University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

—Van Artevelde's Tent in the Flemish Camp before Oudenarde.
Elena and Cecile.
Elena.
(singing).

Cecile.
Fie on such truth!
Rather than that my heart spoke truth in dumps
I'd have it what it is, a merry liar.

Elena.
Yes, you are right; I would that I were merry!
Not for my own particular, God knows;
But for his cheer; he needs to be enliven'd;
And for myself in him; because I know
That often he must think me dull and dry,
I am so heavy-hearted, and at times
Outright incapable of speech. Oh me!
I was not made to please.

Cecile.
Yourself, my Lady;
'Tis true to please yourself you were not made,
Being truly by yourself most hard to please;
But speak for none beside; for you were made,
Come gleam or gloom, all others to enchant,
Wherein you never fail.

Elena.
Yes, but I do;
How can I please him when I cannot speak?
When he is absent I am full of thought,
And fruitful in expression inwardly,
And fresh and free and cordial is the flow
Of my ideal and unheard discourse,
Calling him in my heart endearing names,
Familiarly fearless. But alas!
No sooner is he present than my thoughts
Are breathless and bewitch'd, and stunted so
In force and freedom, that I ask myself
Whether I think at all, or feel, or live,
So senseless am I!

Cecile.
Heed not that, my Lady;
Men heed it not; I never heard of one
That quarrell'd with his lady for not talking.
I have had lovers more than I can count,
And some so quarrelsome a slap in the face
Would make them hang themselves if you'd believe them;
But for my slackness in the matter of speech
They ne'er reproach'd me: no, the testiest of them
Ne'er fish'd a quarrel out of that.

Elena.
Thy swains
Might bear their provocations in that kind,
Yet not of silence prove themselves enamour'd.
But mark you this, Cecile: your grave and wise
And melancholy men, if they have souls,
As commonly they have, susceptible
Of all impressions, lavish most their love
Upon the blithe and sportive, and on such
As yield their want and chase their sad excess
With jocund salutations, nimble talk,
And buoyant bearing. Would that I were merry!
Mirth have I valued not before; but now
What would I give to be the laughing fount
Of gay imagination's ever bright
And sparkling phantasies! Oh, all I have,
(Which is not nothing though I prize it not,)
My understanding soul, my brooding sense,
My passionate fancy, and the gift of gifts
Dearest to woman which deflowering Time,
Slow ravisher, from clenched'st fingers wrings—
My corporal beauty, would I barter now
For such an antic and exulting spirit
As lives in lively women. Who comes hither?

Cecile.
'Tis the old Friar; he they sent abroad;
That ancient man so yellow! Od's my life!
He's yellower than he went. Note but his look;
His rind's the colour of a mouldy walnut.
Troth! his complexion is no wholesomer
Than a sick frog's.

Elena.
Be silent; he will hear.

Cecile.
It makes me ill to look at him.

Elena.
Hush! hush!

Cecile.
It makes me very ill.

Enter Father John of Heda.
Father John.
Your pardon, Lady;
I seek the Regent.

Elena.
Please you, sit a while;
He comes anon.

Father John.
This tent is his?

Elena.
It is.

Father John.
And likewise yours.— (Aside.)
Yea, this is as I heard;
A wily woman hither sent from France.
Alas! alas! how frail the state of man!
How weak the strongest! This is such a fall
As Samson suffer'd.

Cecile
(aside to Elena).
How the friar croaks!
What gibbering is this?

Elena.
May we not deem
Your swift return auspicious? Sure it denotes
A prosperous mission?

Father John.
What I see and hear
Of sinful courses and of nets and snares
Encompassing the feet of them that once
Were steadfast deem'd, speaks only to my heart
Of coming judgments.

Cecile.
What I see and hear
Of naughty Friars and of—

Elena.
Peace, Cecile!
Go to your chamber; you forget yourself.
Father, your words afflict me.

[Exit Cecile.
Enter Artevelde.
Artevelde
(as he enters).
Who is it says
That Father John is come? Ah! here he is.
Give me your hand, good Father! For your news,
Philosophy befriend me that I show
No strange impatience; for your every word
Must touch me in the quick.

Father John.
To you alone
Would I address myself.

Artevelde.
Nay, heed not her;
She is my Privy Councillor.

