University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A Street in Bruges. Enter Gautier and Albert, meeting.
ALBERT.
Sir Gautier, you are welcome back to Bruges.

GAUTIER.
I thank you; what's the latest news at Court?

ALBERT.
Nay, that I rather should inquire of you,
As being of the Council.

GAUTIER.
You forget,
I have this moment only left my horse,
And have all things to learn.

ALBERT.
Then—as I hear,
The Council are now met in grave debate
To give their old device its newest form.

GAUTIER.
The Serfs?

ALBERT.
The same. The bonds of vassalage
Have been for centuries so loosely worn;
Thousands of Serfs are grown to wealthy Burghers,
And 'tis no easy task to win them back:
For this the Earl sends edict upon edict;
Yet some escape him still, till it is said
He now intends by some yet stronger measures
To break down every hold that shelters them.

GAUTIER.
What says Bertulphe to this? for he was ever
The champion of Freedom.

ALBERT.
There's their strength.
Bertulphe is absent now, and many a tongue
Votes loudly for these laws, that dared not wag
Were the great Provost present.

GAUTIER.
Then will I instant to the Council Hall,
And give my voice against this tyranny.

[going.
ALBERT.
Yet hold!
There seems a stir among the populace:
And look, they come this way.

GAUTIER.
Stand back, and listen.

Enter several Citizens.
FIRST CITIZEN.
'Tis a vile law.

SECOND CITIZEN.
Ay, a most scandalous—a disgrace to Bruges.

THIRD CITIZEN.
'Tis a good, wholesome law.

SECOND CITIZEN.
I say, it is rank tyranny.

ALBERT
[to GAUTIER.]
Shall we inquire?

GAUTIER.
No! not of these. The vulgar voice speaks ever
Distorted marvels; rather seek our friends,
And learn from them the truth of this day's business.

ALBERT.
I will go with you.
[Exit GAUTIER and ALBERT.
Enter Antoine.
Why! what's the matter now, my masters?

FIRST CITIZEN.
Have you not heard the proclamation, Antoine?
Fresh rigours for the poor Serfs!

ANTOINE.
Nay, but that's bad.

THIRD CITIZEN.
'Tis the Earl's law.

ANTOINE.

Nay, then it's very good!—He is the good Earl, the
good tree bears good fruit; therefore the good Earl's law
is good beyond all questioning.

SECOND CITIZEN.

And your logic is very good for the free Burgher,
Antoine; but should some Noble come, and, having proved
your grandfather was once a Serf, claim YOU for that to be
his bondsman, you'd tell another story.

ANTOINE.

Perhaps I should; but the Earl's law would be a good
law, notwithstanding my complaining.

THIRD CITIZEN.

Well argued, friend Antoine.

Enter Denis.
DENIS.

Ay, marry is it!—why should not the Serf's chain be as
hereditary as Noble's land? The good Earl wills it—the
noble, virtuous Earl that you all love so. It is his justice,
forsooth, that every hour issues fresh laws against the
unhappy devils who may in the course of centuries have
contrived to slip their chains of vassalage. It is his justice
that now gives their lords full power to pounce upon them
wherever they may find them, or in whatever rank their
thrifty industry may have raised them to.—And this
is “Charles the Good!”

ANTOINE.

Come! come! no treason, Denis! if the Earl wills it, it
must be right. Besides, Heaven makes births as well
as marriages; and if the saints had not willed that the
man was to live a slave, they would never have let him be
born one.

FOURTH CITIZEN.

There's something in that!

DENIS.

Well! for my own part, I confess myself a Serf, and
try to look no better than I am—wear my chains with the
grace of a practised slave—do my master's bidding with an
humble reverence,—and receive his buffets with the most
profound respect.

ANTOINE.

True! true! you're a good lad—that is the only wisdom
now.

DENIS.

