University of Virginia Library

SCENE VII.

Saltwood Grange in Kent. Monks and Serfs employed at rural labours.
Becket and John of Salisbury girt up as woodcutters.
John of S.
O how it glads me, my dear lord, to see you
Peacefully here among us! thus employ'd
In labours wholesome to the body and mind
Refreshing, sweetening, fortifying both,
For blood the sap is of the total man
Which feeds his powers throughout. Why do you start?
Is not the pigmiest creature of us all
In that a very Antæus, that he gathers
New strength each time from Earth's maternal breast,
When he is thrown upon it?

Becket.
You are classical!

John of S.
So says your lip, your nostril says—pedantic.
'Twas the fit word, 'twas the fit word in sooth!
But these old fables, let me tell you, are
Often of larger, richer truth than facts.
Pass that!—I say our good St. Benedict
Ne'er show'd himself more Solomon in his rules
Than when he this enjoin'd upon his Order:
Give your minds hands; marry the practical
To the contemplative, that joint fruit may follow
With all the juice of both, earthful, ethereal.

Becket.
'Twas a good rule: so be it.

John of S.
Here as thou stand'st
Amongst thy household, like a Patriarch,
While clouds are thickening o'er us, I could deem thee
A Noah, when heaven's flood about to burst,
Ponder'd above the world.

Becket.
Let it come down,
We are prepared for it!

John of S.
No, not quite yet:
We must fall to a little.

[Beginning to hew.
Becket.
Simpleton!
He cannot understand this weighty moment
When there 's a flood indeed may sweep us all
Into confounding ruin.

John of S.
Is not this better,
Drawing moist fragrance from the rural air
Than adding our foul sweat to the reek o' the city?
This hurtless war against the yielding trees,
Than broils with kings and barons?

Becket.
John, I tell you,
Hurtless as this cool war to you may seem,
'Twill end in blood!

John of S.
Blood?—I've read something
Like it in Virgil.

Becket.
You are a dreamer, John!
You know not what we speak of. I do tell ye
This quarrel cannot end except in blood.
Are you awake? have you no eyes? no ears?
The King forswears himself, foregoes with me
All his concessions, promises, oaths, pacts!
Here am I sent to Saltwood home in shame
By that miscrownèd Youth they call a King,
Whom as a very mistress I set out
To woo with flattering words and dazzling gifts!

John of S.
But where the need to dazzle him or flatter,
If you brought honest homage, liege affection?
Why did you, first, declining to absolve
Those Bishops on their penitence, give cause
King Harry should decline from favouring you?

Becket.
The Bishops!—John, there is some buzz abroad
You would be one!

John of S.
I am to be, good sooth,
By the King's gracious offer.

Becket.
Ay, indeed?
Small wonder then you take his part against me!

John of S.
Becket, you could not such mean thoughts surmise
In me, were all your own magnanimous!
From heart unsound proceeds a breath which taints
The fame it blows on. Did you whilome take
The King's part, then, but to be made archbishop?
I deem'd it was through conscience,—though you changed!
Are these your acts, ostensive for the Church,
But to exalt, enrich, empower yourself?
In truth this has been “buzzed,” and loud enough,
Yet with the bigotry of friendship, John
Thought 'twas by wasps and idle gnats alone!

Becket.
Forgive me, John: but I feel even the globe
Hollow beneath me; treason hems me round;
Destruction hatches under mine own eaves,
Broods in the grove beside us. Even the Church,
False to herself, cannot be true to me:
Doth she not now adulterate with the King,
His Holiness being pandar? bribed thereto
By his rich-worded promises to stop
Fierce Barbarossa's rage,—a gilded bait
Which only gudgeons catch at! Every Nuncio,
Yea the whole Conclave, fill their purse with gems
Torn from the English Mitre. Louis of France,
My steadiest prop till now, begins to wax
Rotten at core, and fails me at most need.
Ah, simple John! the world is not so smooth
As scholars dream.

John of S.
I did not say 'twas smooth,
Unless men take it smoothly.

Becket.
Wise good man!
(Aside.)
Blockhead! who cannot see conspiracy
Darken and thicken like those sinister rooks
Upon the trees above us; nay, even hear it
Croaking in hoarse accord, like them, for carnage!
(Aloud.)
I muse on what you say: how best to meet
With calmest dignity the coming storm.
'Twill come, be sure, and soon: for I know well
The king holds by his Constitutions yet
Stubborn, as by his crown. 'Tis all cajolery
This truce with Louis, with the Pope, with me;
But to gain time and pick occasion
For his unsleeping purpose. Becket alone
Awakes to baffle it, and can, and will,—
Let him thereafter sleep as dead a sleep
As e'er laid head upon a pillow of dust!

John of S.
Not all alone: I'm with thee to the last!

Becket.
Come on, then! Thou shalt see my power compel
This proud king on his knees to me, albeit
The struggle lay me, too, breathless on earth!

[Exit.
John of S.
Would there were less of passion and of pride
In our self-sacrifice! oft made for self,
For our own glorification, when we seem
Devoted all for others! Yet he thinks
It is the Church he serves, and if so, Heaven
Pardon him if he hurts her in himself!

[Exit.