University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

—The Pavilion, as in Scene III. of Act II. Artevelde and Elena. Cecile attending in the background.
Elena.
On your way hither, then, you passed through Ghent,
The city which you saved. How sweet a joy
Revisiting a place which owes to you
All that it hath of glory or of ease!

Artevelde.
Truly it should have overjoy'd me; yes;
How diverse, how contrarious is man!
I know not wherefore, but I scarce was pleased
To see that town now wallowing in wealth,
Which last I saw—and saw with hearty courage—
Pinch'd like a beggar wintering at death's door.
Now, both the mart was full and church; road, bridge,
River, and street, were populous and busy,
And money-bags were toss'd from hand to hand
Of men more thriftless than a miser's heir.
I liked it not; my task, it seem'd, was done;
The arrow sped, the bow unbent, the cord
Soundless and slack. I came away ill-pleased.

Elena.
Perhaps you suffer'd losses in the siege?

Artevelde.
Not in the siege; but I have suffer'd something.
There is a gate in Ghent—I pass'd beside it—
A threshold there, worn of my frequent feet,
Which I shall cross no more. But wherefore thus
Divert me from my drift? Look round; look on;
Think once again upon the proffer'd choice
Of French protection. Though my army wear
This hour an aspect of security
A battle must be fought ere long.

Elena.
My Lord,
You have been very kind to me. Oh, yes!
And in your nature's bounty and its wealth,
Despite those ineradicable stains
That streak my life, have used me with respect.
I will not quit your camp,—unless you wish it.

Artevelde.
Am I in life's embellishments so rich,
In pleasures so redundant, as to wish
The chiefest one away? No, fairest friend;
Mine eyes have travell'd this horizon round
Ending where they began, and they have roved
The boundless empyrean up and down,
And 'mid the undistinguish'd tumbling host
Of the black clouds, have lighted on a soft
And solitary spot of azure sky
Whereon they love to dwell. The clouds close in
And soon may shut it from my searching sight;
But let me still behold it whilst I may.

Elena.
You are so busy all day long, I fear'd
A woman's company and trifling talk
Would only importune you.

Artevelde.
Think not so;
The sweets of converse and society
Are sweetest when they're snatch'd; the often-comer,
The boon companion of a thousand feasts,
Whose eye has grown familiar with the fair,
Whose tutor'd tongue by practice perfect made
Is tamely talkative,—he never knows
That truest, rarest light of social joy
Which gleams upon the man of many cares.

Elena.
It is not every one could push aside
A country's weight so lightly.

Artevelde.
By your leave
There are but few that on so grave a theme
Continuously could ponder unrelieved.
The heart of man, walk it which way it will,
Sequester'd or frequented, smooth or rough,
Down the deep valley amongst tinkling flocks,
Or 'mid the clang of trumpets and the march
Of clattering ordnance, still must have its halt,
Its hour of truce, its instant of repose,
Its inn of rest; and craving still must seek
The food of its affections, still must slake
Its constant thirst of what is fresh and pure
And pleasant to behold.

Elena.
To you that thirst,
Despite inebriating draughts of glory,
Despite ambition, power and strife, remains;
But great men mostly lose the taste of joy
Save from such things as give their greatness growth:
Which, spreading still, o'ershadows more and more
Of less enjoyments, until all are sunk
In business of the State.

Artevelde.
'Tis otherwise,
And ever was with me. It was not meant
By Him who on the back the burthen bound
That cares, though public, critical and grave,
Should so encase us and encrust, as shuts
The gate on what is beautiful below
And clogs those entries of the soul of man
Which lead the way to what he hath of Heaven:
This was not meant and me may not befall
Whilst thou remind'st me of those heavenly joys
I once possess'd in peace. Life—life, my friend,
May hold a not unornamented course
Wherever it shall flow; be the bed rocky,
Yet are there flowers, and none of brighter hue,
That to the rock are native. War itself
Deals in adornments, and the blade it wields
Is curiously carved and gaily gilt.
For me, let what is left of life, if brief,
Be bright, and let me kindle all its fires;
For I am as a rocket hurl'd on high,
But a few moments seen of earthly eyes,
Which ended, all is dark.

