Chapter IV: Act II: Scene I. A.d. 1221-27 (1)

Elizabeth's Bower. Night. Lewis sleeping in an Alcove.

Elizabeth lying on the Floor in the Foreground.

Eliz. No streak yet in the blank and eyeless east-- More weary hours to ache, and smart, and shiver On these bare boards, within a step of bliss. Why peevish? 'Tis mine own will keeps me here-- And yet I hate myself for that same will: Fightings within and out! How easy 'twere, now, Just to be like the rest, and let life run-- To use up to the rind what joys God sends us, Not thus forestall His rod: What! and so lose The strength which comes by suffering? Well, if grief Be gain, mine's double--fleeing thus the snare Of yon luxurious and unnerving down, And widowed from mine Eden. And why widowed? Because they tell me, love is of the flesh, And that's our house-bred foe, the adder in our bosoms, Which warmed to life, will sting us. They must know-- I do confess mine ignorance, O Lord! Mine earnest will these painful limbs may prove. . . . . . And yet I swore to love him.--So I do No more than I have sworn. Am I to blame If God makes wedlock that, which if it be not, It were a shame for modest lips to speak it, And silly doves are better mates than we? And yet our love is Jesus' due,--and all things Which share with Him divided empery Are snares and idols--'To love, to cherish, and to obey!' . . . . . O deadly riddle! Rent and twofold life! O cruel troth! To keep thee or to break thee Alike seems sin! O thou beloved tempter,

[Turning toward the bed.]

Who first didst teach me love, why on thyself From God divert thy lesson? Wilt provoke Him? What if mine heavenly Spouse in jealous ire Should smite mine earthly spouse? Have I two husbands? The words are horror--yet they are orthodox!

[Rises and goes to the window.]

How many many brows of happy lovers The fragrant lips of night even now are kissing! Some wandering hand in hand through arched lanes; Some listening for loved voices at the lattice; Some steeped in dainty dreams of untried bliss; Some nestling soft and deep in well-known arms, Whose touch makes sleep rich life. The very birds Within their nests are wooing! So much love! All seek their mates, or finding, rest in peace; The earth seems one vast bride-bed. Doth God tempt us? Is't all a veil to blind our eyes from him? A fire-fly at the candle. 'Tis love leads him; Love's light, and light is love: O Eden! Eden! Eve was a virgin there, they say; God knows. Must all this be as it had never been? Is it all a fleeting type of higher love? Why, if the lesson's pure, is not the teacher Pure also? Is it my shame to feel no shame? Am I more clean, the more I scent uncleanness? Shall base emotions picture Christ's embrace? Rest, rest, torn heart! Yet where? in earth or heaven? Still, from out the bright abysses, gleams our Lady's silver footstool, Still the light-world sleeps beyond her, though the night-clouds fleet below. Oh that I were walking, far above, upon that dappled pavement, Heaven's floor, which is the ceiling of the dungeon where we lie. Ah, what blessed Saints might meet me, on that platform, sliding silent, Past us in its airy travels, angel-wafted, mystical! They perhaps might tell me all things, opening up the secret fountains Which now struggle, dark and turbid, through their dreary prison clay. Love! art thou an earth-born streamlet, that thou seek'st the lowest hollows? Sure some vapours float up from thee, mingling with the highest blue. Spirit-love in spirit-bodies, melted into one existence-- Joining praises through the ages--Is it all a minstrel's dream? Alas! he wakes. [Lewis rises.]

Lewis. Ah! faithless beauty, Is this your promise, that whene'er you prayed I should be still the partner of your vigils, And learn from you to pray? Last night I lay dissembling When she who woke you, took my feet for yours: Now I shall seize my lawful prize perforce. Alas! what's this? These shoulders' cushioned ice, And thin soft flanks, with purple lashes all, And weeping furrows traced! Ah! precious life-blood! Who has done this?

Eliz. Forgive! 'twas I--my maidens--

Lewis. O ruthless hags!

Eliz. Not so, not so--They wept When I did bid them, as I bid thee now To think of nought but love.

Lewis. Elizabeth! Speak! I will know the meaning of this madness!

