University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

Scene I.

—Borders of the New Forest. Enter Beowulf and a crowd of Peasants.
1st Peasant.
Still they afforest, still they take our land;
They tax us into hunger, and our bread
Is in the purse of gold for Normandy.

2nd Peasant.
Father, the land is ours?

Beowulf.
The land is his
Who finds in it himself—his toil, his time,
His hope, his sweat, his sorrow.

1st Peasant.
So he prates.
I'm sick to death.

3rd Peasant.
A tombstone of a man!
He comforts with big words and prophecies,
And thinks he fools our misery. Because
His bonnie eyes of English blue were charred,
We put our faith in him. He's dark as night,
No cheer nor meaning in him.

1st Peasant.
And no aid
For famine-stricken mouths.

2nd Peasant.
The Ætheling
Will have some heart to help us.

1st Peasant.
Michael's Mount
Held him in prison. Now he rides the woods
With the king's troop and keeps him company:
Who loves him loves us not. There is no hope.

Beowulf.
Wait without hope. I wait till this mute dark
Numbers its doomful hours. No tender fall
Of light will dissipate its dull excess;
'Twill break up in the imbecility,
Confusion, undiscernment of the grave.
So will my blindness end; I have no hope,
I suffer. ... Hope's a maggot eats the heart
From the stout timbers of endurance. Starve.

[Enter Old Man: in the distance Officers measuring the land with ropes.]
2nd Peasant.
There are the officers. Let's bring him word
What they are marking off. If it's the land
They're hurting ...

3rd Peasant.
Ay, he says the Earth's himself,
He put his flesh and blood in 't, just as if
He'd dug a grave within it for his child.

[They go apart.
Old Man.
It's sore to see him; he stands like a tree
Infect with autumn. I will speak with him.
[To Beowulf.]
Art thinking of the grave?

Beowulf.
Why, man, your voice
Minds of the russet-apples that I stole
With Edgar in the orchard. Are you he?

Old Man.
Ay, ay, your ancient play-mate. Beowulf
I fear you're clouded by these ominous
Murmurs and threats, and in your suffering
Sigh for the humble strewings of a grave.

Beowulf.
I'm not impatient; if by rotting down
One might break earth of her sterility! ...
As for the rich they're misers of their mould;
No crumb of their corruption will they fling
The famished earth.

Old Man.
Nay, nay, you're with the worms!
There are tombs clean and dry, though a poor man
May not inhabit such, the thought of them
Is pleasant; they are strong and quaintly cut.
One may lie there
With all one's bravery. 'Tis even said
The moth doth not corrupt. Could a man dwell
In such a tomb till resurrection-morn
He were lodged peacefully.

Beowulf.
I will not rise;
I'm used now to the dark; a flare of saints
Would hurt me like the scorch of the hot brass
That withered up my sight.

Old Man.
Be comforted.
The Lord will judge the tyrant.

Beowulf.
How you talk!
Do you think the Earth's a thing that makes your flesh
Soft for the worms?—the harvests lie asleep
Upon her bosom; she has reared the spring;
The seasons are her change of countenance;
She lives; and now for many thousand years
Hath ruled the toiling and the rest of men.
There's none like her for judging the true way,
Quick'ning the weeds, setting the twitch to work,
Or blasting with sterility: she'll judge.

Old Man.
In sooth there have been prodigies and dreams.
I have had one most marvellous; methought
As I was fishing in the Stour, the tide
Grew ruddy, and the milky placid stream
Heaved turbulent, while in my weighty net
Smirk'd finny demons; but I drew the haul,
Crossing myself, untrembling to the shore.
Eh, eh! I drowned the devils with the sign
Yet verily these portents show the earth
And sea and sky are must'ring for a curse.
You do not mis-interpret.

[Re-enter Peasants.]
1st Peasant.
All is gone.
My little plot, my home; they'll turn it all
To forest for the king.