Father John.
My Lord,
Such Councillors I abjure. My function speaks,
And through me speaks the Master whom I serve;
After strange women them that went astray
God never prosper'd in the olden time,
Nor will He bless them now. An angry eye
That sleeps not follows thee till from thy camp
Thou shalt have put away the evil thing.
This in her presence will I say—

Elena.
Oh God!

Father John.
That whilst a foreign leman—

Artevelde.
Nay, spare her;
To me say what thou wilt.

Father John.
Thus then it is:
This foreign tie is not to Heaven alone
Displeasing, but to those on whose firm faith
Rests under Heaven your all; 'tis good you know
It is offensive to your army—nay,
And justly, for they deem themselves betray'd
When circumvented thus by foreign wiles
They see their chief.

Elena.
Oh! let me quit the camp.
Misfortune follows wheresoe'er I come;
My destiny on whomsoe'er I love
Alights: it shall not, Artevelde, on thee;
For I will leave thee to thy better star
And pray for thee aloof.

Father John.
Thou shalt do well
For him and for thyself; the camp is now
A post of danger.

Elena.
Artevelde! Oh God!
In such an hour as this—in danger's hour—
How can I quit thee?

Father John.
Dost thou ask? I say,
As thou wouldst make his danger less or more
Depart or stay. The universal camp,
Nay more, the towns of Flanders are agape
With tales of sorceries, witcheries and spells,
That blind their chief and yield him up a prey
To treasons foul. How much is true or false
I know not and I say not: but this truth
I sorrowfully declare,—that ill repute
And sin and shame grow up with every hour
That sees you link'd together in these bonds
Of spurious love.

Elena.
Father, enough is said.
Clerk's eyes nor soldier's will I more molest
By tarrying here. Seek other food to feed
Your pious scorn and pertinent suspicions.
Alien from grace and sinful though I be,
Yet is there room to wrong me. I will go
Lest this injustice done to me work harm
Unto my Lord the Regent.

Artevelde.
Hold, I say;
Give me a voice in this. You, Father John,
I blame not, nor myself will justify:
But call my weakness what you will, the time
Is past for reparation. Now to cast off
The partner of my sin were further sin;
'Twere with her first to sin, and next against her.
And for the army, if their trust in me
Be sliding, let it go; I know my course;
And be it armies, cities, people, priests,
That quarrel with my love, wise men or fools,
Friends, foes, or factions, they may swear their oaths,
And make their murmur—rave, and fret, and fear,
Suspect, admonish—they but waste their rage,
Their wits, their words, their counsel: Here I stand
Upon the deep foundations of my faith
To this fair outcast plighted, and the storm
That Princes from their palaces shakes out,
Though it should turn and head me, should not strain
The seeming silken texture of this tie.—
To business next:—Nay, leave us not, Beloved;
I will not have thee go as one suspect;
Stay and hear all. Father, forgive my heat,
And do not deem me stubborn. Now at once
The English news?

Father John.
Your deeds upon your head!
Be silent my surprise—be told my tale.
No open answer from the English King
Could we procure, no honest yea or nay,
But only grave denotements of good-will,
With mention of the perils of the seas,
The much tempestuous season, and the loss
Unspeakable that England suffer'd late
In her sea strengths; but not the less, they said,
By reason of good love and amity,
The King should order reckonings to be made
By two sufficient scholars of the charge
Of what we sought; his Parliament then called
He would take counsel of, and send you word
What might be done.

Artevelde.
A leisurely resolve.
The King took counsel of his own desires,
Ere of his Lords and Commons. Had he wish'd
To do this thing, he had not ask'd advice.
In the pure polity of a Monarch's mind
The will is Privy Councillor to the judgment.
When shall his answer reach us?

Father John.
In my wake
Sir Richard Farrington, I found, came fast,
And sped by favourabler winds than mine
Reach'd Dunkirk with me. Letters seal'd he brought;
But hearing how far forth the French had fared,
He halted, and would neither bring nor send
His letters, nor their purport would disclose.

Artevelde.
But you, I think, can guess it.

Father John.
Surely yes:
They promised, doubtless, largely; but were meant
To be deliver'd should you thrive—not else.
The English nobles, though they'd use your arms
If victory crown'd them, to encumber France,
Much in their secret minds mislike your cause.
Jack Straw, Wat Tyler, Lister, Walker, Ball,
That against servage raised the late revolt,
Were deem'd the spawn of your success: last year
Has taught the Nobles that their foes at home
Are worthier notice than the French. In truth
They should not be displeased at any ill
That might befall you.