Enter Cecile.
Cecile.
My Lady! oh!
My Lord, my humble duty—Might I speak?—

Artevelde.
What hinders you, Cecile?

Elena.
Nay, ask not that;
Nought ever did, my Lord, nor ever will;
When she has breath you'll hear her.

Cecile.
Oh, my Lady!
That frightful man I've told you of so oft
That comes for ever with his vows of love
And will not be denied,—I always said,
“Begone! How dare you! Get you gone forsooth!
To bring such tales to me!” But still he came,
And now to-night—

Artevelde.
Who is it that she means?

Elena.
His name is—nay, God help my memory!
What is his name, Cecile?

Cecile.
Van Kortz, my Lady.

Artevelde.
Not he that once was marshalsman?

Cecile.
The same.

Artevelde.
I know him well—his quality at least
And his career I know. Right, right, Cecile;
Deny him stoutly, for he means no good.

Cecile.
I did, my Lord,—I heartily denied him;
I said I never would so much as touch him.
I told him if he'd hang himself for love
I'd love the rope that hang'd him,—nothing else.

Artevelde.
And yet he comes again?

Cecile.
Even now, my Lord,
He came as though it were to wreak his spite,
And show'd me bags of gold, and said that now
He was so rich that he could wed a dame,
Let pass a waiting wench, and from this time
He'd mend his fortune, nor e'er look so low.
I told him he might seek his fortune far
Ere he should find his match for pride and greed;
So with that word he set his spleen abroach
And cursing all the camp, and most yourself,
Swore he could buy and sell the best amongst you.

Artevelde.
What! said he so? and show'd you bags of gold?
He has been selling something. Ho, Van Ryk!
Van Ryk is waiting, no?

Cecile.
He is, my Lord.

Enter Van Ryk.
Artevelde.
Van Ryk, a word:
Thou know'st Van Kortz, the marshalsman that was—
He parted hence but now, and I have cause
To wish his person seized without delay
And brought before me, with all scrips or scrolls
That may be found upon him. Take my guard
And see it done.

[Exit Van Ryk.
Elena.
What is it you suspect?

Artevelde.
The gold is French.
He has not lately had the means to thrive
By Flemish gold. He was a man disgraced.

Cecile.
You're right, my Lord; 'twas not of guilders; no,
'Twas still of crowns and francs he talk'd.

Elena.
But whence
Has he French gold?

Artevelde.
From him whom France sent here
Doubtless to bring it,—from Sir Fleureant.

Elena.
Oh, surely, surely not,—a man who came
With sacred mission charged, to seek for peace!
It were but common honesty—

Artevelde.
My friend,
Say in what time has honesty been common?
Soft! silence, I beseech you; here's Van Ryk
And he has found his man. Enter Van Ryk, with Van Kortz guarded.

Whom hast thou there, Van Ryk, thus manacled,
And what is his offence?

Van Ryk.
My Lord, Van Kortz.

Artevelde.
Van Kortz! The gudgeon whom Sir Fleureant hired
To do French service, then betray'd to save
His proper head! Down, Sir, upon thy knees,
And tell what wiles the crafty Frenchman used
To cheat thee of thy loyalty.

Van Kortz
(kneeling).
My Lord,
I tell the simple truth. Sir Fleureant sware
The paper which he charged me with for Ghent
Was for his private ends and nothing touch'd
The faith I owed your Highness, and—

Artevelde.
Van Ryk,
Bring me Sir Fleureant hither. Soft a while!
What found you on Van Kortz?

Van Ryk.
This scroll, my Lord.

Artevelde
(reading the paper).

“Worthy masters of Ghent,—this is to make it known unto you that we are hastily to come down into Flanders with a hundred

thousand men, and with God's help to reseat our worthy cousin, Lois of Flanders, in his ancient estates and royalties, reducing to his obedience all that be rightfully bound thereunto and punishing the guilty. Wherefore we pray and counsel you, that at the receiving hereof, you return to your allegiance and send to us in our army the heads of these following: that is to say, Jacob Maurenbrecker, John Stotler, and Ralph of Kerdell; which done, we shall receive all others whatsoever to our friendship, and promise by these presents that none, saving these only, shall be called to answer what is past.