3rd Peasant.
And what is left
To till is taxed where plough can never reach,
And spade were choked with furze.

2nd Peasant.
We'll beat them off.
An' teach them they're not hunting deer to-day,
But men with staves and children.

1st Peasant.
Beat them down!

[Exeunt in tumult.
Old Man.
He's sicklied as he were about to die;
The still-born curses hang upon his lips;
Yet I believe he's praying. Beowulf,
Do thou make known this matter to the Lord;
He will avenge.

Beowulf.
The Lord! Oh, He's above!
There's something lying at the roots of things
I burrow for.

Old Man.
Good brother, one is down
In the encounter and they beckon me.
Think on your sins, for I must succour him,
And by the pallor of your face I judge
Your end is come.

[Exit.
Beowulf
[supporting himself against a rock-bound oak].
O mighty in resource,
Earth, wilt thou suffer loss of liberty
Unquivering? A rope about the land!

[A noise heard: the Officers advance.]
1st Officer.
Make way, you blundering lout.

2nd Officer.
Oh, he's a stump,
Let him be bound'ry! Trail the cord along.
Measure from this blind peasant to yo oak
Ten rods. [Looking at Beowulf.]
He's unresistent.

Beowulf
[clasping the rock].
Oh, revenge!

Scene II.

—A Room. Enter Flambard with a letter.
Flambard.
This from my mother. [Reads.]
“I am pelted, stoned,
Hooted, bedraggled, cursed at for a witch.
Save me, sweet Ralf, bid me come over seas;
Under my son's protection I am safe:
But here in Bayeux, naked, sorrowful,
I creep about the corners of the streets,
And spit upon the Christians like a Jew
From my dark covert.”—Ah! the evil eye,
The malice of the woman! Very like
She is a witch. The devil certainly
Is my true sire.

[Enter Messenger.]
Messenger.
So please you, she entreats
For money, and due escort, till she touch
The land where she may safely walk abroad;
Since by the terror of your name men's tongues
Wag circumspectly—this she urged me add,
Fearful the penman had not set her plaint
As eloquent as from her tingling lips
It issued voluble.

Flambard
[giving a paper].
Despatch. I send
This paper and these bags. Looked she in health
When she dictated this? I know her way,—
Her speech warmed at the embers of her eyes,
She never paused till bursting in a laugh
To see the scribe with tortoise, toiling hand
A-cramp to copy all. [Exit Messenger.]
She's given me
My ready tongue. How should a man serve God
By his fine wit? God has no work for him;
Whereas the devil turns to good account
All lies, concupiscence, and avarice.
He keeps the brain at labour all the day:
I like employment; haply in my age
I may take lighter service.

[Enter William Rufus.]
Rufus.
Serious!
Now by my mother's soul—

Flambard.
Most opportune
The oath; both you and I are filial:
We can't forget the look in parents' eyes,
The victor's triumph and the miser's lust
Softened to such a human coveting
As empties the brimmed coffers of the eyes—

Rufus.
True, my fair Chancellor. I can't forget
The Mora bore a figure-head, a boy
Vermilion-cheeked, with clust'ring golden hair.
My father held me up to look at him;
His kiss rubbed harsh against my pouting lips
Agape in wonder, frighting me,—I screamed
And kicked, but heard him whisper, pressing close,
“This the man-child upon whose head I fix
The English royalties—a stalwart son!”
Ralf, my ambition ripes; 'tis harvest-time;
The Conqueror's prophecy must be fulfilled,
Surpassed;—accomplishment exceed presage.
I must have all becomes an emperor—
Wealth, vassals, territory to the steep
Of mountain ramparts inaccessible;
Where with the pasture fails the shepherd's flock,
Be first my name unfrequent. Solitude
Ridge my supremacy. How grows the gold?
I must be prodigal; my nature sweats
Munificence; 'tis healthy to perspire.
Come now, let's look into thy register.

