 | William Rufus |  |
Scene III.
—Winchester: a Street, leading to the Council Chamber. At the door a crowd of Townsfolk. Enter Purkis, with a cart laden with apples, accompanied by Godric.Purkis.
So now they think the world's whole business is
being settled within four walls. And they stand gaping—
never see it's the harvest, and the harvest-men who break
the ground and build fuel that determine things. Can't you
gape at me? I'm the charcoal-burner; 'twas a trade before
that of the bishop or the tax-gatherer, and is likely to continue,
though my Lord Anselm show his whims.
1st Citizen.
It is come to Council; 'tis the great event.
Purkis.
Ay, whether the Archbishop may take a holiday
in Rome.
2nd Citizen.
Oh, the bishops are with the king, and most
of us townsfolk in a wonder one of so gentle a disposition as
our Lord of Canterbury should grow restless for his pleasure,
while the people endure the bitter onslaughts of calamity.
Whom have you here?
Purkis.
Why the good canon Godric, my brother. But
my lord of Twynham liked not the fashion of his piety, soon
as he found his purse needed endowment. Out he whips
him, tumbles over the stones of the old church, and now is
himself dean, patron, architect, and most marvellous mendicant
in one.
Ay, the men of God are mightily abused.
Good father, we hope to see you righted.
Purkis.
There's my boy Wilfrith, never watching the
crowd, stuffing his eyes in at the keyhole. So monks and
priests misinterpret. All a pother if there's blight on the
rose-tree: the smut o' the corn-field never strikes 'em. Well,
Wilfrith, what brings you from Twynham?
Wilfrith.
Love of the holy man we fear to lose.
Godric.
You have rightly marked him—yet if he fleer at
the king's authority he must be punished. He must be an
Englishman with the rest of us, drink the air of custom, or
as a foreigner he'll suffer our misliking.
2nd Citizen.
He's for the Pope.
3rd Citizen.
He's just for his own ease. He's fleeing
away from us, as a woman flees from her man when he
catches her lad by the shoulders, with a rod in his other
hand. She hasn't strength to resist him, nor pity to stay
dress the blue stripes of her beaten brat. She'll just to a
neighbour's and recover.
2nd Citizen.
For my part I think it's no more than a
lunacy. When we're mazed we always want to go back to
where we came from. It's natural. But I doubt whether
anything turns out well, tried over again. The meat may be
the same, but there's age in the appetite.
Purkis.
Right, man; blue skies are excellent; one leaves
them, has the heart-ache and returns for cure to stare heavenward.
Our blessings are rarely our remedies. It takes
something medicinal in the way of sorrow to restore us.
Wilfrith.
Father, hush!
Here comes good brother Baldwin full of news.
[Enter Baldwin from within the Council-chamber.]
Baldwin.
They have deserted him, he stands alone.
His bishops whom he gently did adjure,
Choked by the cares of kinship, and the sweet
Flesh-woven bands of this entangling world,
Refuse to pass beyond the fealty
Owed to the king.
Good, good!
Wilfrith.
But the Archbishop will be firm?
Baldwin.
A martyr's constancy is in his eyes,
And a confessor's cheerfulness. He sends
Word to the king that he will cleave to God.
Soon as the messengers again assail
His weary ears, I will return to you.
Meanwhile, pray for him.
[Exit.
Wilfrith.
That he may be firm.
[Kneels apart.
Purkis.
Now, la! at a crisis what's the use of one's knees.
Muster your wits, man, and leave mumbling. If Father
Anselm need a holiday, he should come down to our playground,
see the king at his royal sports. Oh, it's merry in
the greenwood, and dad roaring like a lion when the officers
come near his lair. I should like the Archbishop to encounter
him. He's disordered, past my management.
3rd Citizen.
He's grown infirm.
Purkis.
Ay, but not silly, like a dotard—does too many
things in 's mind at once, and then sits idle like a huswife in
the midst.
4th Citizen.
I mind me of old Beowulf, the lad
Who would sit throwing stones into the pond;
We shied them at the birds, the rest of us,
And laughed that all he cared for was to see
The circles on the water grow and spread
All day; by rights he should ha' minded sheep.
3rd Citizen.
Well, I can't picture him growing peevish
and old. Seemed to me he had senses hidden in himself, as
a miser a bag of gold beyond reach. I warrant he'll not sit
by the fire and wheeze till bed-time. He's ne'er known the
ague.
Purkis.
No: he's not the litter of age—infirmities.
Godric, that boy
[pointing to Wilfrith]
can give you tidings
of your absence. How fares it? Is it made much of, or
slighted?
Wilfrith.
We are full of hope,
Dear uncle, you will be restored to us;
Sickened, and died, our restless overseer
Grows discontented with his deanery,
Neglects to thwart the canons, and repines
Our Church should exercise so slenderly
Pow'rs of design that for expression need
The wealth and domination of a see.
All this is from his mouth; the brethren smile
And nodding whisper, “Fiery Flambard builds,
But we shall have our dean to consecrate
The beautiful new minster.”
Godric.
Can it be
The bishopric of Durham shall be seized
At the king's private pleasure as a boon
To Flambard?
Purkis.
Fortune, imitating Providence, misplants her
crops that all in the soil of circumstance may receive the
discipline of adversity. This holy man, who in Normandy
grew like a watered oak, must now look for his aliment from
the heavens. English earth is too impoverished for his
nurture.
Wilfrith.
Oh, father, by his ghostly help he cheered
St. Calais, who so deeply wounded him.
Each living creature he includes in love;
England in him will lose the advocate,
The single righteous man, who might prevail
To stay the must'ring vengeance of the Lord.
Purkis.
And dost thou love thy country?
Wilfrith.
Ay, the souls
It breeds for hell and heaven.
Purkis
[to Godric].
Brother, you?
Godric.
Sooth, I love it for what is not, the old worship
and the old ways—the Saxon Church.
Purkis.
Dad, I think, loves it corporeally, for the very
mould's sake; while I never fret till the babies pule and the
young lasses wear the brows of widows. That enrages me.
Anything unnatural in the seasons of life: Youth uncomplaining;
courtesy to their dead; and the only strange thing happening,
an encounter with the devil.
[Re-enter Baldwin.]
Baldwin.
Dear brethren, list! a joy is in his eyes;
He hears that he may go: the harsh reserve
And grasping petty rancour of the king
That will condemn him to trudge penniless,
He doth not hear: his cheek already glows
Ardent, as with the sun of Italy
Sooth-tinctured.
3rd Citizen.
The good bishop—he will flee?
How said the brother?
Godric.
Let us be resigned.
The king will have his way with us, extort
Till life is drained away from us: of men
There will be dearth for slaughter.
Wilfrith.
Our last hope
Is gone.
Purkis.
Nay, lad, look cheerily; God 's everywhere about.
The priest may frighten the crows from the harvest; it's the
Husbandman knows what He put in the ground and what
will come out. Let the Italian back to his blue skies!
things will settle, if we've patience.
| William Rufus | |