 | Thomas À Becket |  |
SCENE I.
The Base-court of the Palace.Enter De Morville and De Traci, meeting John of Salisbury and Walter Mapes.
De Traci.
Hey, Master Bookworms! have ye heard the
news—the wonderful news?
Mapes.
Heard it forsooth?—had I no more ears than a
fish, I must have heard it. Hath it not stricken the whole
city aghast, like an earthquake? All London is in the
streets; yet who told it me I cannot guess, for every one
seemed dumbfounded!
John of S.
I am sorry the Primate has gone so far.
De Traci.
Ay, ay, here's a feat indeed!—put this in your
next Romance, Master Walter! put this in your “Sang-Real”
or what d'ye call it?
De Morville.
Let it be Sang-episcopal, and no Romance,
if you love me!
Mapes.
Nay, by King Arthur and all his Knights! there
will be some dragon's blood spilt at all events. Both are
such fire-breathers!
John of S.
But is the tale as true as it is new? Hath he
indeed cited into Court the great Earl of Clare, cousin and
friend to the king? and launched excommunication against
William de Eynsford, as puissant a knight as ever wore spurs,
and as proud a baron as ever tramped over drawbridge on
steed shod with silver?
De Morville.
No less true than portentous. Becket
was born for a soldier, though he has turned out but a
and if not a crusher 'tis a confounder.
Mapes.
What! he lays church-claim to Tunbridge-Castle?
De Morville.
Ay, “cousin Clare's” castle, as an apanage
of his own diocese; and his pet-incumbent being ejected
by Sir William, head-foremost, from some church—I forget
its name—he ejects Sir William, sans cérémonie, from all
churches whatsoever!
Mapes.
How does the king take this?—does he not rage,
foam, call down the devil's blessing upon Becket?
De Traci.
Oh, sir, no torrent half so still! no cataract
Is quieter!—Ha! ha! ha! ha!—how goes the chanson,
Walter the Jongleur?—thus?
Sings.
Sur un cheval qui tôt alloit,
Devant eux alloit chantant
De Charlemagne et de Rolant,
Et d'Olivier de Vassaux,
Qui moururent en Roncevaux!
Mapes
(to John of S.).
Mark this French popinjay: he sees the air
Grow clouded with thick shafts of death, yet still
Chatters and hops and sings!
John of S.
Ay, light of heart
As heels!
Mapes.
Yea, and as light of head as either!—
Sir Hugh, 'twill be a bustle!—'Twere more strange
The king should not be vex'd, than vex'd beyond
All measure. He has been disappointed much!
De Morville.
His swan has turn'd a rank wild-goose!
Mapes.
Or rather
His duck has turn'd a fire-drake!—Welcome, Peter!
Run not so fast, good brother-scribe!—Hast thou too
Been frighted by this thunder-storm just burst
As broad as England, out of thy calm cell?
Peter.
Marry, my wits are so distract, I run
Two ways at once,—and all ways but the right!
I wish'd to seek the father of the flock,
Th' Archbishop,—and find me i' the lion's den!
De Morville.
Alas, poor sheep!
Peter.
Pray tell me, have the sun
And moon not come together—clash?
De Morville.
Thou 'lt see
The whole land cover'd with their fiery splinters,
Ere long, be sure of it! Dost thou not feel
The air about thee glow with agitation?
Peter.
Methinks my ears do feel a little hot!
Mapes.
I'll make them tingle. What say'st thou for thy patron?
Thou 'dst ever have it he was too immersed
I' the fount of England's Helicon; or entangled
In the fine meshes of philosophy;
Given up to science mathematical,
Arithmetic, astrology, and so forth;
To rhetoric, logic, ethic, and to law,
Besides those gallant studies, wit conceipts,
We lighter gentry deem of weight: why, man!
Those maggots of his brain are very snakes,
Which one hot day has brought forth ready-fang'd
And wing'd, to be the plague of this poor realm!
Peter.
