The Saint's Tragedy

Lewis.  Good news, my Princess; in the street belowConrad, the man of God from Marpurg, standsAnd from a bourne-stone to the simple folkDoes thunder doctrine, preaching faith, repentance,And dread of all foul heresies; his eyesOn heaven still set, save when with searching frownHe lours upon the crowd, who round him cowerLike quails beneath the hawk, and gape, and tremble,Now raised to heaven, now down again to hell.I stood beside and heard; like any doe’sMy heart did rise and fall.Eliz.  Oh, let us hear him!We too need warning; shame, if we let pass,Unentertained, God’s angels on their way.Send for him, brother.Lewis.  Let a knight go downAnd say to the holy man, the Landgrave LewisWith humble greetings prays his blessednessTo make these secular walls the spirit’s templeAt least to-night.Eliz.  Now go, my ladies, both—Prepare fit lodgings,—let your courtesiesRetain in our poor courts the man of God.

[Exeunt.  Lewis and Elizabeth are left alone.]

Now hear me, best beloved:—I have marked this man:And that which hath scared others, draws me towards him:He has the graces which I want; his sternnessI envy for its strength; his fiery boldnessI call the earnestness which dares not trifleWith life’s huge stake; his coldness but the calmOf one who long hath found, and keeps unwavering,Clear purpose still; he hath the gift which speaksThe deepest things most simply; in his eyeI dare be happy—weak I dare not be.With such a guide,—to save this little heart—The burden of self-rule—Oh—half my workWere eased, and I could live for thee and thine,And take no thought of self.  Oh, be not jealous,Mine own, mine idol!  For thy sake I ask it—I would but be a mate and help more meetFor all thy knightly virtues.Lewis.  ’Tis too true!I have felt it long; we stand, two weakling children,Under too huge a burden, while temptationsLike adders swarm up round: I must be led—But thou alone shall lead me.Eliz.  I? beloved!This load more?  Strengthen, Lord, the feeble knees!Lewis.  Yes! thou, my queen, who making thyself once mine,Hast made me sevenfold thine; I own thee guideOf my devotions, mine ambition’s lodestar,The Saint whose shrine I serve with lance and lute;If thou wilt have a ruler, let him be,Through thee, the ruler of thy slave.  [Kneels to her.]Eliz.  Oh, kneel not—But grant my prayer—If we shall find this man,As well I know him, worthy, let him beDirector of my conscience and my actionsWith all but thee—Within love’s inner shrineWe shall be still alone—But joy! here comesOur embassy, successful.

[Enter Conrad, with Count Walter, Monks, Ladies, etc.]

Conrad.  Peace to this house.Eliz.  Hail to your holiness.Lewis.  The odour of your sanctity and might,With balmy steam and gales of Paradise,Forestalls you hither.Eliz.  Bless us doubly, master,With holy doctrine, and with holy prayers.Con.  Children, I am the servant of Christ’s servants—And needs must yield to those who may commandBy right of creed; I do accept your bounty—Not for myself, but for that priceless name,Whose dread authority and due commission,Attested by the seal of His vicegerent,I bear unworthy here; through my vile lipsChrist and His vicar thank you; on myself—And these, my brethren, Christ’s adopted poor—A menial’s crust, and some waste nook, or dog-hutch,Wherein the worthless flesh may nightly hide,Are best bestowed.Eliz.  You shall be where you will—Do what you will; unquestioned, unobserved,Enjoy, refrain; silence and solitude,The better part which such like spirits choose,We will provide; only be you our master,And we your servants, for a few short days:Oh, blessed days!Con.  Ah, be not hasty, madam;Think whom you welcome; one who has no skillTo wink and speak smooth things; whom fear of GodConstrains to daily wrath; who brings, alas!A sword, not peace: within whose bones the wordBurns like a pent-up fire, and makes him boldIf aught in you or yours shall seem amiss,To cry aloud and spare not; let me go—To pray for you—as I have done long time,Is sweeter than to chide you.Eliz.  Then your prayersShall drive home your rebukes; for both we need you—Our snares are many, and our sins are more.So say not nay—I’ll speak with you apart.

