The Saint's Tragedy

SCENE III

A Chamber in the Castle.  Sophia, Elizabeth, Agnes, Isentrude, etc., re-entering.

Soph.  What! you will not?  You hear, Dame Isentrude,
She will not wear her coronet in the church,
Because, forsooth, the crucifix within
Is crowned with thorns.  You hear her.

Eliz.  Noble mother!
How could I flaunt this bauble in His face
Who hung there, naked, bleeding, all for me—
I felt it shamelessness to go so gay.

Soph.  Felt?  What then?  Every foolish wench has feelings
In these religious days, and thinks it carnal
To wash her dishes, and obey her parents—
No wonder they ape you, if you ape them—
Go to!  I hate this humble-minded pride,
Self-willed submission—to your own pert fancies;
This fog-bred mushroom-spawn of brain-sick wits,
Who make their oddities their test for grace,
And peer about to catch the general eye;
Ah!  I have watched you throw your playmates down
To have the pleasure of kneeling for their pardon.
Here’s sanctity—to shame your cousin and me—
Spurn rank and proper pride, and decency;—
If God has made you noble, use your rank,
If you but know how.  You Landgravine?  You mated
With gentle Lewis?  Why, belike you’ll cowl him,
As that stern prude, your aunt, cowled her poor spouse;
No—one Hedwiga at a time’s enough,—
My son shall die no monk.

Isen.  Beseech you, Madam,—
Weep not, my darling.

Soph.  Tut—I’ll speak my mind.
We’ll have no saints.  Thank heaven, my saintliness
Ne’er troubled my good man, by day or night.
We’ll have no saints, I say; far better for you,
And no doubt pleasanter—You know your place—
At least you know your place,—to take to cloisters,
And there sit carding wool, and mumbling Latin,
With sour old maids, and maundering Magdalens,
Proud of your frost-kibed feet, and dirty serge.
There’s nothing noble in you, but your blood;
And that one almost doubts.  Who art thou, child?

Isen.  The daughter, please your highness,
Of Andreas, King of Hungary, your better;
And your son’s spouse.

Soph.  I had forgotten, truly—
And you, Dame Isentrudis, are her servant,
And mine: come, Agnes, leave the gipsy ladies
To say their prayers, and set the Saints the fashion.

[Sophia and Agnes go out.]

Isen.  Proud hussy!  Thou shalt set thy foot on her neck yet, darling,
When thou art Landgravine.

Eliz.  And when will that be?
No, she speaks truth!  I should have been a nun.
These are the wages of my cowardice,—
Too weak to face the world, too weak to leave it!

Guta.  I’ll take the veil with you.

Eliz.  ’Twere but a moment’s work,—
To slip into the convent there below,
And be at peace for ever.  And you, my nurse?

Isen.  I will go with thee, child, where’er thou goest.
But Lewis?

Eliz.  Ah! my brother!  No, I dare not—
I dare not turn for ever from this hope,
Though it be dwindled to a thread of mist.
Oh that we two could flee and leave this Babel!
Oh if he were but some poor chapel-priest,
In lonely mountain valleys far away;
And I his serving-maid, to work his vestments,
And dress his scrap of food, and see him stand
Before the altar like a rainbowed saint;
To take the blessed wafer from his hand,
Confess my heart to him, and all night long
Pray for him while he slept, or through the lattice
Watch while he read, and see the holy thoughts
Swell in his big deep eyes!—Alas! that dream
Is wilder than the one that’s fading even now!
Who’s here?  [A Page enters.]

Page.  The Count of Varila, Madam, begs permission to speak with you.

Eliz.  With me?  What’s this new terror?
Tell him I wait him.

Isen [aside].  Ah! my old heart sinks—
God send us rescue!  Here the champion comes.

[Count Walter enters.]

Wal.  Most learned, fair, and sanctimonious Princess—
Plague, what comes next?  I had something orthodox ready;
’Tis dropped out by the way.—Mass! here’s the pith on’t.—
Madam, I come a-wooing; and for one
Who is as only worthy of your love,
As you of his; he bids me claim the spousals
Made long ago between you,—and yet leaves
Your fancy free, to grant or pass that claim:
And being that Mercury is not my planet,
He hath advised himself to set herein,
With pen and ink, what seemed good to him,
As passport to this jewelled mirror, pledge
Unworthy of his worship.  [Gives a letter and jewel.]