Eliz. Beloved, thou hast heard how godly souls, In every age, have tamed the rebel flesh By such sharp lessons. I must tread their paths, If I would climb the mountains where they rest. Grief is the gate of bliss--why wedlock--knighthood-- A mother's joy--a hard-earned field of glory-- By tribulation come--so doth God's kingdom.

Lewis. But doleful nights, and self-inflicted tortures-- Are these the love of God? Is He well pleased With this stern holocaust of health and joy?

Eliz. What! Am I not as gay a lady-love As ever clipt in arms a noble knight? Am I not blithe as bird the live-long day? It pleases me to bear what you call pain, Therefore to me 'tis pleasure: joy and grief Are the will's creatures; martyrs kiss the stake-- The moorland colt enjoys the thorny furze-- The dullest boor will seek a fight, and count His pleasure by his wounds; you must forget, love, Eve's curse lays suffering, as their natural lot, On womankind, till custom makes it light. I know the use of pain: bar not the leech Because his cure is bitter--'Tis such medicine Which breeds that paltry strength, that weak devotion, For which you say you love me.--Ay, which brings Even when most sharp, a stern and awful joy As its attendant angel--I'll say no more-- Not even to thee--command, and I'll obey thee.

Lewis. Thou casket of all graces! fourfold wonder Of wit and beauty, love and wisdom! Canst thou Beatify the ascetic's savagery To heavenly prudence? Horror melts to pity, And pity kindles to adoring shower Of radiant tears! Thou tender cruelty! Gay smiling martyrdom! Shall I forbid thee? Limit thy depth by mine own shallowness? Thy courage by my weakness? Where thou darest, I'll shudder and submit. I kneel here spell-bound Before my bleeding Saviour's living likeness To worship, not to cavil: I had dreamt of such things, Dim heard in legends, while my pitiful blood Tingled through every vein, and wept, and swore 'Twas beautiful, 'twas Christ-like--had I thought That thou wert such:--

Eliz. You would have loved me still?

Lewis. I have gone mad, I think, at every parting At mine own terrors for thee. No; I'll learn to glory In that which makes thee glorious! Noble stains! I'll call them rose leaves out of paradise Strewn on the wreathed snows, or rubies dropped From martyrs' diadems, prints of Jesus' cross Too truly borne, alas!

Eliz. I think, mine own, I am forgiven at last?

Lewis. To-night, my sister-- Henceforth I'll clasp thee to my heart so fast Thou shalt not 'scape unnoticed.

Eliz [laughing] We shall see-- Now I must stop those wise lips with a kiss, And lead thee back to scenes of simpler bliss.

SCENE II

A Chamber in the Castle. Elizabeth--the Fool Isentrudis--Guta singing.

High among the lonely hills, While I lay beside my sheep, Rest came down and filled my soul, From the everlasting deep.

Changeless march the stars above, Changeless morn succeeds to even; Still the everlasting hills, Changeless watch the changeless heaven.

See the rivers, how they run, Changeless toward the changeless sea; All around is forethought sure, Fixed will and stern decree.

Can the sailor move the main? Will the potter heed the clay? Mortal! where the spirit drives, Thither must the wheels obey.

Neither ask, nor fret, nor strive: Where thy path is, thou shall go. He who made the streams of time Wafts thee down to weal or woe.

Eliz. That's a sweet song, and yet it does not chime With my heart's inner voice. Where had you it, Guta?

Guta. From a nun who was a shepherdess in her youth--sadly plagued she was by a cruel stepmother, till she fled to a convent and found rest to her soul.

Fool. No doubt; nothing so pleasant as giving up one's will in one's own way. But she might have learnt all that without taking cold on the hill-tops.

Eliz. Where then, Fool?

Fool. At any market-cross where two or three rogues are together, who have neither grace to mend, nor courage to say 'I did it.' Now you shall see the shepherdess' baby dressed in my cap and bells. [Sings.]

When I was a greenhorn and young, And wanted to be and to do, I puzzled my brains about choosing my line, Till I found out the way that things go.

The same piece of clay makes a tile, A pitcher, a taw, or a brick: Dan Horace knew life; you may cut out a saint, Or a bench, from the self-same stick.

The urchin who squalls in a gaol, By circumstance turns out a rogue; While the castle-bred brat is a senator born, Or a saint, if religion's in vogue.