But guard yourself against your would-be free man—

your upstart bloods of yesterday, who cannot claim more
than a century of unquestioned liberty—fellows whose
genealogy stops short on this side Adam. By my faith, if
you wed your pretty daughter, Blanche, to one of these,
to-morrow may see her claimed as some Noble's slave,
and a few side-blows of her husband's cudgellings fall on
the shoulders of his respected father-in-law, the free
burgher Antoine.

ANTOINE
[aside to DENIS.]

I wonder if I am a free man.

DENIS.

Do you remember your father?

ANTOINE.

It's a long while ago.

DENIS.

Your grandfather?

ANTOINE.

Worse still.

DENIS.

Great-grandfather, and great-great-grandfather?

ANTOINE.

I never had any to my knowledge!

DENIS.

By my holidame then your chance is a bad one—for the
man who cannot count back thirteen generations will scarce
be safe from seizure under the new laws.

ANTOINE.

Dear! dear! this is very shocking, though. Nobody
knows now, whether he is his own or somebody's else.

FIRST CITIZEN.

The Earl had not dared to do this, had the Provost Bertulphe
been present.

ANTOINE.

The Provost is a good man, and a great man.

DENIS.

The Provost is a proud man.

ANTOINE.

Go to! Denis. You are a discontented man—you ever
rail against the great.

DENIS.

I say the Provost is a proud man. Look at his retinue,
—'tis scarcely second to the Earl's: look at his palace,—it
adjoins the Earl's, and frowns upon the town as haughtily:
look at his bearing—not the Earl himself has half such
stateliness! Go to! His opposition to these laws is not
for you, but for his own pride's sake, that loves to struggle
with his master, who has made him what he is.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Nay! the Earl owes him much—his very throne.

DENIS.

Ay, and the Provost makes him feel the debt.

ANTOINE.

Say what you will, the Provost is a great man,—keeps a
great retinue,—has private doors of communication with the
palace. Oh! he is a very great man, a wonderful man: if
the Provost was but the Earl, I would say he was a
matchless man.

FOURTH CITIZEN.

Hark ye, my masters, 'twere best you drop this matter,
for here comes Sir Bouchard, the Provost's son-in-law.

SECOND CITIZEN.

And with him young St. Prieux! 'tis dangerous talking,
then.—Hush! they are here.

Enter Bouchard and St. Prieux.
ST. PRIEUX.

How now, fellows! where are your caps? Into your
kennels, dogs!—you taint the air!

DENIS.

'Tis pity, sir, but Nature makes us breathe it.

ANTOINE.

Good Denis, come this way—they are great men, very
great men. This way, good Master Denis.

[forces him into the house, and follows, making low obeisances.
ST. PRIEUX
(to Citizens.)

Now, fellows! Wherefore do you linger?

FIRST CITIZEN.

Is there not space enough, my lord?

ST. PRIEUX.

There are some sturdy knaves among you: look you,
I'll search into your pedigrees.

[The citizens slink away one by one.
BOUCHARD.
Fie, fie, St. Prieux!

ST. PRIEUX.
Ha! Ha!
'Sooth, 'tis a wise provision of the Earl
To make new pastimes for us—old ones pall.
To chase the wolf, or hunt the bounding stag,
Is pleasant for a season;—but at last
It grows monotonous. The hunt to-day
Is too much like the hunt of yesterday—
That to the day before: the senseless beasts
Have all the same defence—use it the same:—
But this new sport—to hunt old Burghers down,
Put them upon their pedigrees, and watch
The shuffling rogues, doubling with cunning skill,
To hide some flaw of serfship in their blood;—
To track them on till not a shift is left,
But he must own his father's grandfather
Was once my lordship's serf;—then pounce upon him
With “Sirrah, you are mine then,—hie you off
To my estate, and wait my noble will!”
Oh! this is sport indeed!—a most rare law!
But why so grave, Bouchard?

BOUCHARD.
To think that men, with such great qualities,
So noble, wise, and virtuous, as the Earl,
Should still, to please some petty vanity,
Mar all their graces, and defile their honours.