Artevelde.
Father, so I think.
Lo! with the chivalry of Christendom
I wage my war—no nation for my friend,
Yet in each nation having hosts of friends.
The bondsmen of the world, that to their Lords
Are bound with chains of iron, unto me
Are knit by their affections. Be it so.
From Kings and Nobles will I seek no more
Aid, friendship, nor alliance. With the poor
I make my treaty, and the heart of man
Sets the broad seal of its allegiance there
And ratifies the compact. Vassals, serfs,
Ye that are bent with unrequited toil,
Ye that have whiten'd in the dungeon dark
Through years that knew not change of night and day—
Tatterdemalions, lodgers in the hedge,
Lean beggars with raw backs and rumbling maws
Whose poverty was whipp'd for starving you,—
I hail you my auxiliars and allies,
The only potentates whose help I crave.
Richard of England, thou hast slain Jack Straw,
But thou hast left unquench'd the vital spark
That set Jack Straw on fire. The spirit lives;
And as when he of Canterbury fell
His seat was filled by some no better clerk,
So shall John Ball that slew him be replaced;
And if I live and thrive, these English Lords
Double requital shall be served withal
For this their double-dealing.—Pardon me;
You are but just dismounted, and the soil
Of travel is upon you; food and rest
You must require. Attendance there! what ho!
Enter two Serving-ment.
These will supply your wants. To-morrow morn
We will speak more together. Father John,
Though peradventure fallen in your esteem,
I humbly ask your blessing, as a man
That having pass'd for more in your repute
That he had warrant for, should be content,
Not with his state, but with the judgment true
That to the lowly level of his state
Brings down his reputation.

Father John.
Oh, my son!
High as you stand, I will not strain mine eyes
To see how higher still you stood before.
God's blessing be upon you! Fare you well.

[Exit.
Artevelde.
The old man weeps. Let England play me false,
The greater is my glory if the day
Is won without her aid. I stand alone;
And standing so against the mingled might
Of Burgundy and France, to hold mine own
Is special commendation; to prevail
So far as victory were high renown;
To be foredone no singular disgrace. Enter an Attendant, followed by a Man-at-arms.

Whom have we here,—Rovarden?

Attendant.
Please your Grace,
A scout from Van den Bosch.

Artevelde.
And with ill news
Thy face would say. What is it?

Scout.
With your leave,
My master bids you know that yesterday
Some cunning Frenchmen stole across the Lis
In boats and rafts, a league below Commines,
And now they press him hard upon his rear;
Wherefore he warns you that you look to Ypres,
Which he can do no longer.

Artevelde.
The Lis pass'd!
Mischief, be welcome, if thou com'st alone!
Is that the worst?

Scout.
'Tis all, my Lord, I know.

Elena.
Is it so very bad?

Artevelde.
No, no, 'tis not.
Let him have food and wine; he has ridden hard
And lacks refreshment. Go, repair thy looks,
And make me no such signals in my camp
Of losses and mishap. Speak cheerily
To whomsoe'er thou seest.
[Exeunt Attendant and Scout.
No, 'tis untoward,
Luckless, unfortunate; but that is all.
If Ypres bear as stoutly up against it
As I can do, we're not so much the worse.

Enter Van Ryk,followed by a Messenger.
Van Ryk.
A messenger, my Lord, from Ypres.

Artevelde.
Ha!
Here is another ugly face of news!
What now?

Messenger.
My Lord, sure tidings came last night
That Van den Bosch was worsted on the Lis,
And with a broken force was falling back
On Ypres for protection.

Artevelde.
Is that all?

Messenger.
It is, my Lord.

Artevelde.
It is enough. What news
Had ye of Menin, Werwick, and Messines?

Messenger.
The bells were rung in each and they were bid
To send all aid that they could muster straight
To Van den Bosch; but little went or none.

Artevelde.
And doubtless now the Frenchman has them all?

Messenger.
I know not that, my Lord.

Artevelde.
But I do. Go;
Thou art a wofuller fellow than the last,
Yet cheerfuller than what is like to follow.
Get thee to dinner and be spare of speech.

Messenger.
My master bade me to entreat your Grace
To send him instant aid.

Artevelde.
To Ypres? What!
He's mad to think it! How should aid get there,
With all the Upper Lis, as past a doubt
It must be now, from Warneston to Courtray,
O'errun with French? I will not send a man.
It were but to lose more.