[Elizabeth and Conrad retire.]

Lewis [aside].  Well, Walter mine, how like you the good legate?Wal.  Walter has seen nought of him but his eye;And that don’t please him.Lewis.  How so, sir! that faceIs pure and meek—a calm and thoughtful eye.

Wal.  A shallow, stony, steadfast eye; that looks at neither man nor beast in the face, but at something invisible a yard before him, through you and past you, at a fascination, a ghost of fixed purposes that haunts him, from which neither reason nor pity will turn him.  I have seen such an eye in men possessed—with devils, or with self: sleek, passionless men, who are too refined to be manly, and measure their grace by their effeminacy; crooked vermin, who swarm up in pious times, being drowned out of their earthly haunts by the spring-tide of religion; and so making a gain of godliness, swim upon the first of the flood, till it cast them ashore on the firm beach of wealth and station.  I always mistrust those wall-eyed saints.

Lewis.  Beware, Sir Count; your keen and worldly witIs good for worldly uses, not to tiltWithal at holy men and holy things.He pleases well the spiritual senseOf my most peerless lady, whose discernmentIs still the touchstone of my grosser fancy:He is her friend, and mine: and you must love himEven for our sakes alone, [to a bystander]  A word with you, sir.

[In the meantime Elizabeth and Conrad are talking together.]

Eliz.  I would be taught—Con.  It seems you claim some knowledge,By choosing thus your teacher.Eliz.  I would know more—Con.  Go then to the schools—and be no wiser, madam;And let God’s charge here run to waste, to seekThe bitter fruit of knowledge—hunt the rainbowO’er hill and dale, while wisdom rusts at home.Eliz.  I would be holy, master—Con.  Be so, then.God’s will stands fair: ’tis thine which fails, if any.Eliz.  I would know how to rule—Con.  Then must thou learnThe needs of subjects, and be ruled thyself.Sink, if thou longest to rise; become most small—The strength which comes by weakness makes thee great.Eliz.  I will.Lewis.  What, still at lessons?  Come, my fairest sister,Usher the holy man unto his lodgings.  [Exeunt.]

Wal [alone].  So, so, the birds are limed:—Heaven grant that we do not soon see them stowed in separate cages.  Well, here my prophesying ends.  I shall go to my lands, and see how much the gentlemen my neighbours have stolen off them the last week,—Priests?  Frogs in the king’s bedchamber!  What says the song?

I once had a hound, a right good hound,A hound both fleet and strong:He ate at my board, and he slept by my bed,And ran with me all the day long.But my wife took a priest, a shaveling priest,And ‘such friendships are carnal,’ quoth he.So my wife and her priest they drugged the poor beast,And the rat’s bane is waiting for me.

SCENE III

The Gateway of a Convent.  Night.

Enter Conrad.

Con.  This night she swears obedience to me!  Wondrous Lord!How hast Thou opened a path, where my young dreamsMay find fulfilment: there are propheciesUpon her, make me bold.  Why comes she not?She should be here by now.  Strange, how I shrink—I, who ne’er yet felt fear of man or fiend.Obedience to my will!  An awful charge!But yet, to have the training of her sainthood;To watch her rise above this wild world’s wavesLike floating water-lily, towards heaven’s lightOpening its virgin snows, with golden eyeMirroring the golden sun; to be her champion,And war with fiends for her; that were a ‘quest’;That were true chivalry; to bring my JudgeThis jewel for His crown; this noble soul,Worth thousand prudish clods of barren clay,Who mope for heaven because earth’s grapes are sour—Her, full of youth, flushed with the heart’s rich first-fruits,Tangled in earthly pomp—and earthly love.Wife?  Saint by her face she should be: with such looksThe queen of heaven, perchance, slow pacing cameAdown our sleeping wards, when DominicSank fainting, drunk with beauty:—she is most fair!Pooh!  I know nought of fairness—this I know,She calls herself my slave, with such an airAs speaks her queen, not slave; that shall be looked to—She must be pinioned or she will range abroadUpon too bold a wing; ’t will cost her pain—But what of that? there are worse things than pain—What! not yet here?  I’ll in, and there await herIn prayer before the altar: I have need on’t:And shall have more before this harvest’s ripe.