ST. PRIEUX.
Why, man, it is his virtue, his staunch justice,
Resolved to give to every one his own;—
My serf is mine, his justice gives him to me.

BOUCHARD.
'Tis thus for ever that ill-judging zeal
Goads virtue into vice. 'Tis but degree
That marks the storm from the propitious gale—
The torrent, from the fertilising stream.—
This justice, over-urged, grows tyranny.

ST. PRIEUX.
Ay, thus you moralised before the Council—
Nay, wax'd so warm, defending your sweet clients,
I thought you meant to beard the Earl himself.

BOUCHARD.
I did but speak, because more worthy lips
Were silent: if the Provost had been there,
He would have poured resistless thunders on them.

ST. PRIEUX.
But grave Bouchard, think of the pretty pickings
Among the Burghers' daughters! Serfs—all Serfs!

BOUCHARD.
Now shame upon you.

ST. PRIEUX.
Oh! I cry you mercy!—
I had forgot Bouchard was now a bridegroom,
And dared not look beyond his legal portion;—
Well!—well! the girl is worth it. I believe,
I could be constant for a month myself
To such a wife—she has some rare deservings,
And charms not common.

BOUCHARD.
All the gods could give her!—
Beauty, to shame young Love's most servent dream—
Virtue, to form a saint, and reign in heaven,—
With just enough of earth to keep her woman!

ST. PRIEUX.
And the great Provost for her father, which
In my poor judgment outweighs all the rest.

BOUCHARD.
Were she a sempstress at a cottage-door,
Her parents hinds, I had not loved her less;—
But Heaven's most glorious works are never cast
With such a thriftless hand;—the perfect flower
Grows but upon a rich and generous soil;
And such a sweet perfection, as my Constance,
Could only spring from such a noble stem.

ST. PRIEUX.
'Twere heresy to doubt it, though in truth
That noble stem must have been somewhat shrunk
Before Bertulphe shot from it. I confess
His wealth enormous, and his station high,
Without an equal, save the Earl himself:
And even he had scarce been what he is,
Without the Provost's mighty hand to help him.
Yet still his fortune is his own creation,
And his the earliest name of all his house—
Whose deeds stand forth upon the page of fame.

BOUCHARD.
And what of that? Regard him as he is!
Think of the arm that saved the State in war—
The wisdom that has sway'd its peaceful councils;—
View the proud step that spurns the lowly earth—
The untamed eye, whose fire no years can quench.—
Hark to the voice, whose music wraps the soul;
A line of kings might pride to call him son,
And he might trace him to a line of kings,
Were such a vulgar glory worth his care;—
St. Prieux, that eagle was not sparrow-hatched.

ST. PRIEUX.
Pray Heaven, that eagle do not soar too high!
The cloud conceals the lightning. Sovereigns oft
Regard with jealous eyes who come too near;
And I could sometimes fancy, spite of all
The smooth behaviour carefully sustain'd,
There floats a little cloud that dims the sunshine,
Before it reaches the great Provost.

BOUCHARD.
Let it!
Bertulphe I say is mightier than the Earl;
His friends fill every place of trust; the roots
Of his great strength are spread amid the soil
So widely round, that who should seek to shake him
Would rock the State to ruin.

ST. PRIEUX.
Here comes one
Will scarce cry Ay to that. For very sport
I'll stir his gall up, if he pass this way.

BOUCHARD.
That were not wise—Sir Thancmar, as you know,
Is highly favour'd of the Earl; and men
From late events are prompt to seize on all,
That makes Bertulphe seem rival to his sovereign.
A bitter jest between their nearest friends
Might lead to that which would but more confirm
What yet is rather felt than seen or talk'd of.

ST. PRIEUX.
Ha! Sir Bouchard, you fear the Chatelain!
Beshrew me, but I'll set him on you then.
[Enter Thancmar—he is crossing when St. P. stops him.]
Sir Thancmar, have you leisure to decide
In a dispute just now arisen between us?
Bouchard here holds that rank of ancestry,—
Say the good Earl's, weighs nothing with the wise;—
And that the man whose genius,—say Bertulphe's,—
Gives him a power that rises over rank,
And binds the world beneath him, more deserves
Homage, than one from mighty kings descended.

