University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

Scene I.

—Ghent.—The platform at the top of the steeple of St. Nicholas' Church.—Time daybreak.
Artevelde.
There lies a sleeping city. God of dreams!
What an unreal and fantastic world
Is going on below!
Within the sweep of yon encircling wall
How many a large creation of the night,
Wide wilderness and mountain, rock and sea,
Peopled with busy transitory groups,
Finds room to rise, and never feels the crowd!
If when the shows had left the dreamers' eyes
They should float upward visibly to mine,
How thick with apparitions were that void!
But now the blank and blind profundity
Turns my brain giddy with a sick recoil.
—I have not slept. I am to blame for that.
Long vigils join'd with scant and meagre food
Must needs impair that promptitude of mind
And cheerfulness of spirit which, in him
Who leads a multitude, is past all price.
I think I could redeem an hour's repose
Out of the night that I have squander'd, yet.
The breezes on their early voyage launched
Play with a pleasing freshness on my face.
Lie there, my cloak, not seldom now my bed,
And lying on thee I shall front them—so—
[He lies down.
If this were over—blessed be the calm
That comes to me at last! A friend in need
Is Nature to us, that when all is spent,
Brings slumber—bountifully—whereupon
We give her sleepy welcome—if all this
Were honourably over—Adriana—
[Falls asleep, but starts up almost instantly.
I heard a hoof—I hear it now, I swear,
Upon the road from Bruges,—or did I dream?
No! 'tis the gallop of a horse at speed.

Van den Bosch
(without).
What ho! Van Artevelde!

Artevelde.
Who calls?

Van den Bosch.
(entering)
'Tis I.
Thou art an early riser like myself;
Or is it that thou hast not been to bed?

Artevelde.
What are thy tidings?

Van den Bosch.
Nay, what can they be?
A page from pestilence and famine's day-book;
So many to the pest-house carried in,
So many to the dead-house carried out.
The same dull, dismal, damnable old story.

Artevelde.
Be quiet; listen to the westerly wind,
And tell me if it bring thee nothing new.

Van den Bosch.
Nought to my ear, save howl of hungry dog
That hears the house is stirring—nothing else.

Artevelde.
No,—now—I hear it not myself—no—nothing.
The city's hum is up—but ere you came
'Twas audible enough.

Van den Bosch.
In God's name, what?

Artevelde.
A horseman's tramp upon the road from Bruges.

Van den Bosch.
Why then be certain 'tis a flag of truce!
If once he reach the city we are lost.
Nay, if he be but seen our danger's great.
What terms so bad but they would gulp them now?
Let's send some trusty varlets forth at once
To cross his way.

Artevelde.
And send him back to Bruges?

Van den Bosch.
Send him to Hell—and that's a better place.

Artevelde.
Nay, softly, Van den Bosch; let war be war,
But let us keep its ordinances.

Van den Bosch.
Tush!
I say, but let them see him from afar
And in an hour shall we, bound hand and foot,
Be on our way to Bruges.

Artevelde.
Not so, not so.
My rule of governance hath not been such
As e'er to end so foully.

Van den Bosch.
Cockadoodle!
Think'st thou a hundred thousand citizens
Shall stay the fury of their empty maws
Because thou'st ruled them justly?

Artevelde.
It may be
That such a hope is mine.

Van den Bosch.
(going).
Then thou art mad,
And I must take this matter on myself.

Artevelde.
Hold, Van den Bosch! I say this shall not be.
I must be madder than I think I am
Ere I shall yield up my authority,
Which I abuse not to be used by thee.

Van den Bosch.
This comes of lifting dreamers into power.
I tell thee, in this strait and stress of dearth,
The people, but to pave the way for peace,
Would send our noddles in a bag to Bruges.
Once and again I warn thee that thy life
Hangs by a thread.

Artevedle.
Why, know I not it does?
What hath it hung by else since Utas'eve?
Did I not by mine own advised choice
Place it in jeopardy for certain ends?
And what think'st thou were these? To prop thy state?
To float thee o'er a reef, and, that performed,
See to our joint security? Indeed?
No verily, not such my towering aim.
I bent my thoughts on yonder city's weal;
I look'd to give it victory and freedom;
And working to that end, by consequence
From one great peril did deliver thee—
Not for the love of thee or of thy life,
Which I regard not, but the city's service;
And if for that same service it seem good,
I will expose thy life to equal hazard.

Van den Bosch.
Thou wilt?

Artevelde.
I will.

Van den Bosch.
Oh, Lord! to hear him talk!
What a most mighty emperor of puppets
Is this that I have brought upon the board!
But how if he that made it should unmake?