“Written and sealed with the broad seal of France, in our host before Senlis, the 2nd day of October, in the year of grace 1382, by the King in his Council.”

“You are to know that we have sent the like letters patent to the good towns of Bruges and Ypres, to which lest they reach not, we pray you to convey the contents hereof.”

Van Kortz.
My Lord
Bulsen to Ypres and Van Muck to Bruges.
They have set forth.

Artevelde.
Convey him hence to gaol.
Let fifty men be mounted—some pursue
Sir Fleureant of heurlée, some Van Muck,
And others Bulsen on the roads to France,
To Bruges, and Ypres;—for the head of each
Proclaim a thousand florins;—haste, Van Ryk!

[Exit Van Ryk, with Van Kortz guarded.
Cecile.
Oh Lord, the villain! and he came to me
So proud and saucy! Truly it is said
Give rope enough to rogues they'll hang themselves.

Elena.
And must he die, my Lord?

Artevelde.
What plea can save him?

Cecile.
That he should jeopardize his wilful head
Only for spite at me!

Elena.
'Tis strange!

Artevelde.
Not so;
That Providence which makes the good take heed
To safety and success, contrariwise
Makes villains mostly reckless. Look on life
And you shall see the crimes of blackest dye
So clumsily committed, by such sots,
So lost to thought, so scant of circumspection,
As shall constrain you to pronounce that guilt
Bedarkens and confounds the mind of man;
Human intelligence on murders bent
Becomes a midnight fumbler; human will,
Of God abandon'd, in its web of snares
Strangles its own intent.

Elena.
How fortunate
Was this man's malice thus conceived to thee,
My good Cecile! All woman as I am,
I can forgive thy beauty that hath bred
This love-engender'd hate.

Cecile.
I thank you, Madam.
The scornful knave! to bring his gold to me
That never would have looked upon him twice
Though he'd been made of gold!

Elena.
How came you first
To give him that authority and rank
Which late you took away?

Artevelde.
Those are there here
That hardly will be govern'd save by men
Of fierce and forward natures. He was known
For daring deeds from childhood; in his youth,
Famed for his great desire of doing evil,
He was elected into Testenoire's troop
Of free companions: so in field or forest,
Or in wall'd town by stipend lured, or vill
Surprised and sack'd, by turns he lived at large,
And learn'd the vice indigenous to each.
Nought in dark corners of great cities done
Of lewdness or of outrage, was unknown
By him or unpartaken, nor the woods
Lodged in their loneliest caves a beast so wild.
Clashings of swords, groans, cries of murder, all
Were to his ears indifferently common.
Thus grown at length more reckless than was safe
For his fraternity, they cast him off,
And hanging loose upon the world what time
My name was noised abroad, he join'd my camp.

Enter Sir Fleureant of Heurlée.
Sir Fleureant.
So, my Lord Regent! what is this I hear
Blown through the camp with trumpets? what's my head
That you should price it higher than the sum
Of good repute for honour's laws observed
Which you must part withal to take it? Much
I've heard of dangers in the Holy Land
Amongst the heathen, Jew or Turk or Moor,
But never thought in Christendom to find
Such bloody breach of hospitable laws!

Artevelde.
This is well spoken.

Cecile.
Oh, my Lord, for that,
He's free enough. . . . .

Elena.
Cecile, be silent: peace.

Artevelde.
What you have here deliver'd, Sir, I say
Hath been well spoken: it remains to ask
If that which you have perpetrated here
Hath been well done. Know you this writing?

Sir Fleureant.
Yes;
I know it well; 'twas by the King my Liege
Writ to the Mayor and citizens of Ghent.

Artevelde.
By you brought here; by you to one Van Kortz
Deliver'd for despatch; by him to me,
Upon his apprehension, yielded up.
Such is the story of these scrolls and scrawls
Which were to scribble out the loyalty
Of three good towns, to undermine the faith
Of my best friends; and having fouled and blurred
The record of my glory in the page
Of history past, blot it from that to come!
This was a worthy business.