Flambard.
Sire, it exceeds belief how priests will rob
The churches, melt the consecrated gold,
Expose the saint a shamèd penitent
Stripped to the shirt, and from the skeleton
Pluck the loose, dusty ring: they have no awe,
And the revenue waxes.

Rufus.
Hoo, hoo, hoo!
[Throwing money on the table.
A bellyful of laughter! Thirty marks
I cast down on this table, as my mite
Toward the ten thousand owed for Normandy.
How thinkest thou I earned them?

Flambard.
Honestly?
Nay, but by pious subterfuge.

Rufus.
A Jew
Came to me weeping o'er his recreant lad,
Subtle St. Stephen drove to baptism,
As Christ the swine to perish in the sea.
Would I command the convert to abjure
(Here shook the knave his lusty money bags),
He would show gr—ratitude. So I professed
Compassion, fronted the rebellious boy,
And darted on him such a fiery look
As half-fulfilled my threat to rend his eyes.
He feigned to think I jested. My shrewd Ralf,
The youth was shameless in his piety,
And would not be abashed. But afterward
I claimed, as payment of my royal pains,
Half the fore-promised fee; and Abraham,
With his lost child, lost gold, lost impudence,
Turned stubborn on his heel.

Flambard.
Sire, I predict
The heavy Anselm will resign his staff,
So groans he at the vast extortion
Of the oppressèd Church. If he retire
And leave you wolfish pastor of the flock—

[Enter Anselm unseen at a distance.]
Anselm
[aside].
Alas! I'm tired in soul, and for the south
I pine to death as winter-stricken bird;
There is the pain of thwarted wings within
The care-barred prison of my cònfined brain.
Oh, I must fly to Rome, where comfort, rest,
And light would fall as summer on my grief.

Rufus.
Anselm! The name offends me. He hath lost
My Welsh campaign. The pious gentlemen,
His duteous addition to my ranks,
Took field more like the drooping garrison
Of a surrendered city than a troop
Of knights, fresh, emulous, and fair-disposed.
His sheep are for the slaughter.

Anselm.
True, my lord.
They have a deathly look; their means of life
Is swallowed by your officers; their blood
Is shed with their last coins.

Rufus.
Shut up your jaws!

Anselm.
My lord, I come—

Rufus.
The rot consume your sheep

Anselm.
To ask a favour for myself.

Rufus.
For you?

Anselm.
That I may journey for a little space
To Rome—the shrine of comfort raised aloft
On seven-pillared hills. My native skies
Have lately dyed my memory. I long
For cloudless sun and heaven-tinctured peace.
My spirit fails for counsel and relief
Of holy love and guidance fatherly.
Thought leaves me, and the level mists of life
Envelop vision and distort all truth,
Till I am lost and weary.

Rufus.
Am I mad?
Look I insane? No, by my mother's soul,
You shall not leave my billow-guarded shore.
No, no, good father. Have you done a deed
So black and deadly that the Pope alone
Can give you absolution? By God's face,
I never will believe it. Would you ask
The Pope for counsel? You might give him such
With far more fitness than receive 't of him.
You have no need to go.

Anselm.
All pow'r is yours,
And as you will you speak. Another day
What you refused you royally may grant.
I'll multiply my pray'rs.—And patience rule
The fever of my soul.

[Exit.
Rufus.
Ho, ho! Well heard.
Ay, now he's sick and shall be penitent.
How I will taunt him! Sick of hearing bleat
His hungry lambs, he's off to quiet feed
On the green pastures of the Roman slope.
I will be bitter. Go you after him,
Say his petition has much moved the king,
Who threatens worse oppression.
[Exit Flambard.
It is odd;
I plague this saint and cannot part with him.
The company of fiends is tedious;
One must have something holy to torment,
And—and ... if fever struck me down again,
I should have hunger for the face of God,
Though it should damn me. He's a remedy
Not to be loosed from hand. I'll make him smart.

[Exit.

Scene III.