Artevelde.
Unto His sovereignty who truly made me
With infinite humility I bow.
Both, both of us are puppets, Van den Bosch;
Part of the curious clock-work of this world
We scold and squeak and crack each other's crowns,
And if by twitches moved from wires not seen
I were to toss thee from this steeple's top,
I should be but the instrument, no more,
The tool of that chastising Power above
Which still exalts the lowly to abase
The violent and proud. But let me hope
There's no such task appointed me to-day.
Thou passest in the world for worldly wise:
Then, seeing each with each must sink or swim,
What can it profit thee in this extreme
Of our distress to wrangle with me thus
For my supremacy and rule? Thy fate,
As of necessity bound up with mine,
Must needs partake my cares: let that suffice
To put thy pride to rest till better days:
Contest—more reasonably wrong—a prize
More precious than the ordering of a wreck.

Van den Bosch.
Tush, tush! Van Artevelde, thou talk'st and talk'st,
And honest burghers think it wondrous fine;
But thou might'st easilier with that tongue of thine
Persuade yon smoke to fly i' the face o' the wind
Than talk away my wit and understanding.
I say, yon herald shall not enter here.

Artevelde.
I know, Sir, no man better, where my talk
Is serviceable singly, where it needs
To be by acts enforced. I say, beware,
And brave not mine authority too far.

Van den Bosch.
Hast thou authority to take my life?
What is it else to let yon herald in
To bargain for our blood?

Artevelde.
Thy life again!
Why, what a very slave of life art thou!
Look round about on this once populous town;
Not one of these innumerous house-tops
But hides some spectral form of want and woe,
Some peevish pining child and moaning mother,
Some aged man that in his do tage scolds
Not knowing why he hungers, some cold corse
That lies unstraightened where the spirit left it.
Look round and answer what thy life can be
To tell for more than dust upon the scales.
I too would live—I have a love for life—
But rather than to live to charge my soul
With one hour's lengthening out of ills like these,
I'd leap this parapet with as free a bound
As e'er was schoolboy's o'er a garden wall.

Van den Bosch.
I'd like to see thee do it.

Artevelde.
I know thou would'st;
But for the present be content to see
My less precipitate descent; for lo!
[Exit.
There comes the herald o'er the hill.

Van den Bosch.
Beshrew thee!
Thou shalt not have the start of me in this.

Scene II.

—The House Van Artevelde.
Ursel, Van Ryk, and Van Muck.
Ursel.

He will be here for his breakfast anon.

Van Ryk.

And call you this his breakfast?

Ursel.

An ounce of horseflesh and half an oaten cake. It is his only meal; and if I were to make it larger he would ne'er look at it.

Van Muck.

Why we ourselves fare better.

Van Ryk.

I fare somewhat better, and for thee, thou wouldst make a famine where there was none. No more than this morsel of meat in four-and-twenty hours.

Ursel.

No more; and if he has been abroad 'tis more than likely that he shall bring home some little child or some sick woman to share it with him.

Van Ryk.

It is wonderful how stout he is withal. Some men shall but bite their nails and their belly 's full.

Van Muck.

There is a difference in men; I might eat the four hoofs of an ox and my stomach should droop you look you and flap you look you, like an empty sail.

Enter Artevelde.
Artevelde.
A herald, Sirs, is coming here from Bruges.
To horse, Van Muck, to horse with Swink and Kloos
And any other of thy readiest men,
And bring him safely in. What ails thee, man?

Van Muck.
Sir, saving your displeasure, Swink and Kloos,
Against your express orders and despite
Of much I said myself, have ate their horses.

Artevelde.
Thou say'st not so? God's vengeance on their maws!
Next horse they kill, my cook shall serve it up,
And melt the shoes for sauce. Why, then, to horse
With any that are mounted; and beware!
Some there may be of evil-minded men
Who would do outrage to the city's honour
And harm the herald. Look thou keep him safe.

Van Muck.
Sir, safe he shall be, let who will gainsay.

[Exit.
Clara enters, but remains behind.
Artevelde.
And now, Van Ryk, I have a charge for thee.
Thou in the porch of Old St. Nicholas' Church
Art to mount guard beside the postern-gate
Which leads upon the stair that climbs the tower.
Betake thee thither, and until I come,
Inward or outward let none pass. What cheer? [Turning to Clara.]

Come hither, Clara.

Clara.
Philip, not too close.

Artevelde.
What, com'st thou from the hospital?

Clara.
Straight thence,
Breathing infection with my every breath.
God help me for a pestilent little fool!
I tend the sick from weary day to day,
Though Heaven has set its face against a cure,
And they that should have thank'd me for my pains
Will never more speak word.