Sir Fleureant.
Ay, my Lord;
Who shall gainsay the King of France his right
To send what letters or what words he will
To the good towns of Flanders?

Artevelde.
Let him try;
And gainsay those that can my privilege
To hang the bearers. Thou, Sir Fleureant,
Hast by thy treachery betray'd thyself
And unavoidably must suffer death.
Thou cam'st a sharer in a herald's charge
Ensuing peace; and, cloak'd in that disguise,
With money for thy purposes provided,
Thou hast bought treason. This may never pass;
Else what security is mine that faith
Is not put up to auction in my camp,
Till each man sell his brother? Who provokes
Treason in others, to a traitor's death
Justly condemns himself. Such is thy lot:
Yet do I rue the judgment I pronounce
And wish it undeserved; for thou hast lit
The darkness of thy indirect attempts
With a more lively cheer and gallant mien
Than most could brighten their best deeds withal.
Sir, I am sorry for thee.

Sir Fleureant.
Spare your pity,
And use your power. You see before you one
Who would more willingly confront the worst
Unpitying power inflicts than cry for mercy!
I have been used to deem the loss of life
But as a dead man's loss, that feels it not.

Artevelde.
Thou shalt do well of mortal life to think
Thus lightly, and with serious thoughts prepare
For that which is celestial and to come.
'Twixt this and daylight is thy leisure time
For such purgation as thou need'st. Cecile,
Send to St. Hubert's for some barefoot friar
And bid him come so stored and with such speed
As on a death-bed summons.

[He steps to a door of the tent and calls some Soldiers of his guard.
Cecile.
Yes, my Lord,
I'll go myself and say what duty calls him.

Sir Fleureant.
And prithee, wench, find me a merry friar,
Who shall beguile the time.

Cecile.
A merry friar!

Sir Fleureant.
Ay, wench; if any in the camp there be
They will be known to thee; a hearty man;
For I have ever look'd on life and death,
The world which is and that which is to be,
With cheerful eyes, and hoped the best of both;
And I would have Death's usher wear a smile
As through to-night's rough road he shows the way.
So send a merry friar.

Elena.
Oh, Sir Knight!
If die you must so soon, for God's dear love
Take thought for your immortal soul's behoof!
Confess yourself and pass the night in prayer.

Sir Fleureant.
Confession will not hold us long; I'm young
And have not yet had time enough to act
Sins that are long in telling:
[Then to Artevelde, who returns with two Soldiers of the Guard.
You, my Lord,
Cut short the catalogue betimes, I thank you.
To you, sweet Lady, for your counsel kind
And monitory speech, my last poor prayers
I give,—more worth than thanks from dying men;
And in your supplications of to-night
When you lie down to rest, I humbly crave
To be remember'd in return.

Elena.
Alas!
Would I could stead you more than with the prayers
Of such a sinful creature!

Sir Fleureant.
Lady, soon
You'll need them for yourself. This fair array
Of warlike multitudes you see around
Will sunder and dissolve like wreaths of snow
Pelted and riddled with the rains in March.
Then should my Lord of Bourbon find you here,
'Twill be a rude rencounter; if at Bruges
You found a lover in an enemy,
The tables will be turned at Oudenarde,
And in a lover shall you find a foe.
I pray you think upon it.

Artevelde.
Fare thee well.
These will conduct thee to thy place of rest,
And all thy needs or wishes may require
To make the night pass easily, supply.
Again, Sir, fare thee well.

Sir Fleureant.
My Lord, farewell.
I hardly know what words should thank your bounty
That grants me everything—except my life.

[Exit, guarded.
Elena.
O would, my Lord, that you could grant him that!
He is a gallant gentleman.

Artevelde.
He's stricken;
Which makes the meanest hold his courage high
In presence of his Lady: not the less
He is a brave and very noble knight,
And nothing moves me in his favour more
Than what he spake to you. I'm grieved, in truth,
That stern necessity demands his death.
No more of that. Turn we another leaf.
The world declares us lovers, you have heard.

Elena.
My Lord?

Artevelde.
The world, when men and women meet,
Is rich in sage remark, nor stints to strew
With roses and with myrtle fields of death.
Think you that they will grow?