[As Conrad goes out, Elizabeth, Isentrudis, and Guta enter.]

Eliz.  I saw him just before us: let us onward;We must not seem to loiter.Isen.  Then you promiseExact obedience to his sole directionHenceforth in every scruple?Eliz.  In all I can,And be a wife.Guta.  Is it not a double bondage?A husband’s will is clog enough.  Be sure,Though free, I crave more freedom.Eliz.  So do I—This servitude shall free me—from myself.Therefore I’ll swear.Isen.  To what?Eliz.  I know not wholly:But this I know, that I shall swear to-nightTo yield my will unto a wiser will;To see God’s truth through eyes which, like the eagle’s,From higher Alps undazzled eye the sun.Compelled to discipline from which my slothWould shrink, unbidden,—to deep devious pathsWhich my dull sight would miss, I now can plunge,And dare life’s eddies fearless.Isen.  You will repent it.Eliz.  I do repent, even now.  Therefore I’ll swear.And bind myself to that, which once being light,Will not be less right, when I shrink from it.No; if the end be gained—if I be raisedTo freer, nobler use, I’ll dare, I’ll welcomeHim and his means, though they were racks and flames.Come, ladies, let us in, and to the chapel.  [Exeunt.]

SCENE IV

A Chamber.  Guta, Isentrudis, and a Lady.

Lady.  Doubtless she is most holy—but for wisdom—Say if ’tis wise to spurn all rules, all censures,And mountebank it in the public waysTill she becomes a jest?Isen.  How’s this?Lady.  For one thing—Yestreen I passed her in the open street,Following the vocal line of chanting priests,Clad in rough serge, and with her soft bare feetWooing the ruthless flints; the gaping crowdUnknowing whom they held, did thrust and jostleHer tender limbs; she saw me as she passed—And blushed and veiled her face, and smiled withal.Isen.  Oh, think, she’s not seventeen yet.Guta.  Why expectWisdom with love in all?  Each has his gift—Our souls are organ pipes of diverse stopAnd various pitch; each with its proper notesThrilling beneath the self-same breath of God.Though poor alone, yet joined, they’re harmony.Besides these higher spirits must not bendTo common methods; in their inner worldThey move by broader laws, at whose expressionWe must adore, not cavil: here she comes—The ministering Saint, fresh from the poor of Christ.

[Elizabeth enters without cloak or shoes, carrying an empty basket.]

Isen.  What’s here, my Princess?  Guta, fetch her robes!Rest, rest, my child!Eliz [throwing herself on a seat]  Oh!  I have seen such things!I shudder still; your gay looks dazzle me;As those who long in hideous darkness pentBlink at the daily light; this room’s too bright!We sit in a cloud, and sing, like pictured angels,And say, the world runs smooth—while right belowWelters the black fermenting heap of lifeOn which our state is built: I saw this dayWhat we might be, and still be Christian women:And mothers too—I saw one, laid in childbedThese three cold weeks upon the black damp straw;No nurses, cordials, or that nice paradeWith which we try to balk the curse of Eve—And yet she laughed, and showed her buxom boy,And said, Another week, so please the Saints,She’d be at work a-field.  Look here—and here—

[Pointing round the room.]