THANCMAR.
The knight is wise, exalting that most high
From which himself depends, and draws his greatness.

BOUCHARD.
Thancmar! that's scarcely courteous.—I depend
On no man's greatness, but my own; the which
I have received from as pure ancestry
As thou canst boast, and will as pure transmit it.—

THANCMAR.
To the descendants of Bertulphe! 'Tis well—
He needs such aid.—His upstart arrogance
Must find its strength in old and noble names,
With which so eagerly he binds himself,
'Twere scarce a lack of charity to think
His own had known some flaw.

BOUCHARD.
Your gentle breeding
Should teach more manners.

THANCMAR.
I am slow to learn, sir—
I have not your advantage in the lessons
The Provost can impart;—when is the season
To smile, and when to frown,—and how, when Nobles
Look cold on you, to turn with ready shift
To base-born citizens, and gain their voices
With feigned regard for what they term their rights—
Suck in the breath of popular applause,
Even while you loathe the applauders,—any thing
That offers food to the o'erbloated pride
Which craves the more for feeding. I have not
Such masters in these arts, as you can boast,—
Bertulphe, and Bertulphe's daughter.

BOUCHARD.
Slanderous villain!
Unsay that gross reproach, or with my sword
I'll force denial from thee.

THANCMAR.
Spare your frowns!
I wear no steel for brawlings in the street.
If you would fix a quarrel on me, be it
Decided in the face of all the world,
In knightly arms,—unless Bertulphe forbid it.

BOUCHARD.
Insolent!—There's my glove! and may the spirit
Of my unblemish'd race wither my arm
If thou pay not this insult with thy blood.

THANCMAR.
Whene'er you will.

[Exit.
BOUCHARD.
St. Prieux, this is not well,—
You have driven me where I would most avoid;—
And but that he threw slander on my wife—

ST. PRIEUX.
Tush, man! 'Tis excellent!—'tis admirable!—
The very thing I drove at. Know you not
The Provost hates this Thancmar? and Bertulphe
Is not a man idly to fling his passions
Without a cause. In his most jocund hours
Name but the Chatelain, and o'er his brow
The darkness gathers, and his words have in them
A bitterness of hatred, that might seem almost
The hate of fear.

BOUCHARD.
Bertulphe fear Thancmar?

ST. PRIEUX.
The word seems strange, and yet the thing that is,
Is none the less because we cannot fathom it.—
This be assured—Sir Thancmar is the foe
Of you and all your house, and stands betwixt
Bertulphe and favour, more than all beside:—
You are his match; you have fair ground of quarrel.—
Heavens! man, what would you more?

BOUCHARD.
A lighter heart—for mine, I know not why,
Is heavy—

ST. PRIEUX.
Up, and rouse it then with action!
We'll do this quickly. Come, the Chatelain
Once out of sight, Bertulphe will thank you for it.

BOUCHARD.
I do not think him such. My mind misgives me
We have done ill, and that this hasty quarrel
Will breed embarrassment and discord, where
We most should wish for love. But 'tis too late
To falter now—I will abide the issue.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A magnificent chamber in the Chateau of Bertulphe.— Constance discovered seated at a window, through which the sun is seen setting.
Constance
(watching it).
How fast he sinks, that glorious orb of light!
To see him seated on his mid-day throne,
Who but had deemed him fix'd for ever there,
So high, so proudly rode he o'er the world.
And is it thus with love? whose early beam
Shines out as full of promise, as it never
Could know decline. Has love its setting too?—
Look! now he fades,—and now—he's gone!—poor world!
But poorer heart, whose light of love is sped.
A few small clouds are lingering in his place,
Bright with contending dyes,—call these ambition,
Fame, glory—vapours that usurp Love's seat,
And shine awhile with a fictitious splendour
When he is gone—then follow into darkness.
There ends the likeness! the departed sun
Will ride again as bright a course to-morrow;
But love once set can know no second rising.
(Advancing.)
Alas! I'm wondrous sad to-day.
Enter Bouchard.
Indeed!