Elena.
My Lord, your pardon;
You speak in such enigmas, I am lost
And cannot comprehend you.

Artevelde.
Do I so?
That was not wont to be my fault. In truth
There is a season when the plainest men
Will cease to be plain-spoken; for their thoughts
Plunge deep in labyrinths of flowers and thorns,
And hardly to the light of day break through,
Whilst much they wander darkling. Yet for once
Let love be marshall'd by the name of love,
To meet such entertainment as it may.

Elena.
I have been much unfortunate, my Lord;
I would not love again.

Artevelde.
And so have I;
Nor man nor woman more unfortunate
As none more blessed in what was taken from him.
Dearest Elena,—of the living dearest,—
Let my misfortunes plead, and know their weight
By knowing of the worth of what I lost.
She was a creature framed by love divine
For mortal love to muse a life away
In pondering her perfections; so unmoved
Amidst the world's contentions if they touched
No vital chord nor troubled what she loved,
Philosophy might look her in the face,
And like a hermit stooping to the well
That yields him sweet refreshment, might therein
See but his own serenity reflected
With a more heavenly tenderness of hue!
Yet whilst the world's ambitious empty cares,
Its small disquietudes and insect stings,
Disturb'd her never, she was one made up
Of feminine affections, and her life
Was one full stream of love from fount to sea.
These are but words.

Elena.
They're full of meaning.

Artevelde.
No,
No, they mean nothing—that which they would speak
Sinks into silence—'tis what none can know
That knew not her—the silence of the grave—
Whence could I call her radiant beauty back
It could not come more savouring of Heaven
Than it went hence; the tomb received her charms
In their perfection, with nor trace of time
Nor stain of sin upon them; only death
Had turn'd them pale. Would you had seen her once,
Living or dead!

Elena.
I wish I had, my Lord;
I should have loved to look upon her much;
For I can gaze on beauty all day long
And think the all day long is but too short.

Artevelde.
She was so fair that in the angelic choir
She will not need put on another shape
Than that she bore on earth. Well, well, she's gone,
And I have tamed my sorrow. Pain and grief
Are transitory things no less than joy,
And though they leave us not the men we were,
Yet they do leave us. You behold me here
A man bereaved, with something of a blight
Upon the early blossoms of his life
And its first verdure, having not the less
A living root, and drawing from the earth
Its vital juices, from the air its powers:
And surely as man's health and strength are whole
His appetites regerminate, his heart
Re-opens, and his objects and desires
Shoot up renew'd. What blank before me lay
From what is said you partly may surmise;
How I have hoped to fill it, may I tell?

Elena.
I fear, my Lord, that cannot be.

Artevelde.
Indeed!
Then am I doubly hopeless. What is gone
Nor plaints nor prayers nor yearnings of the soul
Nor memory's tricks nor fancy's invocations—
Though tears went with them frequent as the rain
In dusk November, sighs more sadly breathed
Than winter's whispering of the fallen leaf,—
Can bring again: and should this living hope
That like a violet from the other's grave
Grew sweetly, in the tear-besprinkled soil
Finding moist nourishment—this seedling sprung
Where recent grief had like a ploughshare pass'd
Through the soft soul and loosen'd its affections—
Should this new-blossom'd hope be coldly nipp'd,
Then were I desolate indeed! a man
Whom heaven would wean from earth, and nothing leaves
But cares and quarrels, trouble and distraction,
The heavy burthens and the broils of life.
Is such my doom? Nay, speak it, if it be.

Elena.
I said I fear'd another could not fill
The place of her you lost, being so fair
And perfect as you pictured her.

Artevelde.
'Tis true;
A perfect woman is not as a coin,
Which being gone, its very duplicate
Is counted in its place. Nature on you
Hath stamped an impress—regal—but of hers
Rather the contrast than the counterpart.
Colour to wit—complexion; hers was light
And gladdening; a roseate tincture shone
Transparent in its place, her skin elsewhere
White as the foam from which in happy hour
Sprang the Thalassian Venus: yours is clear
But bloodless, and though beautiful as night
In cloudless ether clad, not frank as day:
Such is the tinct of your diversity;
Serenely radiant she, you darkly fair.