—Winchester: a Street, leading to the Council Chamber. At the door a crowd of Townsfolk. Enter Purkis, with a cart laden with apples, accompanied by Godric.
Purkis.

So now they think the world's whole business is
being settled within four walls. And they stand gaping—
never see it's the harvest, and the harvest-men who break
the ground and build fuel that determine things. Can't you
gape at me? I'm the charcoal-burner; 'twas a trade before
that of the bishop or the tax-gatherer, and is likely to continue,
though my Lord Anselm show his whims.

1st Citizen.

It is come to Council; 'tis the great event.

Purkis.

Ay, whether the Archbishop may take a holiday
in Rome.

2nd Citizen.

Oh, the bishops are with the king, and most
of us townsfolk in a wonder one of so gentle a disposition as
our Lord of Canterbury should grow restless for his pleasure,
while the people endure the bitter onslaughts of calamity.
Whom have you here?

Purkis.

Why the good canon Godric, my brother. But
my lord of Twynham liked not the fashion of his piety, soon
as he found his purse needed endowment. Out he whips
him, tumbles over the stones of the old church, and now is
himself dean, patron, architect, and most marvellous mendicant
in one.

1st Citizen.

Ay, the men of God are mightily abused.
Good father, we hope to see you righted.

Purkis.

There's my boy Wilfrith, never watching the
crowd, stuffing his eyes in at the keyhole. So monks and
priests misinterpret. All a pother if there's blight on the
rose-tree: the smut o' the corn-field never strikes 'em. Well,
Wilfrith, what brings you from Twynham?

Wilfrith.

Love of the holy man we fear to lose.

Godric.

You have rightly marked him—yet if he fleer at
the king's authority he must be punished. He must be an
Englishman with the rest of us, drink the air of custom, or
as a foreigner he'll suffer our misliking.

2nd Citizen.

He's for the Pope.

3rd Citizen.

He's just for his own ease. He's fleeing
away from us, as a woman flees from her man when he
catches her lad by the shoulders, with a rod in his other
hand. She hasn't strength to resist him, nor pity to stay
dress the blue stripes of her beaten brat. She'll just to a
neighbour's and recover.

2nd Citizen.

For my part I think it's no more than a
lunacy. When we're mazed we always want to go back to
where we came from. It's natural. But I doubt whether
anything turns out well, tried over again. The meat may be
the same, but there's age in the appetite.

Purkis.

Right, man; blue skies are excellent; one leaves
them, has the heart-ache and returns for cure to stare heavenward.
Our blessings are rarely our remedies. It takes
something medicinal in the way of sorrow to restore us.

Wilfrith.
Father, hush!
Here comes good brother Baldwin full of news.

[Enter Baldwin from within the Council-chamber.]
Baldwin.
They have deserted him, he stands alone.
His bishops whom he gently did adjure,
Choked by the cares of kinship, and the sweet
Flesh-woven bands of this entangling world,
Refuse to pass beyond the fealty
Owed to the king.

2nd Citizen.
Good, good!

Wilfrith.
But the Archbishop will be firm?

Baldwin.
A martyr's constancy is in his eyes,
And a confessor's cheerfulness. He sends
Word to the king that he will cleave to God.
Soon as the messengers again assail
His weary ears, I will return to you.
Meanwhile, pray for him.

[Exit.
Wilfrith.
That he may be firm.

[Kneels apart.
Purkis.

Now, la! at a crisis what's the use of one's knees.
Muster your wits, man, and leave mumbling. If Father
Anselm need a holiday, he should come down to our playground,
see the king at his royal sports. Oh, it's merry in
the greenwood, and dad roaring like a lion when the officers
come near his lair. I should like the Archbishop to encounter
him. He's disordered, past my management.

3rd Citizen.

He's grown infirm.

Purkis.

Ay, but not silly, like a dotard—does too many
things in 's mind at once, and then sits idle like a huswife in
the midst.