Artevelde.
Thou heed'st not that;
No, I am certain 'tis for no man's thanks
That thou hast toil'd; and let them live or die,
Thou hast thine own reward. Much hath thy soul
Enriched her chambers with the spoils of war
Since life became a warfare, not a sport.
In easier hours it may be I had cause,
This time or that, to wish thy boldness less,
Though trusting still that time, which tempers all,
Would bring thee soberer thoughts and tame thy heart.
What time to tardy consummation brings,
Calamity, like to a frosty night
That ripeneth the grain, completes at once.
But now that we're alone,—not gone, Van Ryk?

Van Ryk.
Sir, to speak freely, had it been your will
To put me to a service of more action
I had not shamed the choice; for though I'm old,—

Artevelde.
Tut, tut, Van Ryk! 'twill come—the time will come,
And action to thy heart's content thou'lt have.
This service is of special trust. Begone!
[Exit Van Ryk.
Now render me account of what befell
Where thou hast been to-day.

Clara.
Not much is that.
I paid a visit first to Ukenheim,
The man who whilome saved our father's life
When certain Clementists and ribald folk
Assail'd him at Malines. He came last night,
And said he knew not if we owed him aught,
But if we did, a peck of oatmeal now
Would pay the debt and save more lives than one.
I went. It seem'd a wealthy man's abode;
The costly drapery and good house-gear
Had, in an ordinary time, made known
'That with the occupant the world went well.
By a low couch, curtain'd with cloth of frieze,
Sat Ukenheim, a famine-stricken man,
With either bony fist upon his knees
And his long back upright. His eyes were fix'd
And moved not, though some gentle words I spake:
Until a little urchin of a child
That call'd him father, crept to where he sat
And pluck'd him by the sleeve, and with its small
And skinny finger pointed: then he rose
And with a low obeisance, and a smile
That look'd like watery moonlight on his face,
So pale and weak a smile, he bade me welcome.
I told him that a lading of wheat-flour
Was on its way, whereat, to my surprise,
His countenance fell and he had almost wept.

Artevelde.
Poor soul! and wherefore?

Clara.
That I saw too soon.
He pluck'd aside the curtain of the couch,
And there two children's bodies lay composed.
They seem'd like twins of some ten years of age,
And they had died so nearly both at once
He scarce could say which first: and being dead,
He put them, for some fanciful affection,
Each with its arm about the other's neck,
So that a fairer sight I had not seen
Than those two children with their little faces
So thin and wan, so calm and sad and sweet.
I look'd upon them long, and for a while
I wished myself their sister, and to lie
With them in death as with each other they;
I thought that there was nothing in the world
I could have loved so much; and then I wept;
And when he saw I wept, his own tears fell,
And he was sorely shaken and convulsed
Through weakness of his frame and his great grief.

Artevelde.
Much pity was it he so long deferred
To come to us for aid.

Clara.
It was indeed;
But whatsoe'er had been his former pride,
He seem'd a humbled and heart-broken man.
He thank'd me much for what I said was sent,
But I knew well his thanks were for my tears.
He look'd again upon the children's couch,
And said, low down, they wanted nothing now.
So, to turn off his eyes and change his mood,
I drew the small survivor of the three
Before him, and he snatch'd it up, and soon
Seem'd lost and quite forgetful; and with that
I stole away.

Artevelde.
There is a man by fate
Fitted for any enterprise. Alas!
Alas! Of many such I have the choice. And next,
The hospital?

Clara.
I paid my visit there
With Father John. But here he comes himself.

Enter Father John of Heda.
Artevelde.
What cheer, good Father?

Father John.
Heavy is my cheer;
What else but heavy, when from day to day
I see still more of suffering sinking men
Pass to the choked churchyard?

Artevelde.
Truly, the sight
Must needs bring on a heaviness of cheer.
How came I not to think of that before!
Who waits? Too many things conspire—who waits? Enter Steward.

Repair thee to the captains of the guards,
And give my orders that from this time forth
No funerals be allow'd till after dark.
[Exit Steward.
And so the sickness spreads?

Father John.
It spreads apace.
Since Egypt's plagues did never rage disease
So sore and so invincible by art,
So varied in its forms, and in its signs
So unintelligibly strange: in some
The fever keeps its course from first to last;
In others intermits: here suddenly
The patient's head is seized with racking pains;
Then shift they to his chest with change as quick,
Then to his loins, and strangury succeeds,
With clammy sweat, hard breathing and hot thirst.
The intervals of pain, if such there be,
Afford him no repose, but he is still
Dejected, restless, of a hopeless mind,
Indifferent to all incidents and objects,
Or in his understanding too confused
To see or apprehend them: first the face
Is red and flush'd, with large and fiery eyes;
Then is it dropsical and deadly pale:
Sometimes such shudderings seize upon the frame
That the bed shakes beneath it, and with that
The breath is check'd with sobbings as from cold;
Then comes a thick dark crust upon the lips
And tongue and teeth; the fatal hiccough next.
Some die in struggles and strong agonies;
Some in a lethargy; whilst others wake
As from a dream, shake off the fit, look round,
And with collected senses and calm speech
Tell the by-standers that their hour is come.

