University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

—Twynham. The Church completed. Enter Leofric, meeting Old Man.
Old Man.
Ah, sir, your face is full of happiness;
But should they knock that down [pointing to the tower]
like the old church?

Leofric.
Nay, when a mother sees her perfect babe,
She thinks not of the doomed calamity
To strike his hoary head. Come now, confess
It is a goodly pile.

Old Man.
Ay, a fair heap
Of masonry. Young man, you've done your best;
I'll not deny it—and the rest is slow.
God and the winds must care for it; it needs
To be thick-planted with the dead before
It will look old enough for worshippers.
The Lord Himself, they say, will make all new;—
I marvel at Him; but He's fit to judge.—
Our forefathers lay still; men had good thoughts
In the old place: it seemed a heathen thing
To hack it up.

Leofric.
Nay, it was rough and plain;
Not better than a homestead.

Old Man.
Well, you see
God had been there; He did a deal for it.
You rumbled up the dead. When there's more graves
It will be better. I shall make one soon.
You must not think, young man, you do it all.
We do our part just rotting in the ground;
The saucy urchins feel it's wonderful;
We frighten 'em. I do not think the walls
Do much; it's what's outside and what is in,
Plenty of living sorrow and a Past,
Makes one look up.—You will excuse me, sir,—
There's a little girl I buried years ago
Here, where the nettles press. I let it be
While they were building; now I'll put it right;
That's what I'm come for. It is difficult;
The weeds so intermix.

Leofric.
We'll find it out.
You have no headstone: I will carve you one,
If you would care. Then you will not mistake.

Old Man.
My little lass was shy of strangers, hid
Behind the chair, if they but looked at her.
I'll keep her to myself.

[Disappears.
Leofric.
It's useless toil.
The people come here to reclaim their dead,
Or just to mass.

[Enter Flambard.]
Flambard.
Good even, Leofric.
Fair news, my cunning craftsman, do you hear?
Your uncle Godric I will reinstate,
And all—except the beauty of this church—
Wear its old form. Nay more, my bonnie lad—
I am translated to a northern See;
And, hark ye! good St. Calais brought him plans
From Normandy, by which we'll raise a church;
Ay, Leofric, a dominant, dark pile,
That shall express the State's stability,
And keep the fortress in its very mould;
A mighty, militant, majestic mass.
You shall notch out the saint, the populace
Outside, the grinning devil and vile beast,
Who sets his paw-mark on the simpleton
Living for this world's praise.—I'm altering,
My Leofric; Zaccheus from the fig
Came down at summons and restored his gain,
Ill-gotten, to the poor. I will provide
Good hospitable lodging for the Lord,
And you shall furnish it with ornament.

Leofric.
There is no joy ... oh, my lips fail like tools
Blunt-edged; I cannot carve the words I would.
This sudden surety of a noble toil,
Not unimmortal like the labourer's,
Good as the earth to the Creator's eyes,
And excellent as nature unto man,
Is better to me than a promised wealth,
More even than a marriage.

Flambard.
[looking at Leofric]
Ah, to say
Let there be summer in a human face,
And straightway there is summer, gives a man,
In sooth, an inkling of omnipotence
Not to be scorned. Here comes a malcontent.
[Enter Wilfrith.]
I ever shunned such; you may deal with him;
Cheer him with my departure. Leofric!
[Aside.]
He's lost. How happy are these artists—well!

[Exit.
Leofric.
A minster-church, a pile to block the air,
And throw steep shadows on the tiny roofs;
It's built now. I behold it.

Wilfrith.
Leofric,
I had a dream, a cruel, ghastly dream,
An apparition. I must see the king.

Leofric.
What ails you?

Wilfrith.
God will bring deliverance,
And yet by fearful means. The instrument ...
But what has happened? You have surely seen
A comfortable vision, for your eyes
Look as they never more could shed salt tears.
Give me your message.

Leofric.
Wilfrith, you are scared.
Listen, good uncle Godric is restored,
And dear routine will give you back the health
That days uneven agitate.

Wilfrith.
The king—
You do not seem to care—deliverance;
We shall be free.

Leofric.
The devil gave you dreams,
And in imagination you are bond.
What want you with the king? At Malwood Lodge
He earns his daily feast of venison.
Let be, and listen to my saner news:
Flambard is Durham's bishop, and I go
To build—

Wilfrith.
What boots it I am hounded on
Of fiends? I cannot tell what it portends,
I am distracted; but you have your art—
It's nothing to you.

Leofric.
Wilfrith, it is less
To be possessed of devils that are dumb,
Than dwell the mate of undelivered power,
A stricken thing divine, another self,
Kingly and crippled as great David's son.

Wilfrith.
All that is fantasy; these fearful dreams
Are real. Yet, if England in his death
Gain freedom—

Leofric.
It's the spirit that is free.
Wilfrith, you cannot know, when first I took
These logs of wood and stared at them, it was
As God Himself lay captive at my heart,
And I must burst His withes and worship Him,
His jailer, who could give Him prison-bread,
Not liberty. I perished in His chains:
I could not speak;—now He has utterance,
And all my nature subjugate to joy
Of His authority, I am at peace.
You have religion; let it make you bold
To bear the strange convulsions of the world.
Be happy in your consecrated thoughts;
Look on the church; in its vicinity
You shall spend blameless years, till 'neath its stones
You sleep in death's immured tranquillity.

Wilfrith.
No, no. I'll to the king to save his soul.

[Exit.
Leofric.
And I'll to Durham to my lattice-work.

[Exit.