I saw no such things there; and yet they lived.Our wanton accidents take root, and growTo vaunt themselves God’s laws, until our clothes,Our gems, and gaudy books, and cushioned littersBecome ourselves, and we would fain forgetThere live who need them not.  [Guta offers to robe her.]Let be, beloved—I will taste somewhat this same poverty—Try these temptations, grudges, gnawing shames,For which ’tis blamed; how probe an unfelt evil?Would’st be the poor man’s friend?  Must freeze with him—Test sleepless hunger—let thy crippled backAche o’er the endless furrow; how was He,The blessed One, made perfect?  Why, by grief—The fellowship of voluntary grief—He read the tear-stained book of poor men’s souls,As I must learn to read it.  Lady! lady!Wear but one robe the less—forego one meal—And thou shalt taste the core of many talesWhich now flit past thee, like a minstrel’s songs,The sweeter for their sadness.Lady.  Heavenly wisdom!Forgive me!Eliz.  How?  What wrong is mine, fair dame?Lady.  I thought you, to my shame—less wise than holy.But you have conquered: I will test these sorrowsOn mine own person; I have toyed too longIn painted pinnace down the stream of life,Witched with the landscape, while the weary rowersFaint at the groaning oar: I’ll be thy pupil.Farewell.  Heaven bless thy labours and thy lesson.

[Exit.]

Isen.  We are alone.  Now tell me, dearest lady,How came you in this plight?Eliz.  Oh! chide not, nurse—My heart is full—and yet I went not far—Even here, close by, where my own bower looks downUpon that unknown sea of wavy roofs,I turned into an alley ’neath the wall—And stepped from earth to hell.—The light of heaven,The common air, was narrow, gross, and dun;The tiles did drop from the eaves; the unhinged doorsTottered o’er inky pools, where reeked and curdledThe offal of a life; the gaunt-haunched swineGrowled at their christened playmates o’er the scraps.Shrill mothers cursed; wan children wailed; sharp coughsRang through the crazy chambers; hungry eyesGlared dumb reproach, and old perplexity,Too stale for words; o’er still and webless loomsThe listless craftsmen through their elf-locks scowled;These were my people! all I had, I gave—They snatched it thankless (was it not their own?Wrung from their veins, returning all too late?);Or in the new delight of rare possession,Forgot the giver; one did sit apart,And shivered on a stone; beneath her ragsNestled two impish, fleshless, leering boys,Grown old before their youth; they cried for bread—She chid them down, and hid her face and wept;I had given all—I took my cloak, my shoes(What could I else?  ’Twas but a moment’s wantWhich she had borne, and borne, day after day),And clothed her bare gaunt arms and purpled feet,Then slunk ashamed away to wealth and honour.

[Conrad enters.]

What!  Conrad? unannounced!  This is too bold!Peace!  I have lent myself—and I must takeThe usury of that loan: your pleasure, master?Con.  Madam, but yesterday, I bade your presence,To hear the preached word of God; I preached—And yet you came not.—Where is now your oath?Where is the right to bid, you gave to me?Am I your ghostly guide?  I asked it not.Of your own will you tendered that, which, given,Became not choice, but duty.—What is here?Think not that alms, or lowly-seeming garments,Self-willed humilities, pride’s decent mummers,Can raise above obedience; she from GodHer sanction draws, while these we forge ourselves,Mere tools to clear her necessary path.Go free—thou art no slave: God doth not ownUnwilling service, and His ministersMust lure, not drag in leash; henceforth I leave thee:Riot in thy self-willed fancies; pick thy stepsBy thine own will-o’-the-wisp toward the pit;Farewell, proud girl.  [Exit Conrad.]Eliz.  O God!  What have I done?I have cast off the clue of this world’s maze,And, like an idiot, let my boat adriftAbove the waterfall!—I had no message—How’s this?Isen.  We passed it by, as matter of no momentUpon the sudden coming of your guests.Eliz.  No moment!  ’Tis enough to have driven him forth—And that’s enough to damn me: I’ll not chide you—I can see nothing but my loss; I’ll to him—I’ll go in sackcloth, bathe his feet with tears—And know nor sleep nor food till I am forgiven—And you must with me, ladies.  Come and find him.[Exeunt.]