Artevelde.
It is a dismal malady, and this,
Like all our thousand miseries beside,
Demands a remedy that kills or cures.
What wild beasts' yells are these?
[Tumult and shouting without. The Page enters.
Henry, what news?

Page.
The man from Bruges, escorted by Van Muck,
Is coming here, with crowds of people, wild
To hear what message he may bring. Van Muck
Forbids that any words should pass his lips
Till he have speech of you.

Artevelde.
Van Muck is right.

Page.
But oh! you never saw such wrathful men!
They'll tear them both to pieces.

Artevelde.
Have no fear;
Van Muck will make his way. Ay, here they come. Enter Van Muck and Van Aeswyn.

What! this the messenger? Death of my soul!
Either mine eyes are treacherous as himself
Or else I see a follower of that false
Dishonour'd knight and perjured knave Van Occo.
How is it, if he dares to send thee here,
That thou hast dared to come?

Aeswyn.
So please you, Sir,
The Lord of Occo—

Artevelde.
Grant me but a day
After the siege—Furies and Fates!—one day,—
One day to hunt that reptile to his hole
And stamp my heel upon his recreant neck!
What dost thou here?

Aeswyn.
I come not here from him,
For since he made his war upon a maid,
I have renounced his service; more than that,
I to the Lord of Arlon did that errand
Which wrought to her deliverance.

Artevelde.
Aha!
I crave thy pardon. I had heard 'twas thou,
Though it escaped me. Tell thy tale; but first,
What tidings of that lady?

Aeswyn.
She remains,
By her own will, Sir, in the knightly hands
Of my good Lord of Arlon.

Artevelde.
Say no more:
Elsewhere I would not wish her.
[The tumult increases without and Artevelde's name is called repeatedly.
Let me now
Dismiss this noisy and impatient herd
That throng my doors, and then—ho! hark you, Steward,
Conduct Van Aeswyn to my cabinet.
[Exeunt all but Artevelde and Clara.
My Clara, we have here a bustling day;
Perhaps I shall not see thee, love, again
Till after night-fall; but I will not lose
Thy good-night kiss, so give it to me now.

Clara.
Philip, there's something in your thoughts—but no—
I will not tease you—there—good-night—Adieu!

[Exit Clara. More clamour without. Artevelde passes into an external gallery which overlooks the street and is heard addressing the people.
Artevelde.
Hence to the Stadt-house, friends! I'll meet you there,
And either bring the messenger himself
Or tell you of his tidings: hence—begone!
[The people disperse.
Van Occo, thou art in thine own despite
The mainstay of my hope. I have within
Assurance strong as destiny, that I,
And I alone, a mission have from Heaven
To execute God's justice upon thee.
'Tis strange! there's here a city to be saved,
And there (what none but I take thought upon)
A maid to be recovered and revenged,
And which in this tough heart is uppermost
I would not that my subject-citizens knew.

Scene III.

—Before the Stadt-House, as in the last Scene of the Second Act.
—The people assemble. Frans Ackerman and Peter Van Nuitre in front.
Ackerman.
'Tis certain something has befallen him.

Van Nuitre.
But where? He might be found, if so it were.

Ackerman.
Hast sought him at Jozyne's estaminet?

Van Nuitre.
There and at every lodgment in the town.
Old mother Van den Bosch will take her oath
He went forth early to Van Artevelde's.

Ackerman.
Sure nothing can have happen'd to him there.

Van Nuitre.
That's what I doubt. The best will sometimes trip.
They were not in such unison of mind
As we could wish.

Ackerman.
I cannot think it—No—
But this day's business shall no farther fare
Until the truth appear. Soft! now he comes.

Artevelde enters. There is dead silence. He walks slowly up the steps of the platform.
Artevelde.
Are we all here?

One from the Crowd.
What's left of us is here,
Our bones.

Artevelde.
We're wasted in the flesh, 'tis true;
But we have spirits left. We all are here.

Ackerman.
I will say nay to that. Where's Van den Bosch?

Artevelde.
Silence, Frans Ackerman! we want not him.

Ackerman.
Then I demand if he be dead or living?

Artevelde.
He lives.

Ackerman.
Where is he, then?