Constance
(running to and embracing him).
Bouchard! I did not mean to give thee welcome:
Thou hast been absent for so many hours,
I had resolved to chide thee! I have grown
Even sad for very lack of occupation.—
My father absent, and my lord away,
I deemed myself neglected,—thee unkind!

BOUCHARD.
'Twas needful business that claim'd my care.

CONSTANCE.
You are not angry?

BOUCHARD.
Nay! Indeed.

CONSTANCE.
Yet still
There dwells a heaviness upon your brow
I was not wont to see, when we two met,
Though parted but an hour.—Perhaps you are ill?

BOUCHARD.
Dear Constance, this is very wilfulness!

CONSTANCE.
Then be more merry,—I have grown, Bouchard,
The fool of fondness, and you took indeed
A heavy charge in making me your wife:
I have been nursed so tenderly, that never
A cloud has shadow'd o'er me.—First my father,
My dear, dear father, watch'd me with such care
I never had a wish, but ere it grew,
'Twas lost in the possession.—Then you came
With love, that strove to make his love seem small,
So fondly did you cherish me,—then frown not
Upon the child yourself did help to spoil!—
Nay, that's so sad a smile; in sooth, dear husband,
I had rather see you frown than smiling thus!
Something is ill.

BOUCHARD.
If aught displeases thee
Then all is ill:—yet say I am not merry,
The fit will pass,—the sooner if unmark'd.
That were a barren clime where all was sun,—
And the heart needs these little shades of care
To feel its bliss as bliss.—Where is thy father?

CONSTANCE.
Not yet arrived, although his messengers
Bid us expect him hourly [a trumpet.]
—Ha! he is here!
Quick to the gates, lose not a precious moment!
Oh, how I long to feel his circling arms,
And hear him bless his child!—my dear, dear father!

BOUCHARD.
Constance! shall I be jealous?

CONSTANCE.
Not of him!—
Not of my father,—he who gave you that,
Which, flatterer that you are, you have sworn so oft
Was all your wealth;—who cherished with such care
The growing flower, unworthy of his pains
Indeed, but all his garden yielded, and
Then gave it you to wear;—no, not my father!
Had you been six days absent, I would fly
With as much joy to welcome your return— [hesitating]

Perhaps with more.— [Enter Bertulphe.]
Father, my own dear father!

BERTULPHE.
All watchful angels guard and bless my child!
So! thou look'st bravely! not a trace of care:—
A bright and dancing eye, a healthful cheek;—
No vigils have disturb'd the wanton smiles
That dimple there!—Traitress! there was a time
When had thy father been a week away,
Thou wouldst have chid the leaden-footed hours,
Pined in thy chamber, saddened in thy sports,
And wearied every saint for his return!—
Bouchard, beshrew me, but I grudge thy share
In that young heart, that once was all my own.
Love her, my friend! she has been fondly cherish'd,
And scarce is fitted for the ungentle world;
But she is safe with thee.

BOUCHARD.
Safe as the blood
That warmest circles in my heart of hearts,
Which should be sooner drain'd than she be wrong'd.

BERTULPHE.
I thought so—or I had not given her to thee.

CONSTANCE.
You are weary, sir, with travel—will you sit?

BERTULPHE.
Why, ay— [sitting]
Bouchard! these things make old men feel
Their sand run low,—the easy cushion'd chair,
A stranger at their hearth, and all they loved
Given to another;—a new generation
Hustling us to our graves, while little sprouts
Shoot fresh and green round the old wither'd trunk,
Sheathing decay with renovated life:—
We'll have them all anon.

CONSTANCE.
You are merry, sir.