4th Citizen.
I mind me of old Beowulf, the lad
Who would sit throwing stones into the pond;
We shied them at the birds, the rest of us,
And laughed that all he cared for was to see
The circles on the water grow and spread
All day; by rights he should ha' minded sheep.

3rd Citizen.

Well, I can't picture him growing peevish
and old. Seemed to me he had senses hidden in himself, as
a miser a bag of gold beyond reach. I warrant he'll not sit
by the fire and wheeze till bed-time. He's ne'er known the
ague.

Purkis.

No: he's not the litter of age—infirmities.
Godric, that boy [pointing to Wilfrith]
can give you tidings
of your absence. How fares it? Is it made much of, or
slighted?

Wilfrith.
We are full of hope,
Dear uncle, you will be restored to us;
For, since the Bishop of St. Calais pined,
Sickened, and died, our restless overseer
Grows discontented with his deanery,
Neglects to thwart the canons, and repines
Our Church should exercise so slenderly
Pow'rs of design that for expression need
The wealth and domination of a see.
All this is from his mouth; the brethren smile
And nodding whisper, “Fiery Flambard builds,
But we shall have our dean to consecrate
The beautiful new minster.”

Godric.
Can it be
The bishopric of Durham shall be seized
At the king's private pleasure as a boon
To Flambard?

Purkis.

Fortune, imitating Providence, misplants her
crops that all in the soil of circumstance may receive the
discipline of adversity. This holy man, who in Normandy
grew like a watered oak, must now look for his aliment from
the heavens. English earth is too impoverished for his
nurture.

Wilfrith.
Oh, father, by his ghostly help he cheered
St. Calais, who so deeply wounded him.
Each living creature he includes in love;
England in him will lose the advocate,
The single righteous man, who might prevail
To stay the must'ring vengeance of the Lord.

Purkis.
And dost thou love thy country?

Wilfrith.
Ay, the souls
It breeds for hell and heaven.

Purkis
[to Godric].
Brother, you?

Godric.

Sooth, I love it for what is not, the old worship
and the old ways—the Saxon Church.

Purkis.

Dad, I think, loves it corporeally, for the very
mould's sake; while I never fret till the babies pule and the
young lasses wear the brows of widows. That enrages me.
Anything unnatural in the seasons of life: Youth uncomplaining;

Age unquerulous; women too weary-like to use
courtesy to their dead; and the only strange thing happening,
an encounter with the devil.

[Re-enter Baldwin.]
Baldwin.
Dear brethren, list! a joy is in his eyes;
He hears that he may go: the harsh reserve
And grasping petty rancour of the king
That will condemn him to trudge penniless,
He doth not hear: his cheek already glows
Ardent, as with the sun of Italy
Sooth-tinctured.

3rd Citizen.
The good bishop—he will flee?
How said the brother?

Godric.
Let us be resigned.
The king will have his way with us, extort
Till life is drained away from us: of men
There will be dearth for slaughter.

Wilfrith.
Our last hope
Is gone.

Purkis.

Nay, lad, look cheerily; God 's everywhere about.
The priest may frighten the crows from the harvest; it's the
Husbandman knows what He put in the ground and what
will come out. Let the Italian back to his blue skies!
things will settle, if we've patience.

Scene IV.

—Within the Council-hall. The outer chamber. Anselm and Eadmer.
Anselm.
Edmer, that I should not appeal to Rome,
They ask this of me? I appeal to God
To guide me to the threshold of His saints.
I must away. ... It is an agony
That urges me. I must behold the face
Of Christ's great soldier, hear of holy wars.
It is insufferable I should be fined
For sorry trim and escort of my troops,
Or bear reproach from any over-lord
Save Him who may most righteously complain
That I have wronged Him in my negligence.

Eadmer.
How bitterly you weep!—sevenfold your grief
Like the dear Mother's.

Anselm.
I must flee the world;
Necessity is on me. I will start
Barefoot and naked to the holy hills,
A penitent, and pray for my own peace.