Artevelde.
Where all shall be
Who seek, by mutiny against their Chief,
To do unlawful deeds. What ask ye more?
He is arrested and confined.

Ackerman.
What cause
For this proceeding hath that brave man given?

Artevelde.
If, as his friend, thou ask wherein he err'd,
I'll tell it to this people and to thee,—
Not, mark you me, as rendering account,
For that were needless,—but of free good-will.
Sirs, Van den Bosch insisted, in despite
Of all dissuasion, all authority,
The messenger from Bruges should be waylaid
And put to death—yea, nothing less would serve,—
That so the tidings which I'm here to tell
Might never reach your ears. To place restraint
Upon this obstinate humour and give scope
To your deliberations, for a while
He is in duress. Are ye well content?

Many Voices.
Content, content! The tidings, what are They?

Artevelde.
Frans Ackerman, thou hear'st what cause constrain'd
Me, much reluctant, thus to use thy friend.
Art thou content?

Ackerman.
I am.

Artevelde.
So far is well;
And we set forth unanimous, to end
I trust no otherwise. Fair Sirs of Ghent!
Van Aeswyn, the Ambassador from Bruges,
Comes with credentials from the Earl, to show
What mind he bears toward you. Bitterer words
Did never Christian man to Christians send.
But we are fallen, my friends, and vain it were
For us to quarrel with the proud man's scorn.
Then to the matter take ye heed alone
And trouble not your hearts for aught beside.
He will admit you to no terms but these,—
That every man and woman born in Ghent
Shall meet him on the road, half way to Bruges,
Bare-footed and bare-headed, in their shirts,
With halters on their necks, and there kneel down
And put their lives and chattels at his feet.
This if ye do not now, he's sworn an oath
That he will never hearken to you more,
But famine shall consume you utterly,
And in your desolate town he'll light a flame
That shall not be extinguish'd. Speak your minds.
Will ye accept the proffer'd terms or no?

Burghers.
Give us your counsel. Tell us what is best.

Artevelde.
What can I say? Ye know that as ye are
Ye cannot live. Death opens every door
And sits in every chamber by himself.
If what might feed a sparrow should suffice
For soldiers' meals, ye have not wherewithal
To linger out three days. For corn, there's none;
A mouse imprison'd in your granaries
Were starved to death. And what then should I say?
Why truly this: that whatsoe'er men's plight,
There is a better choosing and a worse,
If their discretion be not overthrown
By force of their calamities. Three things
Ye have to choose of. Ye may take his terms
And go with halters round your necks to Loo.
Ye will be then his servants and his wealth,
The labourers of his vineyard; and I deem,
Although a haughty Lord he be and cruel,
That he will have the sense to spare his own
When vengeance hath been fed. I say I deem
That when the blood of those that led you on
And of their foremost followers hath flow'd,
He will be satiate and stay his hand.
If this to try be your deliberate choice,
I will not say that ye be ill-advised.
How are ye minded? Let your Deacons speak.

[The people speak in consultation with each other and with the Deacons.
Deacon of the Mariners.
We of the mariners deem that this were best.

Deacon of the Cordwainers.
There's nothing better can be done.

Deacon of the Fullers.
Agreed.
Our craft was never forward in the war.

Deacon of the Weavers.
But, Master Philip, said you not three ways
There were to choose of? Tell us what remains.

Artevelde.
Ye may have patience and expect the close
If nothing else seem fit, betake yourselves
Unto your churches; at the altar's foot
Kneel down and pray and make a Christian end,
And God will then have mercy on your souls.
This is the second way.

Deacon of the Weavers.
And what the third?

Artevelde.
If there be found amongst you men whose blood
Runs not so chilly yet as thus to die,
Then there's this third way open—but not else:—
That they whose plight is best and hearts are stout
Be muster'd suddenly, equipp'd and arm'd;
That with our little left of food and wine
The sumpter beasts be laden for their use;
That then they follow me: to-morrow's eve
Should find us knocking at the gates of Bruges,
And then we'd strike a stroke for life or death.
This is the third and sole remaining course.
Choose of the three.

Many voices.
Choose for us, Master Philip:
You are more wise than we.

Artevelde.
If by my choice
Ye will abide, a soldier's death for me.

Many voices.
To Bruges! to Bruges! a venture forth to Bruges!

Artevelde.
Why yet, then, in our embers there is life.
Let whosoe'er would follow me, repair
To the West Port. From them that come I'll choose
Five thousand, if so many there should be,
And when night falls, we'll sally from the gates.

Many citizens again.
For Bruges! for Bruges! 'tis gallantly resolved.

