen, too, Sir Knights—
What was the law for I made yesterday—
What! is it you that would deliver up
Three hundred citizens to certain death?
Ho! Van den Bosch! have at these traitors—there—

[Stabs Grutt, who falls.
Van den Bosch.
Die, treasonable dog—is that enough?
Down, felon, and plot treacheries in Hell.

[stabs Bette.
[The White-Hoods draw their swords, with loud cries of “Treason!” “Artevelde!” and “Ghent!” A citizen of the other party, who in the former part of the scene had unfurled the Earl's banner, now throws it down and flies; several others are following him, and the Aldermen and Deans, some of whom had been dropping off towards the end of Artevelde's speech, now quit the platform in haste. Van Aeswyn is crossed by Van Den Bosch.
Van den Bosch.
Die, thou, too, traitor.

[Aiming a blow at him.
Artevelde
(warding it off).
Van den Bosch, forbear.
Up with your weapons, White-Hoods; no more blood.
These only are the guilty who lie here.
Let no more blood be spilt on pain of death.
Sirs, ye have nought to fear; I say, stand fast;
No man shall harm you; if he does, he dies.
Stand fast, or if ye go, take with you this,—
Philip Van Artevelde is friend with all;
There's no man lives within the walls of Ghent
But Artevelde will look to him and his
And suffer none to touch his goods or him.
Haste, Van den Bosch! by Heav'n they run like hares!
Take they not heart the sooner, by St. Paul
They'll fly the city, and that cripples us.
Haste with thy company to the west wards
And see thou that no violence be done
Amongst the weavers and the fullers—stay—
And any that betake themselves to spoil
Hang without stint—and hark—begone—yet stay;
Shut the west gate, postern and wicket too,
And catch my Lord of Occo where thou canst,—
Stay—on thy life let no man's house be forced.

Van den Bosch.
That is not to my mind; but have thy way.
Thou'st play'd the game right boldly, and for me,
I've sworn to stead thee,—and what's more, I will.

Artevelde.
Thou to thine errand, then, and I myself
Will go from street to street through all the town
To reassure the citizens; that done,
I'll meet thee here again. Form, White-Hoods, form:
Range ten abreast; I'm coming down; but stay—
You Floris, Leefdale, Spanghen, mount ye here,
And bear me down these bodies. Now, set forth.