BERTULPHE.
And wherefore not so, girl? I have grown sick
Of the turmoil and care of the great world.
I'd give my place up now to better men,
And nurse my grandchildren. You smile, Bouchard!
These arms have dandled her a thousand times,
When I had more of care upon my heart
For her, than thou shalt ever know for thine:
They shall be princes! I will give them that
That they shall bless the old man's memory
When I am dust.

CONSTANCE.
Father, some other theme.

BERTULPHE.
Well, be it so.—Thou art a silly child!
Come then—the news, Bouchard? The sun no doubt
Has not stood still because Bertulphe was absent;
What do they at the Court?

BOUCHARD.
Nothing of note
Beyond the following up the late caprice,—
New laws against the Serfs.

BERTULPHE.
Indeed!

BOUCHARD.
The last
Was strange—tyrannical beyond example.
Lest any Serf, escaped from vassalage,
Should fence himself behind a Noble's power,
By marriage of himself or of his child,
It is decreed, such marriage being proved
Within a year, the freeman so connected,
Whate'er his rank, shall forfeit his degree,
Even though knightly,—lose his wealth and lands,
And taking taint from the unnatural match,
Himself become a Serf.

BERTULPHE,
starting up.
Impossible!
Ha! ha! I see you have been play'd upon,
Or you would play on me. It is not ill:
These late caprices are indeed so wild,
One might in sport say, it would come to this.

BOUCHARD.
Believe me, sir, I jest not—'tis most true.

BERTULPHE.
Again! would you persuade me Charles has done this
Without my counsel?—seized the very moment
When I was absent?—Sir, I'll not believe it.

CONSTANCE.
My father! you are strangely moved.

BERTULPHE.
Moved!—
Humanity, our common nature outraged—
A leprous taint fix'd on our fellows' blood,
Contaminating all that touches it;—
And yet 'tis strange that I am moved? Fie! Fie!
A man's a man; nor can another claim
The right to buy, sell, or inherit him,
Because he sprang from off a lower branch
Of the great tree:—yet this is but a part.
He who would have one fellow for his slave,
Soon, step by step, would fetter all mankind.
Such is not Charles's nature.—This brave plot
Is from another source:—I see the hand
That plays the puppet with him;—see the motive
That guides it too.

BOUCHARD.
What motive?

BERTULPHE.
Have you eyes,
And yet perceive it not? Do you not see
Since I opposed these laws from the beginning
Their strength displays my weakness?—He, whose hand
Would rule the helm, as I confess would mine,
Must find it answer to his ready touch
Upon the lightest breeze; which, if it do not,
He knows his power is gone;—and this alone
Would fret some men.—You smile, and think this nothing:
Go to! you are young,—the practised seaman knows
The coming tempest, in the little cloud
That specks the horizon only.

BOUCHARD.
'Tis strange!

BERTULPHE,
impatiently.
Sir, what is strange?

BOUCHARD.
To see you shaken
By what to me seem things of trifling import.

BERTULPHE.
Did you then sit unmoved to hear these projects?
I know you did not—could not.—Yet at last
Perhaps you are right. It is the old man's folly—
We see too far—No more on't—let it pass.—
Child, I am weary, bid them bring refreshment.
Stay—kiss me ere you go— [embracing her, and holding her some time gazing on her]
There, leave me, leave me.
[Exit Constance.
Ha! ha!

BOUCHARD.
What mean you?

BERTULPHE.
Why, sir, look you!
That noble creature, in whose form and soul
All glorious things that dwell beneath the sun
Are studded in a galaxy of brightness—
She—might be made a Serf by wedding you,
If in your blood ran one polluted drop—
I pray you, see 'tis pure.

BOUCHARD.
You do not doubt it?

BERTULPHE.
No, not a jot, sir, but I would have you see
To what such laws might lead.—Now fare you well,
I am weary—somewhat sever'd with my travel,
And would be left a little space alone;—
So tell my daughter—and, for what you have seen,
Your finger on your lip. Remember, power
Is to the old what love is to the young—
And both are jealous, if their mistress frowns,
To keep the gossip from the prating world.

[Exeunt.