We fall on our legs in this world, Blind kittens, tossed in neck and heels: 'Tis Dame Circumstance licks Nature's cubs into shape, She's the mill-head, if we are the wheels.

Then why puzzle and fret, plot and dream? He that's wise will just follow his nose; Contentedly fish, while he swims with the stream; 'Tis no business of his where it goes.

Eliz. Far too well sung for such a saucy song. So go.

Fool. Ay, I'll go. Whip the dog out of church, and then rate him for being no Christian. [Exit Fool.]

Eliz. Guta, there is sense in that knave's ribaldry: We must not thus baptize our idleness, And call it resignation: Which is love? To do God's will, or merely suffer it? I do not love that contemplative life: No! I must headlong into seas of toil, Leap forth from self, and spend my soul on others. Oh! contemplation palls upon the spirit, Like the chill silence of an autumn sun: While action, like the roaring south-west wind, Sweeps laden with elixirs, with rich draughts Quickening the wombed earth.

Guta. And yet what bliss, When dying in the darkness of God's light, The soul can pierce these blinding webs of nature, And float up to The Nothing, which is all things-- The ground of being, where self-forgetful silence Is emptiness,--emptiness fulness,--fulness God,-- Till we touch Him, and like a snow-flake, melt Upon His light-sphere's keen circumference!

Eliz. Hast thou felt this?

Guta. In part.

Eliz. Oh, happy Guta! Mine eyes are dim--and what if I mistook For God's own self, the phantoms of my brain? And who am I, that my own will's intent Should put me face to face with the living God? I, thus thrust down from the still lakes of thought Upon a boiling crater-field of labour. No! He must come to me, not I to Him; If I see God, beloved, I must see Him In mine own self:--

Guta. Thyself?

Eliz. Why start, my sister? God is revealed in the crucified: The crucified must be revealed in me:-- I must put on His righteousness; show forth His sorrow's glory; hunger, weep with Him; Writhe with His stripes, and let this aching flesh Sink through His fiery baptism into death, That I may rise with Him, and in His likeness May ceaseless heal the sick, and soothe the sad, And give away like Him this flesh and blood To feed His lambs--ay--we must die with Him To sense--and love--

Guta. To love? What then becomes Of marriage vows?

Eliz. I know it--so speak not of them. Oh! that's the flow, the chasm in all my longings, Which I have spanned with cobweb arguments, Yet yawns before me still, where'er I turn, To bar me from perfection; had I given My virgin all to Christ! I was not worthy! I could not stand alone!

Guta. Here comes your husband.

Eliz. He comes! my sun! and every thrilling vein Proclaims my weakness.

[Lewis enters.]

Lewis. Good news, my Princess; in the street below Conrad, the man of God from Marpurg, stands And from a bourne-stone to the simple folk Does thunder doctrine, preaching faith, repentance, And dread of all foul heresies; his eyes On heaven still set, save when with searching frown He lours upon the crowd, who round him cower Like 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's My 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 down And say to the holy man, the Landgrave Lewis With humble greetings prays his blessedness To make these secular walls the spirit's temple At least to-night.

Eliz. Now go, my ladies, both-- Prepare fit lodgings,--let your courtesies Retain 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 sternness I envy for its strength; his fiery boldness I call the earnestness which dares not trifle With life's huge stake; his coldness but the calm Of one who long hath found, and keeps unwavering, Clear purpose still; he hath the gift which speaks The deepest things most simply; in his eye I 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 work Were 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 meet For all thy knightly virtues.

