University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

—The Flemish Camp before Oudenarde. A Platform in front of Artevelde's Tent.
Enter Artevelde and Van Ryk.
Van Ryk.
You seem fatigued, my Lord.

Artevelde.
Look to that horse; he coughs. I think I am;
The sun was hot for such a long day's ride.
What is the hour?

Van Ryk.
The moon has not yet risen,
It cannot yet be nine.

Artevelde.

Van Ryk.
'Twas thereabouts, my Lord.

Artevelde.
Was anything of moment in your thoughts
As we were crossing?

Van Ryk.
In my thoughts, my Lord?
Nothing to speak of.

Artevelde.
Well now, it is strange!
I never knew myself to sleep o'horseback,
And yet I must have slept. The evening's heat
Had much oppress'd me; then the tedious tract
Of naked moorland, and the long flat road
And slow straight stream, for ever side by side
Like poverty and crime—I'm sure I slept.

Van Ryk.
I saw not that you did, my Lord.

Artevelde.
I did;
Ay, and dream'd too. 'Twas an unwholesome dream,
If dream it was—a nightmare rather: first
A stifling pressure compass'd in my heart;
On my dull ears with thick and muffled peal
Came many a sound of battle and of flight,
Of tumult and distracted cries; my own,
That would have been the loudest, was unheard,
And seem'd to swell the chambers of my brain
With volume vast of sound I could not utter.
The screams of wounded horses, and the crash
Of broken planks, and then the heavy plunge
Of bodies in the water—they were loud,
But yet the sound that was confined in me,
Had it got utterance, would have drown'd them all!
But still it grew and swell'd, and therewithal
The burthen thickened on my heart; my blood,
That had been flowing freshly from my wounds,
Trickled, then clotted, and then flow'd no more:
My horse upon the barrier of the bridge
Stumbled; I started; and was wide awake.
'Twas an unpleasant dream.

Van Ryk.
It was, my Lord.
I wonder how I mark'd not that you slept.

Artevelde.
I must be wakeful now. Who waits? who's there?
[To an Attendant, who enters.
The man I sent to Ypres with a letter—
Has he return'd?

Attendant.
But now, my Lord, arrived.
And with him Father John.

Artevelde.
Already he!
With more alacrity he meets my wish
Than I deserve. I'll see him now, at once.

Attendant.
He comes, my Lord.

Artevelde.
Then leave us—No, Van Ryk,
Not you; or if you will, lie down within
And rest you till I call.
[Exeunt Van Ryk and the Attendant.
Dreams are but dreams;
And if they falsify the past, why think
That they foreshow less falsely what's to come! Enter Father John.

My honour'd friend, if welcomes ten times told
Could carry more than one, I'd say the word
As oft as you your Ave and your Creed.
But welcome is enough.

Father John.
God's love, my son,
Be with you alway. We have lately been
In outward act more strangers than we were,
But inwardly, I fain would hope, unchanged.

Artevelde.
Unchanged, upon my soul! The storms of State
From time to time heave up some monstrous ridge
Which each from other hides two friendly barks;
Nought else divides us, and we steer, I trust,
One course, are guided by one steadfast star,
That so one anchorage we may reach at last.
The cares and mighty troubles of the times
Have kept me company and shut yours out.

Father John.
It is your place; the twitch of personal ties
Ought not to move you; 'tis no blame of yours.
But whence the present call?

Artevelde.
To that then straight.
France is in arms; yon exile, once an Earl,
From Hedin went by Arras to Bapaume
On Wednesday se'nnight, if my scouts say true;
And there my Lord of Burgundy he met,
And with him made a covenant; from thence
They came to Senlis, where the young King lies,
And there the Dukes his uncles in his name
Had gather'd from all parts a mighty force,
Some eighty or a hundred thousand men.
May that not startle me?

Father John.
'Tis a large levy;
But yet you muster more.

Artevelde.
Of men at arms
Not half the tale; and those for Senlis bound
Would double—so says fame—these now arrived.
It were a vain and profitless attempt
To disbelieve my danger, howsoe'er
I show a careless countenance to the crowd.
If Nicholas le Flamand call not back
The French King's force, wherein I fear he'll fail,
There's one sufficiency of aid can reach
The measure of my need; one, only one;
And that is aid from England. This not sent,
Or else belated,—coming in the dusk
And sunset of my fortunes,—where am I?

Father John.
At England's Council-board in Edward's days
Sloth and delay had never seats; no missive
Lay gathering dust and losing its fresh looks,
No business lodged: would that it were so now!
Yet surely if King Richard deem it meet
And useful to his realm to send you aid
'Twill come with speed.

Artevelde.
He knows not that despatch
Is now so all-important; nor from those
I sent him will he learn it. I myself
Thought not King Charles had sidled up so close,
Else had I put your kindness then to proofs
Which I intend it now,—else had I ask'd
Your presence then in England.

Father John.
Nay, my son,
Six have you sent already—on their way
Our humble hospitality they shared
At Ypres.