SCENE V

A Hall in the Castle.  In the background a Group of diseased and deformed Beggars; Conrad entering, Elizabeth comes forward to meet him.

Con.  What dost thou, daughter?Eliz.  Ah, my honoured master!That name speaks pardon, sure.Con.  What dost thou, daughter?Eliz.  I have been washing these poor people’s feet.Con.  A wise humiliation.Eliz.  So I meant it—And use it as a penance for my pride;And yet, alas, through my own vulgar likingsOr stubborn self-conceit, ’tis none to me.I marvel how the Saints thus tamed their spirits:Sure to be humbled by such toil, but proves,Not cures, our lofty mind.Con.  Thou speakest well—The knave who serves unto another’s needsKnows himself abler than the man who needs him;And she who stoops, will not forget, that stoopingImplies a height to stoop from.Eliz.  Could I seeMy Saviour in His poor!Con.  Thou shall hereafter:But now to wash Christ’s feet were dangerous honourFor weakling grace; would you be humble, daughter,You must look up, not down, and see yourselfA paltry atom, sap-transmitting veinOf Christ’s vast vine; the pettiest joint and memberOf His great body; own no strength, no will,Save that which from the ruling head’s commandThrough me, as nerve, derives; let thyself die—And dying, rise again to fuller life.To be a whole is to be small and weak—To be a part is to be great and mightyIn the one spirit of the mighty whole—The spirit of the martyrs and the saints—The spirit of the queen, on whose towered neckWe hang, blest ringlets!Eliz.  Why! thine eyes flash fire!Con.  But hush! such words are not for courts and halls—Alone with God and me, thou shalt hear more.

[Exit Conrad.]

Eliz.  As when rich chanting ceases suddenly—And the rapt sense collapses!—Oh that LewisCould feed my soul thus!  But to work—to work—What wilt thou, little maid?  Ah, I forgot thee—Thy mother lies in childbed—Say, in timeI’ll bring the baby to the font myself.It knits them unto me, and me to them,That bond of sponsorship—How now, good dame—Whence then so sad?Woman.  An’t please your nobleness,My neighbour Gretl is with her husband laidIn burning fever.Eliz.  I will come to them.Woman.  Alack, the place is foul for such as you;And fear of plague has cleared the lane of lodgers;If you could send—Eliz.  What? where I am afraidTo go myself, send others?  That’s strange doctrine.I’ll be with you anon.  [Goes up into the Hall.]

[Isentrudis enters with a basket.]

Isen.  Why, here’s a weight—these cordials now, and simples,Want a stout page to bear them: yet her fancyIs still to go alone, to help herself.—Where will ’t all end?  In madness, or the grave?No limbs can stand these drudgeries: no spiritThe fretting harrow which this ruffian priestCalls education—Ah! here comes our Count.

[Count Walter enters as from a journey.]

Too late, sir, and too seldom—Where have you beenThese four months past, while we are sold for bond-slavesUnto a peevish friar?Wal.  Why, my fair rosebud—A trifle overblown, but not less sweet—I have been pining for you, till my hairIs as gray as any badger’s.Isen.  I’ll not jest.Wal.  What? has my wall-eyed Saint shown you his temper?

Isen.  The first of his peevish fancies was, that she should eat nothing which was not honestly and peaceably come by.

Wal.  Why, I heard that you too had joined that sect.

Isen.  And more fool I.  But ladies are bound to set an example—while they are not bound to ask where everything comes from: with her, poor child, scruples and starvation were her daily diet; meal after meal she rose from table empty, unless the Landgrave nodded and winked her to some lawful eatable; till she that used to take her food like an angel, without knowing it, was thinking from morning to night whether she might eat this, that, or the other.

Wal.  Poor Eves! if the world leaves you innocent, the Church will not.  Between the devil and the director, you are sure to get your share of the apples of knowledge.

Isen.  True enough.  She complained to Conrad of her scruples, and he told her, that by the law was the knowledge of sin.

Wal.  But what said Lewis?