Lewis. 'Tis too true! I have felt it long; we stand, two weakling children, Under too huge a burden, while temptations Like 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 guide Of 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 be Director of my conscience and my actions With all but thee--Within love's inner shrine We shall be still alone--But joy! here comes Our 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 command By 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 lips Christ 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 skill To wink and speak smooth things; whom fear of God Constrains to daily wrath; who brings, alas! A sword, not peace: within whose bones the word Burns like a pent-up fire, and makes him bold If 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 prayers Shall 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 face Is 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 wit Is good for worldly uses, not to tilt Withal at holy men and holy things. He pleases well the spiritual sense Of my most peerless lady, whose discernment Is still the touchstone of my grosser fancy: He is her friend, and mine: and you must love him Even 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 seek The bitter fruit of knowledge--hunt the rainbow O'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 learn The 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 dreams May find fulfilment: there are prophecies Upon 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 waves Like floating water-lily, towards heaven's light Opening its virgin snows, with golden eye Mirroring the golden sun; to be her champion, And war with fiends for her; that were a 'quest'; That were true chivalry; to bring my Judge This 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 looks The queen of heaven, perchance, slow pacing came Adown our sleeping wards, when Dominic Sank 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 air As speaks her queen, not slave; that shall be looked to-- She must be pinioned or she will range abroad Upon 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 her In 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 promise Exact obedience to his sole direction Henceforth 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-night To 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 sloth Would shrink, unbidden,--to deep devious paths Which 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 raised To freer, nobler use, I'll dare, I'll welcome Him 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 ways Till 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 feet Wooing the ruthless flints; the gaping crowd Unknowing whom they held, did thrust and jostle Her 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 expect Wisdom with love in all? Each has his gift-- Our souls are organ pipes of diverse stop And various pitch; each with its proper notes Thrilling beneath the self-same breath of God. Though poor alone, yet joined, they're harmony. Besides these higher spirits must not bend To common methods; in their inner world They move by broader laws, at whose expression We 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 pent Blink 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 below Welters the black fermenting heap of life On which our state is built: I saw this day What we might be, and still be Christian women: And mothers too--I saw one, laid in childbed These three cold weeks upon the black damp straw; No nurses, cordials, or that nice parade With 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 grow To vaunt themselves God's laws, until our clothes, Our gems, and gaudy books, and cushioned litters Become ourselves, and we would fain forget There 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 back Ache 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 tales Which 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 sorrows On mine own person; I have toyed too long In painted pinnace down the stream of life, Witched with the landscape, while the weary rowers Faint 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 down Upon 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 doors Tottered o'er inky pools, where reeked and curdled The offal of a life; the gaunt-haunched swine Growled at their christened playmates o'er the scraps. Shrill mothers cursed; wan children wailed; sharp coughs Rang through the crazy chambers; hungry eyes Glared dumb reproach, and old perplexity, Too stale for words; o'er still and webless looms The 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 rags Nestled 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 want Which 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 take The 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 God Her sanction draws, while these we forge ourselves, Mere tools to clear her necessary path. Go free--thou art no slave: God doth not own Unwilling service, and His ministers Must lure, not drag in leash; henceforth I leave thee: Riot in thy self-willed fancies; pick thy steps By 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 adrift Above the waterfall!--I had no message-- How's this?

Isen. We passed it by, as matter of no moment Upon 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 likings Or 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 needs Knows himself abler than the man who needs him; And she who stoops, will not forget, that stooping Implies a height to stoop from.

Eliz. Could I see My Saviour in His poor!

Con. Thou shall hereafter: But now to wash Christ's feet were dangerous honour For weakling grace; would you be humble, daughter, You must look up, not down, and see yourself A paltry atom, sap-transmitting vein Of Christ's vast vine; the pettiest joint and member Of His great body; own no strength, no will, Save that which from the ruling head's command Through 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 mighty In the one spirit of the mighty whole-- The spirit of the martyrs and the saints-- The spirit of the queen, on whose towered neck We 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 Lewis Could 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 time I'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 laid In 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 afraid To 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 fancy Is still to go alone, to help herself.-- Where will 't all end? In madness, or the grave? No limbs can stand these drudgeries: no spirit The fretting harrow which this ruffian priest Calls education-- Ah! here comes our Count.

[Count Walter enters as from a journey.]

Too late, sir, and too seldom--Where have you been These four months past, while we are sold for bond-slaves Unto a peevish friar?

Wal. Why, my fair rosebud-- A trifle overblown, but not less sweet-- I have been pining for you, till my hair Is 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.

Woodc. But what if thou be caught and brought up before the Prince?

Peas. He don't care for game. He has put down his kennel, and keeps a tame saint instead: and when I am driven in, I shall ask my pardon of her in St. John's name. They say that for his sake she'll give away the shoes off her feet.