Isen.  Nunc Domine dimittis servam tuam!

[Elizabeth looks over the letter and casket, claps her hands and bursts into childish laughter.]

Why here’s my Christmas tree come after Lent—
Espousals? pledges? by our childish love?
Pretty words for folks to think of at the wars,—
And pretty presents come of them!  Look, Guta!
A crystal clear, and carven on the reverse
The blessed rood.  He told me once—one night,
When we did sit in the garden—What was I saying?

Wal.  My fairest Princess, as ambassador,
What shall I answer?

Eliz.  Tell him—tell him—God!
Have I grown mad, or a child, within the moment?
The earth has lost her gray sad hue, and blazes
With her old life-light; hark! yon wind’s a song—
Those clouds are angels’ robes.—That fiery west
Is paved with smiling faces.—I am a woman,
And all things bid me love! my dignity
Is thus to cast my virgin pride away;
And find my strength in weakness.—Busy brain!
Thou keep’st pace with my heart; old lore, old fancies,
Buried for years, leap from their tombs, and proffer
Their magic service to my new-born spirit.
I’ll go—I am not mistress of myself—
Send for him—bring him to me—he is mine!  [Exit.]

Isen.  Ah! blessed Saints! how changed upon the moment!
She is grown taller, trust me, and her eye
Flames like a fresh-caught hind’s.  She that was christened
A brown mouse for her stillness!  Good my Lord!
Now shall mine old bones see the grave in peace!

SCENE IV

The Bridal Feast.  Elizabeth, Lewis, Sophia, and Company seated at the Dais table.  Court Minstrel and Court Fool sitting on the Dais steps.

Min.  How gaily smile the heavens,
The light winds whisper gay;
For royal birth and knightly worth
Are knit to one to-day.

Fool [drowning his voice].
So we’ll flatter them up, and we’ll cocker them up,
Till we turn young brains;
And pamper the brach till we make her a wolf,
And get bit by the legs for our pains.

Monks [chanting without].
A fastu et superbiâ
Domine libera nos.

Min.  ’Neath sandal red and samité,
Are knights and ladies set;
The henchmen tall stride through the hall,
The board with wine is wet.

Fool.  Oh! merrily growls the starving hind,
At my full skin;
And merrily howl wolf, wind, and owl,
While I lie warm within.

Monks.  A luxu et avaritiâ
Domine libera nos.

Min.  Hark! from the bridal bower,
Rings out the bridesmaid’s song;
‘’Tis the mystic hour of an untried power,
The bride she tarries long.’

Fool.  She’s schooling herself and she’s steeling herself,
Against the dreary day,
When she’ll pine and sigh from her lattice high
For the knight that’s far away.

Monks.  A carnis illectamentis
Domine libera nos.

Min.  Blest maid! fresh roses o’er thee
The careless years shall fling;
While days and nights shall new delights
To sense and fancy bring.

Fool.  Satins and silks, and feathers and lace,
Will gild life’s pill;
In jewels and gold folks cannot grow old,
Fine ladies will never fall ill.

Monks.  A vanitatibus sæculi
Domine libera nos.

[Sophia descends from the Dais, leading Elizabeth.  Ladies follow.]

Sophia [to the Fool].  Silence, you screech-owl.—
Come strew flowers, fair ladies,
And lead into her bower our fairest bride,
The cynosure of love and beauty here,
Who shrines heaven’s graces in earth’s richest casket.

Eliz.  I come, [aside] Here, Guta, take those monks a fee—
Tell them I thank them—bid them pray for me.
I am half mazed with trembling joy within,
And noisy wassail round.  ’Tis well, for else
The spectre of my duties and my dangers
Would whelm my heart with terror.  Ah! poor self!
Thou took’st this for the term and bourne of troubles—
And now ’tis here, thou findest it the gate
Of new sin-cursed infinities of labour,
Where thou must do, or die!
[aloud] Lead on.  I’ll follow.  [Exeunt.]

Fool.  There, now.  No fee for the fool; and yet my prescription was as good as those old Jeremies’.  But in law, physic, and divinity, folks had sooner be poisoned in Latin, than saved in the mother-tongue.

ACT II

SCENE I.  A.D. 1221-27

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.]