Artevelde.
Then fare ye well, ye citizens of Ghent!
This is the last time ye will see me here
Unless God prosper me past human hope.
I thank you for the dutiful demeanour
Which never—never—verily no, not once,
Have I found wanting, though severely tried
When discipline might seem without reward.
Fortune has not been kind to me, good friends;
But let not that deprive me of your loves,
Or of your good report. Be this the word:
“His rule was brief, calamitous—but just.”
No glory which a prosperous fortune gilds,
If shorn of this addition, could suffice
To lift my heart so high as it is now.
This is that joy in which my soul is strong,
That there is not a man amongst you all
Who can reproach me that I used my power
To do him an injustice. If there be,
It is not to my knowledge; yet I pray
That he will now forgive me, taking note
That I had not to deal with easy times.

First citizen.
Oh, Master Philip, there is none-not one.

Second citizen.
Most justly and most wisely you have ruled.

Artevelde.
I thank you, Sirs; farewell to you once more;
Once more, farewell. If I return to Ghent
A glory and dominion will be yours
Such as no city since the olden time
Hath been so bold to conquer or to claim.
If I return no more, God's will be done!
To Him and to His providence I leave you.
[He descends. The people come round him, seizing his hands and crying confusedly, “God bless you, Master Philip! God be with you!”
Nay, press not on me, friends; I see ye weep,
Which ye did never for your past mishaps.
But ye shall be disburthen'd of your griefs
The rather than dishearten'd by these tears,
Or else should I reprove them—so—farewell!

Scene IV.

—The Vestibule of the Church of St. Nicholas. —At the further end of it Van Ryk is seen keeping guard over the door which gives access to the church tower.—In front, Clara appears, followed at a little distance by Van Aeswyn.
Clara.
Still he pursues me; but this must not be.
How now, good Sir? whom seek you?

Aeswyn.
With your leave,
I have an errand for your private ear.

Clara.
My private ear! I have no private ear.
My ears will not be private.

Aeswyn.
I beseech you
To pardon my presumption.

Clara.
Well, what then?
It is not past forgiveness; no, no, no;
I freely pardon you.

Aeswyn.
I thank you, madam;
And were I but permitted to speak out
All that he bade me say—

Clara.
That he!—what he?

Aeswyn.
The Lord of Arlon, madam.

Clara.
Lord of what?

Aeswyn.
Sir Walter, Lord of Arlon.

Clara.
Oh! Sir Walter,—
Sir Walter D'Arlon—a good Knight, they say:
He sent his service, did he?—a good Knight.
I knew him once—he came to Ghent—O God!
I'm sick—the air is hot, I think—yes, hot!
I pray you pardon me—we get no rest
In this beleaguer'd town—no anything—
This is the time of day I use to faint;
But I shall miss to do it for this once;
So please you to proceed.

Aeswyn.
There's here a bench;
If you'll be seated: for you look so pale. . . .

Clara.
No, I can stand—I think—Well then, I'll sit.
So now, your errand?

Aeswyn.
The Lord of Arlon, madam,
Imparted to me that of all the griefs
That Fortune had dealt out to him, was none
So broke his spirit as the cruel thought
That you in some sort must partake the woes
Of this so suffering city: he could ne'er
Lay lance in rest or do a feat of arms
But thoughts arose that stung him to the heart,
And each success that should have brought him joy
Was turn'd to bitterness, seeming nought else
But injury to his love. Thus is he now
A man whose heart resents his handiwork,
And all his pleasure in the war is poison'd.

Clara.
Poor D'Arlon! but I cannot help him.

Aeswyn.
Well,
Himself thinks otherwise; he bade me say
That he implores you to fly hence to him.

Clara.
No; never, never!

Aeswyn.
And his aunt at Bruges,
The Prioress, will have you in her care
Till it shall please you to permit his suit.

Clara.
I tell thee, never! I a fugitive! No;
Whilst Philip lives and holds the city out,
Nor pestilence nor famine, fire nor sword,
Shall part us, though an Angel called me hence.
Much may he lose, and much that's far more worth,
But never this reliance.

Aeswyn.
With your leave,
I would make bold to ask you if your flight
In these extremities might not rejoice
Rather than grieve him?

Clara.
No, Sir, you mistake,
Knowing nor him nor me: we two have grown
From birth on my side, boyhood upon his,
Inseparably together, as two grafts
Out of the self-same stock; we've shared alike
The sun and shower and all that Heaven has sent;
I've loved him much and quarrell'd with him oft,
And all our loves and quarrels past are links
No adverse Fates can sever. We are one.
And I am useful, too; he'll tell you that;
We Arteveldes were made for times like these;
The Deacon of the Mariners said well
That we are of such canvas as they use
To make storm-stay-sails. I have much in charge,
And here I stay.