Woodc. I would not stand in your shoes for all the top and lop in the forest. Murder! Here comes a ghost! Run up the bank--shove the jackass into the ditch.

[A white figure comes up the path with lights.]

Peas. A ghost or a watchman, and one's as bad as the other--so we may take to cover for the time.

[Elizabeth enters, meanly clad, carrying her new-born infant; Isentrudis following with a taper and gold pieces on a salver. Elizabeth passes, singing.]

Deep in the warm vale the village is sleeping, Sleeping the firs on the bleak rock above; Nought wakes, save grateful hearts, silently creeping Up to the Lord in the might of their love.

What Thou hast given to me, Lord, here I bring Thee, Odour, and light, and the magic of gold; Feet which must follow Thee, lips which must sing Thee, Limbs which must ache for Thee ere they grow old.

What Thou hast given to me, Lord, here I tender, Life of mine own life, the fruit of my love; Take him, yet leave him me, till I shall render Count of the precious charge, kneeling above.

[They pass up the path. The Peasants come out.]

Peas. No ghost, but a mighty pretty wench, with a mighty sweet voice.

Woodc. Wench, indeed? Where be thy manners? 'Tis her Ladyship-- the Princess.

Peas. The Princess! Ay, I thought those little white feet were but lately out of broadcloth--still, I say, a mighty sweet voice--I wish she had not sung so sweetly--it makes things to arise in a body's head, does that singing: a wonderful handsome lady! a royal lady!

Woodc. But a most unwise one. Did ye mind the gold? If I had such a trencherful, it should sleep warm in a stocking, instead of being made a brother to owls here, for every rogue to snatch at.

Peas. Why, then? who dare harm such as her, man?

Woodc. Nay, nay, none of us, we are poor folks, we fear God and the king. But if she had met a gentleman now--heaven help her! Ah! thou hast lost a chance--thou might'st have run out promiscuously, and down on thy knees, and begged thy pardon for the newcomer's sake. There was a chance, indeed.

Peas. Pooh, man, I have done nothing but lose chances all my days. I fell into the fire the day I was christened, and ever since I am like a fresh-trimmed fir-tree; every foul feather sticks to me.

Woodc. Go, shrive thyself, and the priest will scrub off thy turpentine with a new haircloth; and now, good-day, the maids are a- waiting for their firewood.

Peas. A word before you go--Take warning by me--avoid that same serpent, wisdom--Pray to the Saints to make you a blockhead--Never send your boys to school--For Heaven knows, a poor man that will live honest, and die in his bed, ought to have no more scholarship than a parson, and no more brains than your jackass.

SCENE VII

The Gateway of a Castle. Elizabeth and her suite standing at the top of a flight of steps. Mob below.

Peas. Bread! Bread! Bread! give us bread; we perish.

1st Voice. Ay, give, give, give! God knows, we're long past earning.

2d Voice. Our skeleton children lie along in the roads--

3d Voice. Our sheep drop dead about the frozen leas--

4th Voice. Our harness and our shoes are boiled for food--

Old Man's Voice. Starved, withered, autumn hay that thanks the scythe! Send out your swordsmen, mow the dry bents down, And make this long death short--we'll never struggle.

All. Bread! Bread!

Eliz. Ay, bread--Where is it, knights and servants? Why butler, seneschal, this food forthcomes not!

Butler. Alas, we've eaten all ourselves: heaven knows The pages broke the buttery hatches down-- The boys were starved almost.

Voice below. Ay, she can find enough to feast her minions.

Woman's Voice. How can she know what 'tis, for months and months To stoop and straddle in the clogging fallows, Bearing about a living babe within you? And then at night to fat yourself and it On fir-bark, madam, and water.

Eliz. My good dame-- That which you bear, I bear: for food, God knows, I have not tasted food this live-long day-- Nor will till you are served. I sent for wheat From Koln and from the Rhine-land, days ago: O God! why comes it not?

[Enter from below, Count Walter, with a Merchant.]

Wal. Stand back; you'll choke me, rascals: Archers, bring up those mules. Here comes the corn-- Here comes your guardian angel, plenty-laden, With no white wings, but good white wheat, my boys, Quarters on quarters--if you'll pay for it.

Eliz. Oh! give him all he asks.

