University of Virginia Library

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.