Elena.
Dark still has been the colour of my doom,
And having not the brightness in my soul
How should I wear the aspect?

Artevelde.
Wear it not;
Wear only that of love.

Elena.
Of love? alas!
That were to scatter this so mournful mist
By calling up the hurricane. Time was,
'Tis true, that this foolhardy heart would brave,
Yea madly court, an enterprise of passion,
And like a witch would whistle for a whirlwind.
May time not tame it? Is it wild as ever?
And you too should have learnt what time and pain
Can teach of wisdom.

Artevelde.
Brightly upon me
Love breaks anew beneath the gathering clouds
That roll around; and brightly upon you
I see it break, but verily as you say,
'Tis with a stormy gleam; and looking forth,
I ask myself, too late, what lot is this,
What destiny that links you with a love
Whose sunset is at hand, whose midnight lamp
May chance be lighted at a funeral torch
And show the way to Fate?

Elena.
What destiny?
Think what you will, but think not that I fear
To be your yokemate in calamity;
Yes, or in death, should death be threaten'd; nay,
What loftier fortune could a wild-flower find
Than to be cast upon a noble corse?
Oh God! that I were worthier!—that the joy,
The greatness of the destiny, were deserved!
But speak not now of darkness, death and night:
Believe, as I believe, redeemed by you
From all that Nature clothed me with of gloom,
That many a sunrise shall be yours, and Hope,
Rising with every sun, irradiate
The long procession of the prosperous days,
Triumphal, crowned with glory.

Artevelde.
Crowned with love.
Give to this day, this sumptuous day, that crown;
Let others run their course; give me this heart
That beats itself to pieces. . . . .

Elena.
No, I cannot,—
I cannot give you what you've had so long,
Nor need I tell you what you know so well.
I must be gone.

Artevelde.
Nay, sweetest, why these tears?

Elena.
No, let me go—I cannot tell—no—no—
I want to be alone—
Oh! Artevelde, for God's love, let me go!

[Exit.
Artevelde
(after a pause).
The night is far advanced upon the morrow,
And but for that conglomerated mass
Of cloud with ragged edges, like a mound
Or black pine-forest on a mountain's top,
Wherein the light lies ambush'd, dawn were near.
Ay, truth to say, the night is sped and gone.
Was it well spent? Successfully it was.
And yet of springs and sources taking note
How little flattering is a woman's love!
Thrice gifted girl! The conqueror of the world
In winning thee might deem he won a prize
More precious far, yet count the prize he won
As portion of his treasure, not his pride;
For when was love the measure of desert?
The few hours left are precious—Who is there?
Ho! Nieuverkerchen!—when we think upon it
How little flattering is a woman's love!
Given commonly to whosoe'er is nearest
And propp'd with most advantage; outward grace
Nor inward light is needful; day by day
Men wanting both are mated with the best
And loftiest of God's feminine creation,
Whose love takes no distinction but of sex
And ridicules the very name of choice.
Ho! Nieuverkerchen!—what, then, do we sleep?
Are none of you awake?—and as for me,
The world says Philip is a famous man—
What is there women will not love, so taught?
Ho! Ellert! by your leave though, you must wake.
Enter an Officer.
Have me a gallows built upon the mount
And let Van Kortz be hung at break of day.
No news of Bulsen or Van Muck?

Officer.
My Lord,
Bulsen is taken; but Van Muck, we fear,
Has got clear off.

Artevelde.
Let Bulsen, too, be hung
At break of day. Let there be priests to shrive them.
Who guards the Knight, Sir Fleureant of Heurlée?

Officer.
Sasbout, my Lord, and Tuning.

Artevelde.
Very well.
Mount me a messenger; I shall have letters
To send to Van den Bosch upon the Lis.
Let Grebber wait upon me here. Go thou
Upon thine errands.
[Exit Officer.]
—So,Van Muck escaped!
And Ypres will receive its invitation.
I think, then, Van den Bosch must spare a force
To strengthen us at Ypres for a season.
I'll send him orders. And Van Muck the traitor!
Stupidity is seldom soundly honest;
I should have known him better. Live and learn!