Aeswyn.
Then must I say you never—

Clara.
Alas, poor D'Arlon! said I never? No;
That is a sharp, unkindly-sounding word.
Tell him to ask me when the siege is raised.
But then he shall not need: he can come hither;
But tell him—of your knowledge—not from me—
The woman could not be of Nature's making
Whom, being kind, her misery made not kinder.

Aeswyn.
The thought of that may solace him. Farewell.

Clara.
Farewell. I mount the tower to look abroad.
After your conference at noon, they say,
My brother arm'd himself and bade his horse
Be ready harness'd in his mail complete;
And though you keep his secret, I surmise
That were I mounted on the church-tower top,
There's something I might see.

Aeswyn.
To come from Bruges?
No, nothing, Lady, thence.

Clara.
But yet I'll look.

[She approaches the door of the Tower and meets Van Ryk, who plants himself before her.
Van Ryk.
You cannot pass, my Lady.

Clara.
How! not pass?

Van Ryk.
The door is lock'd; your brother keeps the key.
My orders are of rigour, come what may,
To suffer none to pass.

Clara.
How could they pass,
If what thou say'st be true? Thou hast the key.

Van Ryk.
Upon my faith I have it not.

Clara.
So, so!
A courteous usage for a lady this!
But hither comes my prince of spies, the Page,
To tell what's doing.

Enter Page.
Page.
Here's a feat indeed!
A glorious enterprise afoot!

Clara.
Nay; what?
What is it? tell us true.

Page.
Illustrious Lady!
The name of Artevelde shall live for ever!
For Master Philip leads five thousand men
This very night to storm the gates of Bruges.

Clara.
Thou dost not say it?

Page.
True as written book.

Clara.
There's that then shall make Flanders hold her breath,
There's that shall startle Ghent with fearful hope,
And though 'tis shame in such an hour as this
To think of aught so idle, yet 'tis true
There's liberty for me: if Philip goes,
What bondage bids me stay?

Aeswyn.
Most surely none;
And therefore hence to Bruges whilst yet time serves.

Clara.
Nay, nay, Sir, not so fast; gain Philip first,
And then come back to me and take your chance.

[Exeunt Clara, Van Aeswyn, and Page.
Enter Artevelde,who advances to the door of the Tower where Van Ryk is stationed.
Artevelde.
How fares our friend within? set ope the door.

Van Ryk.
Oh, Sir! you must not enter; he is mad.
I would not give a denier for the life
Of any that should enter now; he's arm'd,
And storms and rages like a man possess'd.

Artevelde.
Whence tak'st thou that conclusion?

Van Ryk.
For three hours
He strove and shouted as though fifty fiends
Did battle on the narrow stair; and once
He flung his body with such desperate force
Against the door, that I was much in doubt
Whether the triple bars could hold their own.
Then—God be merciful! the oaths and curses!
Faster they came than I could tell my beads.

Artevelde.
But all is silent now.

Van Ryk.
The last half-hour
I have not heard him.

Artevelde.
Open me the door.

Van Ryk.
Surely you will not enter?

Artevelde.
Nay, I must.
We must be friends again. I want his aid.

Van Ryk.
He will assault you ere a word be said.

Artevelde.
He is a hasty man; but we must meet.

Van. Ryk.
Then I will enter with you.

Artevelde.
No, Van Ryk;
I seek his confidence; a show of force
Were sure to baffle me. I go alone.

Van Ryk.
For mercy's sake, forbear. Should you go in,
Or you or he will ne'er come out alive.

Artevelde.
Nay, nay, thou know'st not with what winning ways
I can sleek down his wrath. Stand fast below,
I charge thee, and let no intrusive step
Trouble my conference with Van den Bosch.

[Exit.
Van Ryk.
It shall not trouble him to creep up behind
And hearken on the stair. No sin in that.

Scene V.

—The Platform at the top of the Steeple—as in the First Scene in this Act.
Artevelde and Van den Bosch.
Artevelde.
He has been drunk with anger and he sleeps.
Lest he be not the soberer for his doze
'Twere well to strip him of his weapons. Come,
Come, courtier, from thy house—come from thy case,
Thou smooth and shining dangler by the side
Of them that put thee to a deadly use:
Thou art dismiss'd.
[He lays aside the dagger.
And come thou likewise forth,
Thou flashing flourisher in the battle-field;
Gaudy and senseless tool of sovereignty,
Up to thy shoulders thou shalt reek in blood,
And 'tis but wiping thee to make thee clean,
So poor a thing art thou!—there—get thee gone—
[He lays aside the sword.
Now that he's stingless I may stir him up.
Ho! Van den Bosch! arouse thee. What, thou sleep'st!
Why here's a sluggard! Up! thou lubberly sot!
Get thee afoot; is this a time to sleep?
Up, ere I prod thee with my sword—up, slug!
Up, drowsy clod—why, now I think thou wak'st.