Wal. The scoundrel wants Three times its value.

Merchant. Not a penny less-- I bought it on speculation--I must live-- I get my bread by buying corn that's cheap, And selling where 'tis dearest. Mass, you need it, And you must pay according to your need.

Mob. Hang him! hang all regraters--hang the forestalling dog!

Wal. Driver, lend here the halter off that mule.

Eliz. Nay, Count; the corn is his, and his the right To fix conditions for his own.

Mer. Well spoken! A wise and royal lady! She will see The trade protected. Why, I kept the corn Three months on venture. Now, so help me Saints, I am a loser by it, quite a loser-- So help me Saints, I am.

Eliz. You will not sell it Save at a price which, by the bill you tender, Is far beyond our means. Heaven knows, I grudge not-- I have sold my plate, have pawned my robes and jewels. Mortgaged broad lands and castles to buy food-- And now I have no more.--Abate, or trust Our honour for the difference.

Mer. Not a penny-- I trust no nobles. I must make my profit-- I'll have my price, or take it back again.

Eliz. Most miserable, cold, short-sighted man, Who for thy selfish gains dost welcome make God's wrath, and battenest on thy fellows' woes, What? wilt thou turn from heaven's gate, open to thee, Through which thy charity may passport be, And win thy long greed's pardon? Oh, for once Dare to be great; show mercy to thyself! See how that boiling sea of human heads Waits open-mouthed to bless thee: speak the word, And their triumphant quire of jubilation Shall pierce God's cloudy floor with praise and prayers, And drown the accuser's count in angels' ears.

[In the meantime Walter, etc., have been throwing down the wheat to the mob.]

Mob. God bless the good Count!--Bless the holy Princess-- Hurrah for wheat--Hurrah for one full stomach.

Mer. Ah! that's my wheat! treason, my wheat, my money!

Eliz. Where is the wretch's wheat?

Wal. Below, my lady; We counted on the charm of your sweet words, And so did for him what, your sermon ended, He would have done himself.

Knight. 'Twere rude to doubt it.

Mer. Ye rascal barons! What! Are we burghers monkeys for your pastime? We'll clear the odds. [Seizes Walter.]

Wal. Soft, friend--a worm will turn.

Voices below. Throw him down.

Wal. Dost hear that, friend? Those pups are keen-toothed; they have eat of late Worse bacon to their bread than thee. Come, come, Put up thy knife; we'll give thee market-price-- And if thou must have more--why, take it out In board and lodging in the castle dungeon.

[Walter leads him out; the Mob, etc., disperse.]

Eliz. Now then--there's many a one lies faint at home-- I'll go to them myself.

Isen. What now? start forth In this most bitter frost, so thinly clad?

Eliz. Tut, tut, I wear my working dress to-day, And those who work, robe lightly--

Isen. Nay, my child, For once keep up your rank.

Eliz. Then I had best Roll to their door in lacqueyed equipage, And dole my halfpence from my satin purse-- I am their sister--I must look like one. I am their queen--I'll prove myself the greatest By being the minister of all. So come-- Now to my pastime, [aside] And in happy toil Forget this whirl of doubt--We are weak, we are weak, Only when still: put thou thine hand to the plough, The spirit drives thee on.

Isen. You live too fast!

Eliz. Too fast? We live too slow--our gummy blood Without fresh purging airs from heaven, would choke Slower and slower, till it stopped and froze. God! fight we not within a cursed world, Whose very air teems thick with leagued fiends-- Each word we speak has infinite effects-- Each soul we pass must go to heaven or hell-- And this our one chance through eternity To drop and die, like dead leaves in the brake, Or like the meteor stone, though whelmed itself, Kindle the dry moors into fruitful blaze-- And yet we live too fast! Be earnest, earnest, earnest; mad, if thou wilt: Do what thou dost as if the stake were heaven, And that thy last deed ere the judgment-day. When all's done, nothing's done. There's rest above-- Below let work be death, if work be love! [Exeunt.]

SCENE VIII

A Chamber in the Castle. Counts Walter, Hugo, etc., Abbot, and Knights.

Count Hugo. I can't forget it, as I am a Christian man. To ask for a stoup of beer at breakfast, and be told there was no beer allowed in the house--her Ladyship had given all the malt to the poor.