Isen.  As much bewitched as she, sir.  He has told her, and more than her, that were it not for the laughter and ill-will of his barons, he would join her in the same abstinence.  But all this is child’s play to the friar’s last outbreak.

Wal.  Ah! the sermon which you all forgot, when the Marchioness of Misnia came suddenly?  I heard that war had been proclaimed on that score; but what terms of peace were concluded?

Isen.  Terms of peace!  Do you call it peace to be delivered over to his nuns’ tender mercies, myself and Guta, as well as our lady,—as if we had been bond-slaves and blackamoors?

Wal.  You need not have submitted.

Isen.  What! could I bear to see my poor child wandering up and down, wringing her hands like a mad woman—I who have lived for no one else this sixteen years?  Guta talked sentiment—called it a glorious cross, and so forth.—I took it as it came.

Wal.  And got no quarter, I’ll warrant.Isen.  Don’t talk of it—my poor back tingles at the thought.

Wal.  The sweet Saints think every woman of the world no better than she should be; and without meaning to be envious, owe you all a grudge for past flirtations.  As I am a knight, now it’s over, I like you all the better for it.

Isen.  What?

Wal.  When I see a woman who will stand by her word, and two who will stand by their mistress.  And the monk, too—there’s mettle in him.  I took him for a canting carpet-haunter; but be sure, the man who will bully his own patrons has an honest purpose in him, though it bears strange fruit on this wicked hither-side of the grave.  Now, my fair nymph of the birchen-tree, use your interest to find me supper and lodging; for your elegant squires of the trencher look surly on me here: I am the prophet who has no honour in his own country.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE VI

Dawn.  A rocky path leading to a mountain Chapel.  A Peasant sitting on a stone with dog and cross-bow.

Peasant [singing].

Over the wild moor, in reddest dawn of morning,Gaily the huntsman down green droves must roam:Over the wild moor, in grayest wane of evening,Weary the huntsman comes wandering home;Home, home,If he has one.  Who comes here?

[A Woodcutter enters with a laden ass.]

What art going about?Woodcutter.  To warm other folks’ backs.

Peas.  Thou art in the common lot—Jack earns and Gill spends—therein lies the true division of labour.  What’s thy name?

Woodc.  Be’est a keeper, man, or a charmer, that dost so catechise me?

Peas.  Both—I am a keeper, for I keep all I catch; and a charmer, for I drive bad spirits out of honest men’s turnips.

Woodc.  Mary sain us, what be they like?

Peas.  Four-legged kitchens of leather, cooking farmers’ crops into butcher’s meat by night, without leave or licence.

Woodc.  By token, thou’rt a deer-stealer?

Peas.  Stealer, quoth he?  I have dominion.  I do what I like with mine own.

Woodc.  Thine own?

Peas.  Yea, marry—for, saith the priest, man has dominion over the beast of the field and the fowl of the air: so I, being as I am a man, as men go, have dominion over the deer in my trade, as you have in yours over sleep-mice and woodpeckers.

Woodc.  Then every man has a right to be a poacher.

Peas.  Every man has his gift, and the tools go to him that can use them.  Some are born workmen; some have souls above work.  I’m one of that metal.  I was meant to own land, and do nothing; but the angel that deals out babies’ souls, mistook the cradles, and spoilt a gallant gentleman!  Well—I forgive him! there were many born the same night—and work wears the wits.

Woodc.  I had sooner draw in a yoke than hunt in a halter.Hadst best repent and mend thy ways.

Peas.  The way-warden may do that: I wear out no ways, I go across country.  Mend! saith he?  Why I can but starve at worst, or groan with the rheumatism, which you do already.  And who would reek and wallow o’ nights in the same straw, like a stalled cow, when he may have his choice of all the clean holly bushes in the forest?  Who would grub out his life in the same croft, when he has free-warren of all fields between this and Rhine?  Not I.  I have dirtied my share of spades myself; but I slipped my leash and went self-hunting.