Eadmer.
The flock, my father, the unsheltered souls?

Anselm.
O Edmer, I went lonely as a child
To pour my angry heart out unto Heaven,
And the Lord smiled, and set me down to feast
Who paused not by the idling harvesters.
I must complain to Him.

Eadmer.
'Tis marvellous.
You speak of Rome as 'twere Jerusalem.

Anselm.
There God hath left His shadow upon earth;
There is the Bride, the Church; there shall I hear
The Bridegroom's voice delighting over her;
There is the door to the warm-breathing fold,
The Shepherd's blessing, and the pasture's peace.

Eadmer.
Dear master, I am eager to be gone.

Anselm.
Nay, but the pang and the extremity,
The joy that is too much.

[Enter Messenger.]
Messenger.
My lord, the king
Conveys his pleasure thus:—

Anselm.
My will is fixed;
I cleave to God.

Messenger.
He graciously allows
You leave his kingdom; in eleven days
Be ready at the haven to receive
A messenger, who duly shall provide
You and your escort for the pilgrimage.

Eadmer.
Then shall we onward? You are sick at heart,
Home-sick for holiness: you languish here.
We'll straightway to our quarters, and be glad
In happy preparation.

Anselm
[to Messenger, pointing to inner chamber].
Is he there,
The king?

Messenger.
The audience is broken up;
The bishops and the courtiers intermix,
And, past the boundary of our monarch's ears,
Lament the land's bereavement.

Anselm.
But the king?

Messenger.
He is not wrathful; he sits moodily
And meditates beside your grace's chair
Without an oath or gesture. I ne'er saw
His busy face so still.

Anselm.
Edmer—O God,
Why dost Thou set my love upon the damned?
Do not I nightly wrestle for the soul
Of Osbern, my beloved? Now in mine age
Must I take on my heart the infamies
Of this blasphemer? [To Messenger.]
I will speak with him.
[Aside.]
Alas! how oft
He hath broke in upon my happy hours
Of contemplation! Can it be, in Rome
I shall forget him? I will say farewell.

[He signs to the Messenger to conduct him to the King. A curtain is drawn back, an inner chamber discovered The King on a throne; a vacant chair beside him. At some distance the retiring Bishops and Courtiers are seen conversing.
Rufus
[after a long pause].
He shall be banished; from this holy man
I will break loose. God is but poorly served
In His omnipotence. His hirelings flee
Being a-hired, and care not for the flock.
I and the devil in duality
Will sceptre England, haply Rome itself,
And mock this Anselm with his scallop-shell
I'll gird him now. He hath stood over me
(My neck beneath his foot) we have changed place;
He shall make restitution and amends
For this annoyance and the sorry aid
He furnished me; and I will banish him. ...
True, his dove's spirit lay among the pots
Of my foul nature, and ne'er soiled her plumes.
I liked to feel him close: now in his stead
I'll plant Beelzebub. [To his Clerk.]
You, William, there,
Meet the Archbishop at the water's marge;
Search well his baggage: let the crowd look on;
Expose the treasons of the runaway.
[Aside.]
This empty chair ...

[Enter Anselm, followed by Eadmer.]
Anselm.
My liege, I'm starting; if with your good will
It had been better; even as it is,
I cannot part from love of your soul's health;
And now as ghostly father to his son,
As Anselm to the king, beseech you take
My blessing.

Rufus.
Father, I refuse it not.

[Anselm silently makes the sign of the cross over the King, and blesses him.
Anselm
[to Eadmer].
Come, Edmer, we are pilgrims, and my shell
Is my own yearning heart.

[Exit with Eadmer.
Rufus.
Now he is gone. ...
What! my eyes wet? I warrant he shall weep
He ever left me. [To Clerk.]
William, you are slack;
Turn o'er his goods; and we will b—b—banish him.

[Exit Walter; the King buries his face in his hands.