Abbot. To give away the staff of life, eh?

C. Hugo. The life itself, Sir, the life itself. All that barley, that would have warmed many an honest fellow's coppers, wasted in filthy cakes.

Abbot. The parent of seraphic ale degraded into plebeian dough! Indeed, Sir, we have no right to lessen wantonly the amount of human enjoyment!

C. Wal. In heaven's name, what would you have her do, while the people were eating grass?

C. Hugo. Nobody asked them to eat it; nobody asked them to be there to eat it; if they will breed like rabbits, let them feed like rabbits, say I--I never married till I could keep a wife.

Abbot. Ah, Count Walter! How sad to see a man of your sense so led away by his feelings! Had but this dispensation been left to work itself out, and evolve the blessing implicit in all heaven's chastenings! Had but the stern benevolences of providence remained undisturbed by her ladyship's carnal tenderness--what a boon had this famine been!

C. Wal. How then, man?

Abbot. How many a poor soul would be lying--Ah, blessed thought!-- in Abraham's bosom; who must now toil on still in this vale of tears!--Pardon this pathetic dew--I cannot but feel as a Churchman.

3d Count. Look at it in this way, Sir. There are too many of us-- too many--Where you have one job you have three workmen. Why, I threw three hundred acres into pasture myself this year--it saves money, and risk, and trouble, and tithes.

C. Wal. What would you say to the Princess, who talks of breaking up all her parks to wheat next year?

3d Count. Ask her to take on the thirty families, who were just going to tramp off those three hundred acres into the Rhine-land, if she had not kept them in both senses this winter, and left them on my hands--once beggars, always beggars.

C. Hugo. Well, I'm a practical man, and I say, the sharper the famine, the higher are prices, and the higher I sell, the more I can spend; so the money circulates, Sir, that's the word--like water-- sure to run downwards again; and so it's as broad as it's long; and here's a health--if there was any beer--to the farmers' friends, 'A bloody war and a wet harvest.'

Abbot. Strongly put, though correctly. For the self-interest of each it is which produces in the aggregate the happy equilibrium of all.

C. Wal. Well--the world is right well made, that's certain; and He who made the Jews' sin our salvation may bring plenty out of famine, and comfort out of covetousness. But look you, Sirs, private selfishness may be public weal, and yet private selfishness be just as surely damned, for all that.

3d Count. I hold, Sir, that every alms is a fresh badge of slavery.

C. Wal. I don't deny it.

3d Count. Then teach them independence.

C. Wal. How? By tempting them to turn thieves, when begging fails? By keeping their stomachs just at desperation-point? By starving them out here, to march off, starving all the way, to some town, in search of employment, of which, if they find it, they know no more than my horse? Likely! No, Sir, to make men of them, put them not out of the reach, but out of the need, of charity.

3d Count. And how, prithee? By teaching them, like our fair Landgravine, to open their mouth for all that drops? Thuringia is become a kennel of beggars in her hands.

C. Wal. In hers? In ours, Sir!

Abbot. Idleness, Sir, deceit, and immorality, are the three children of this same barbarous self-indulgence in almsgiving. Leave the poor alone. Let want teach them the need of self- exertion, and misery prove the foolishness of crime.

C. Wal. How? Teach them to become men by leaving them brutes?

Abbot. Oh, Sir, there we step in, with the consolations and instructions of the faith.

C. Wal. Ay, but while the grass is growing the steed is starving; and in the meantime, how will the callow chick Grace stand against the tough old game-cock Hunger?

3d Count. Then how, in the name of patience, would you have us alter things?

C. Wal. We cannot alter them, Sir--but they will be altered, never fear.

Omnes. How? How?

C. Wal. Do you see this hour-glass?--Here's the state: This air stands for the idlers;--this sand for the workers. When all the sand has run to the bottom, God in heaven just turns the hour-glass, and then--

C. Hugo. The world's upside down.

C. Wal. And the Lord have mercy upon us!

Omnes. On us? Do you call us the idlers?

C. Wal. Some dare to do so--But fear not--In the fulness of time, all that's lightest is sure to come to the top again.

C. Hugo. But what rascal calls us idlers?

Omnes. Name, name.