University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

—A Monastery near Gloucester. Anselm and Eadmer.
Anselm.
God gives His bread to children who are sweet
With golden faith; to thinkers and to men
Of striving reason He presents a stone,
That they should toil and find the heav'nly food
The sinews of the brain have strength to win.
O Edmer, when my thought was weak and glad
As a young bird that only knows the nest;
When as a child of Italy I lay
Asleep, the mountains lifted round my home,
My spirit wandered from my little bed,
And walked upon the heights; 'twas harvest-time,
And maidens paused above the plenteous sheaves.
Methought I'd climb to Heaven and complain
How slowly they were binding the red corn.
I reached the hall of Heaven—it was still;
The Lord and His good butler keeping house,
But all the angels were a-harvesting.
A childish tire was plaintive in my voice
That told Him of His servants' negligence;
He smiled, and bread was brought; He stooped and put
A silver-bleachèd morsel to my lips;
'Neath His kind brows I ate, and never yet
Have lost the strong renewal of that meat.

Eadmer.
The sweetest story I have ever heard.
My pen shall keep it for all future days
To learn how Heav'n dealeth with the child.

Anselm.
How glorious its dealing with the man!
It gives not, that his reason may attain,
And like a casket in possession hard
Close round the gem of absolute belief.
Faith is the child's gift, and Philosophy
The man's achievement. Blessèd toil, to walk
Where babes are carried past on angel-wings;
To compass Mystery, to conquer Space,
Subjugate cunning Time, Eternity's
Protean shapes, and changes to illude
Man's recognition: in our mind to clutch
The veritable Being, force it yield
And re-assume itself.

Eadmer.
Too high your thoughts.
I cannot reach the level of your joy.

Anselm.
Nay, Edmer, hark! It is Philosophy
That knocks at Heaven's gate; Faith finds the door
Wide open—'tis the hand of Thought that calls
St. Peter to his charge; he opens wide;
And the mind enters with the awful tread
Of deep assurance that vast home sublime
Of the Supreme Idea, and beholds
Th' ineffable Existence. I have toiled
And fasted, in the midnight watches cried,
Consumed the light within me nigh to ash,
And desolated human frailty 'neath
The march and stress of battling Intellect,
To reach that certain knowledge of my God,
Clothed in perfection of reality.

Eadmer.
O rare and mighty thinker, and withal
A holy, loving saint, I can but write
The chronicle of your loved destiny,
That walks along the earth; when you aspire
To God, your pen is sole historian
Of beatific life beyond mine eyes.

Anselm.
Dear English Edmer, thy meek, fervent soul
Hath often rested where I toil to stand.
My life's disciple, we will never part,
Till Death give promise we shall ever join
In bond that no mortality assails.
The King of England holds me in his realm;
But when he grants me passage to my home
At streamy, wooded Bec, thou too shalt come,
And write the tale of Man for men to be;
And I will follow to its virgin source
The soul that makes his being's sacred worth.
So will we work in cloister'd peace, no storm
Of outward passion piercing our still days.

[Enter Monks with a Messenger.]
1st Monk.
Most holy father—

2nd Monk.
Blessed Anselm, hear!

1st Monk.
This man is from the king, who lieth sick
Well-nigh to death.

Messenger.
He groans and cries for help
As he were drowning in the fear of death.

Anselm.
I cannot go.

Messenger.
A cruel word to pass
From lips reputed kind. He sobs for aid
Against the demons mocking at his soul.

Anselm.
I cannot go; a fear I may not name
Stands in the path you show me. There are men
Of comfortable spirit nigh the king.
Why will you pierce my heart with augury
Of doom to all my hopes?

Messenger.
Nay, never fear
He'll give us our archbishop: there he's stiff
As yew, and fatal to his people's pray'r.

Anselm
[aside].
The peace, the wooded monastery. Oh!
My books, my problems, and the lonely strife
With mystery, the joyous blessing won!—
Seek for another comforter. My fate
Is sealed with condemnation if I go.

Messenger.
No other man can save our lord the king
From anguish such as makes his dying hour
The vestibule to Hell.

1st Monk.
Oh, pity him.

2nd Monk.
Have mercy on his wicked panting soul.

Anselm.
I cannot go—yet, Edmer, think of it!
No soothing, no access of grateful peace
As herald of Death's perfect silencing;
All conflict, insurrection, and affright,
That put to shame the calm invincible
Whose presence stills the threshold. I must go,
To shed some dew before the coming night,
And make its shade more gentle.

Eadmer.
He is won.
The stricken king will feel upon the air
The benediction of his gracious age.

Anselm.
The poor aghasted soul.

1st Monk.
Ay, think of it;
The terrible, black exit.

2nd Monk.
And the lone,
Fire-beaconed journey.

Eadmer.
And the final death.—
Tears make his eyes more precious. He is won.

Anselm.
The Comforter, the Holy Spirit, draws
My feet to carry its sweet messages.
I come.—Eadmer, how the future hangs
Its chains upon my calling, which is thought
And meditation on eternal truth.
Thus could I freely serve, and yet my God,
I know, will bind my lot to slavery.

[Exeunt.