Van den Bosch.
What noisy villain's this?—Van Artevelde!

Artevelde.
Nay, never grope and fumble for thy weapons;
They are conveyed away.

Van den Bosch.
Oh! villain! slave!
And wilt thou murder me unarm'd?

Artevelde.
Out! out!
More like to whip thee for thy fond conceit.
I tell thee, man, a better friend than I
Thou'st not been bless'd with for this many a year;
When all is known to thee, thyself shalt say
That a more friendly deed was never done
That this of mine—the shutting of thee up.

Van den Bosch.
Philip Van Artevelde, I say thou liest—
Give me my sword again. I say thou liest—
Give me my dagger and my sword—thou liest—
Thou art a caitiff and a lying knave
And thou hast stolen my dagger and my sword.

Artevelde.
Nay, softly, friend.

Van den Bosch.
I'm plunder'd, plunder'd, robb'd—
I'm plunder'd of my weapons—of my sword.
Give me my sword again, thou liar thou!
I'm plunder'd of my dagger and my sword.
My sword, thou robber, or I'll kill thee.

Artevelde.
Nay,
Do that and thou no longer needst thy sword.

Van den Bosch.
Thou coward, wilt thou give me back my sword?

Artevelde.
There—take it, and the Devil give thee good on't!
Now that thou hast it, mayhap thou'lt be brought
To leave thy bellowing and listen. Hark!

Van den Bosch.
I have thee now, Van Artevelde, I have thee.
Ha, ha! I have my sword—I have thee now!

Artevelde.
And if thou had'st thy senses and thine ears
It were a better having for thy weal.
Wilt thou be still and listen to me?

Van den Bosch.
No.
Thou art a liar. Draw thy sword and fight.

Artevelde.
I give thee back thy lie and take thy challenge;
To mortal proof we'll put it, if thou wilt,
But not by instant combat. Three days hence
I pledge my word to answer thy demand,
And I will show thee reasons why not now.

Van den Bosch.
To the pit of Hell with reasons! draw thy sword.

Artevelde.
(draws his sword and flings it from him).—
I'll fight thee when I please and not before.

Van den Bosch.
Art thou a coward? wherefore wilt not fight?

Artevelde.
There is a time for all things. Here I stand
Unarm'd before thee, and I will be heard.
That which so much thou tak'st to heart, was done
Purely to save thy credit, much indeed
Endanger'd by thy wilfulness and haste.
I would have done myself no less offence
To do thee so much service. Say thine arm
Had cut me off the messenger from Bruges;
Ghent hears the rumour—magnifies at once
The untold terms to unconditional peace,
And mad with rage for comfort thus repell'd
Had turn'd upon thee to thine overthrow.
But list to what instead I've brought to pass:
The terms were told,—such sanguinary terms
As we had cause to look for; on that ground
I moved the people to a last attempt
Of desperate daring, and we go to-night,
Five thousand men, to seek the Earl at Bruges.
Now, Peter Van den Bosch, give ear to me:
Thy mouth has been this many a day stuff'd full
Of vengeance dire denounced against this Earl.
The blood of Heins, of Launoy and Van Ranst,
(True friends of thine if truth and friendship be!)
Sinks in the ground, nor honour'd nor avenged
Save by the mouthing of an idle threat.
Dead men and living, vows after vows sent up
In hot succession to the throne of Heaven,
Deep ravage done amongst thy native fields,
Strange tortures suffer'd by thy countrymen,
Call thee with common voice to turn thy wrath
To just account;—and is it come to this,
That for the matter of but one day's feud
With one tried friend that never did thee hurt,
Thou canst forget all else and put thy cause
To imminent hazard at the utmost verge
Of all its fortunes and its ultimate hope!
If so, I cry thee mercy; I mistook;
For I had counted on thine aid to-day
To do the thing that thou so oft hast threaten'd.

Van den Bosch.
Van Artevelde, I never yet forgave
So deep an injury as thou hast done me;
But seeing how things bear, I'll pass it by
Until this last adventure have an end.
Then shalt thou reckon with me for the past.

Artevelde.
For that I stand prepared. Meanwhile I pray,
Let needful concord join us in one yoke,
Nor let the common welfare feel this feud.
Take thou thy charge in this day's work; come down
And I will give it thee. From me thou'lt find
All fit observance.

Van den Bosch.
I will take my charge.