Artevelde.
Then their quality you saw.
They were the best, methought, that I could spare
For foreign service while thus press'd at home.
The first for state and dignity was named;
He whom Pope Urbayne, after Ghent rebell'd,
Appointed Bishop to receive the dues
Which else had fallen to Tournay's traitorous See,
Where Clement is acknowledged; for this end
Was he a Bishop made, and to say truth
He's equal to his function. Next in rank
Comes our sagacious friend John Sercolacke;
None better and none safer in affairs,
Were it but given to ponder and devise
Beforehand what at every need to say;
But should King Richard on the sudden ask
What brought him there, confounded will he stand
Till livelier tongues from emptier heads ring out,
Then on the morrow to a tittle know
What should have been his answer.

Father John.
Lois de Vaux
And master Blondel-Vatre have glib tongues.

Artevelde.
Than Lois de Vaux there's no man sooner sees
Whatever at a glance is visible;
What is not, that he sees not, soon nor late.
Quick-witted is he, versatile, seizing points,
But never solving questions; vain he is—
It is his pride to see things on all sides,
Which best to do he sets them on their corners.
Present before him arguments by scores
Bearing diversely on the affair in hand,
He'll see them all, successively, distinctly,
Yet never two of them can see together,
Or gather, blend, and balance what he sees
To make up one account: a mind it is
Accessible to reason's subtlest rays,
And many enter there but none converge;
It is an army with no general,
An arch without a key-stone. Then the next,
Good Martin Blondel-Vatre—he is rich
In nothing else but difficulties and doubts:
You shall be told the evil of your scheme,
But not the scheme that's better; he forgets
That policy, expecting not clear gain,
Deals ever in alternatives; he's wise
In negatives, is skilful to erase,
Expert in stepping backwards, an adept
At auguring eclipses; but admit
His apprehensions and demand, what then?
And you shall find you've turned the blank leaf over.

Father John.
Still three are left.

Artevelde.
Three names and nothing more.
To please the towns that gave them birth they're sent,
Not for their merits. Verily, Father John,
I should not willingly disturb your peace,
Or launch you on my fortune's troubled tide,
But I am as a debtor against whom
The writs are out—I'm driven upon my friends;
Say, will you stead me?

Father John.
With my best of aid,
Such as it may be. To King Richard's Court
I will set forth to-morrow.

Artevelde.
Ever kind!
Of all my friends the faithfullest as the first.
Early to-morrow then we'll treat in full
The matter of your mission. Now, good night.

Father John.
God's peace be with your slumbers.

[Exit.
Artevelde.
In good time;
Their hour is yet to come. What ho! Van Ryk! Enter Van Ryk.

You're sure, Van Ryk, it has not yet transpired
That I am in the camp?

Van Ryk.
Certain, my Lord.

Artevelde.
Then come with me; we'll cast a casual eye
On them that keep the watch;—though, sooth to say,
I wish my day's work over,—to forget
This restless world and slumber like a babe;
For I am very tired—yea, tired at heart.

Van Ryk.
Your spirits were wont to bear you freshlier up.
If I might speak, my Lord, my humble mind,
You have not, since your honour'd lady's death,
In such a sovereignty possess'd yourself
As you were wont to say that all men should.
Your thoughts have been more inwardly let loose
And led by fancies: should I be too bold
And let my duty lag behind my love
To put you thus in mind, forgive my fault.

Artevelde.
That was a loss, Van Ryk, that was a loss.
The love betwixt us was not as the flush
And momentary kindling in warm youth,
But marriage and what term of time was given
Brought it an hourly increase, stored for Heaven.
Well—I am now the sport of circumstance,
Driven from my anchorage;—yet deem not thou
That I my soul surrender to the past
In chains and bondage;—that it is not so,
Bear witness for me long and busy days
Which jostling and importunate affairs
So push and elbow, they but seldom leave
Shy midnight uninvaded. No, Van Ryk;
At eve returning wearied to my tent,
If sometimes I may seem to stray in thought,
Seeking what is not there, the mood is brief,
The operative function within call;
Nor know I that for any little hour
The weal of Flanders (if I may presume
To hook it on my hours) is yielded up
To vacant retrospect or idle thought.
But now this body, exigent of rest,
Will needs put in a claim. One round we'll take,
And then to bed.

Van Ryk.
My Lord, you must be tired.
I am too bold to trouble you so late
With my unprofitable talk.

Artevelde.
Not so:
Your talk is always welcome. There within
You'll find a wardrobe, with some varlets' cloaks
For use at need; take one about yourself
And meet me with another at the gate.
[Exit Van Ryk.
A serviceable, faithful, thoughtful friend
Is old Van Ryk,—a man of humble heart,
And yet with faculties and gifts of sense
Which place him justly on no lowly level—
Why should I say a lowlier than mine own,
Or otherwise than as an equal use him?
That with familiarity respect
Doth slacken, is a word of common use.
I never found it so.