Thy crany seems something worm-eaten too,
And leaks apace; or warm imagination
Hath crack'd thy poet skull, and out fly crotchets!
But Walter, all thy volatile grubs o' the brain
Are harmless—only to thyself!
Heaven grant
The same may still be said of Becket's too,
Harmless,—save to himself!
John of S.
A truce of tongues!—
But what will come—what can—except vast ill,
From this fierce struggle between Church and State?
Which of these wrestling Titans shall be thrown?
Peter.
England 's too little to contain them both,
I fear—I fear!
Mapes.
How does the Primate bear him
During this rout?
De Morville.
I 've come from him but now:
My message was, that he might please recal
His rash anathema against De Eynsford,
As ne'er such sentence has been, since the Conquest,
Fulmined without fore-notice to the king.
Mapes.
Well, how demean'd he him?
De Morville.
Meek as a nun.
Mapes.
Nay, but in very truth?
De Morville.
In downright truth!
He neither stamp'd, nor champ'd, nor raved, nor swore,—
Except by St. Bartholomew's holy thumb,
Which he (who whilome play'd as lief with dice
Of dead saint's bone, as ivory!) now caresses
Linnet-like in his breast, and kisses oft
And soft, as he e'er did sweet sinner's hand!—
No, sir! he sucks his tooth, and sends me back
With this submiss and placable reply—
His humble service, 'twas not for the king
To tell him whom he should absolve, or whom
Pronounce accursèd.
Mapes.
An ungracious speech!
De Traci.
I say unmannerly! most unpolite!—
(Sings.)
N'en verrez guères de courtois!
His father was a London cit and his mother a Syrian bondslave:
where should he get good-breeding?
De Morville.
The saucy shaveling! Were it left to me,
I'd so mash his lips together with a blow of my steel glove,
they should no more separate again than if Death had
glued them into one—the traitor!
John of S.
Nay, not a traitor; 'tis too hard a word.
Enter Brito.
Brito.
Gentlemen, to the King!
De Morville and De Traci.
We 're with him!
[Exeunt these and Brito.
Peter.
The men of war gone!—what will become of us?
Mapes.
We have nothing to do but sit agape at each
other and croak, like a congregation of toads round a pool
—till we are squash'd into mummy by a shower of missiles.
Peter.
Saint Longinus preserve us!
John of S.
Why seek we not our calm, secluded cells,
And there in study or dim meditation
Consume the soul-improving hours? Let death
Come when it will, and how it will, what matter?
Since it will come at last!—These mad turmoils
Of the outer world, what are they unto us
But noise of Centaurs and of Savages
Fighting ev'n at their feasts?—For idle Courts,
The mountain-shaded moors where nothing stirs
Save the wild daffodil or crispèd fern
Or long lithe broom that flows with every breeze,
Or thistlebeard scarce wafted on, less make
A melancholy desert unto me:
The murmuring branches and the flowers that kiss
Each other's ear in talk, please me far more
Than whisperers of follies, hearers of them,
Or those who lay their fond heads on your neck
But to void scandalous venom there at ease:
Of rivulets, the caw of rooks, much better;
Yea, than the lisp of a Circean dame
Or babble of a living doll, had rather
Hear the soft winnowing of a pigeon's wing
As it doth circle round its dovecote o'er me;
And fain this challenge proud of trumps would change
For sound of shepherd pipe or village bell:
Would'st thou not, Peter?
Peter.
Yes,—so I 'll away
To the Archbishop's palace!
[Exit.
Mapes.
Ha! ha! ha! the village-bell?—the dinner-bell,
he thought you spoke of! Among all flowers 'tis the Canterbury
bells he is most in love with: these are the rural
objects which give Peter a taste for the country!
John of S.
He is a Frenchman too!—I 'll to my dormitory,
and finish my “Contemptibilities of Courts.”
[Exit.
Mapes.
And I as his chaplain must attend the king, to
preach patience, and give him absolution for his oaths—
after each repentance.
[Exit.
| Thomas À Becket | |