Messenger.
My master, Sir,
Was fearful of the burghers.

Artevelde.
So he might,
And I am troubled at his jeopardy;
Far liefer would I part with this right hand
Than with Vauclaire, his service and his love.
I think the burghers will hold off a while
To see the issue of my personal arms.
If not, I cannot help him. If they do,
That which is best for all is best for him.
Go: keep thy counsel; talk not in the camp.

[Exit Messenger.
Van Ryk.
Rumour goes further in the camp, my Lord,
Than where his story stops.

Artevelde.
Ay, does it? How?

Van Ryk.
Ypres revolted; Van den Bosch, Vauclaire,
And Roosdyk slain or taken; so it runs
Since noon.

Elena.
Oh! this is worse than all.

Artevelde.
If true;
But be not hasty of belief. Go in.
No matters for a feminine Council these.

Elena.
Oh, let me stay with you!

Artevelde.
Not now, my love.
[Exit Elena.
Worst rumours now will still be likest truth,
And yet if Ypres truly had been lost,
Undoubted news of such a deadly blow
Had surely reach'd us.

Van Ryk.
If you mark, my Lord,
Mostly a rumour of such things precedes
The certain tidings.

Artevelde.
It is strange, yet true,
That doubtful knowledge travels with a speed
Miraculous, which certain cannot match.
I know not why, when this or that has chanced,
The smoke outruns the flash, but so it is.
Why who comes here? Vauclaire himself!
Enter Vauclaire, in disordered apparel and covered with the soil of travel.
Vauclaire,
Thy coming speaks; it tells of Ypres lost;
Perhaps of worse; and thou art welcome still!
Can friendship speak thee fairer?

Vauclaire.
Thanks, my Lord,
You have lost Ypres; 'tis no worse nor better.

Artevelde.
I can spare Ypres so I keep Vauclaire.
Let the town go. How came you off alive?

Vauclaire.
The rascal burghers tied me hand and foot
And on a hurdle trailed me like a thief
Toward King Charles's camp upon the mount;
Half way to which some twenty of my guard,
With Roosdyk at their head, brake boldly in,
Crying a rescue, and ere aid could come
We were safe mounted upon chosen nags
That distanced all pursuit.

Artevelde.
Why that is well.
Where's Roosdyk?

Vauclaire.
Eating, I'll be sworn, and drinking.

Artevelde.
And Van den Bosch?

Vauclaire.
That is a sadder tale;
I fear he lives no longer.

Artevelde.
Ay, Vauclaire!

Vauclaire.
Much wounded from Commines he came to Ypres,
Whence we despatch'd him, less alive than dead,
Upon the road to Ghent. I hardly think
That he can live the journey through.

Artevelde.
Farewell,
Brave Van den Bosch! and God assoil thy soul!
Vauclaire, we must be stirring; to the dead
An after time will give the meed of mourning;
Our present days are due to them that live.
Let us to Council with my officers:
And sit by me; for in my host henceforth
Thou shalt be next me in authority.

Vauclaire.
Deep are my debts to your good-will, my Lord;
More than my life can pay.

Artevelde.
Nay, say no more;
You owe me nothing; what I have to give
Is held in trust and parted with for service;
Value received is writ on my commissions,
Nor would I thank the man that should thank me
For aught as given him gratis. Let's to Council.
I'll lie no longer here at Oudenarde
To hear of towns betraying me. Our camp
We must break up to-morrow and push on
Boldly to Courtray and the Lower Lis.
The towns to the North and West will falter else
And Frenchify their faith. It is God's mercy
That some seven thousand citizens of Bruges
Are in my host, whose heads will pledges be
For what might fail me there. From Damme and Sluys,
From Dendermonde, the Quatre-Metiers, Ghent,
From Ardenburg and Grammont and Alost,
We'll bring the rear-guard up. The Lis, the Lis!
Let me but reach the Lis before King Charles!

Vauclaire.
The Upper Lis were easily regain'd
Could we but keep the Lower.

Artevelde.
We shall see.

Enter Van Ryk.
Van Ryk.
A countryman, my Lord, arrived from Heule
Says that King Charles is on his march to Rosebecque.

Artevelde.
To Rosebecque let him come! With God's good-speed.
I shall be there before him. Sirs, to Council.