Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PERSEVERANCE D'AMOUR; A LITTLE PLAY, by FORD MADOX FORD


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PERSEVERANCE D'AMOUR; A LITTLE PLAY, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: A pretty pass
Last Line: From the window-sill. Its wings clatter in the stillness.
Alternate Author Name(s): Hueffer, Ford Hermann; Hueffer, Ford Madox
Subject(s): Courts & Courtiers; France; Love; Plays & Playwrights ; Royal Court Life; Royalty; Kings; Queens; Dramatists


Time.—Thirteenth Century.
Place.—In and near the City of Paris.
Persons—

ANSEAU DIT LE TOURANGEAU, Jeweller to the King.
TIENNETTE, Daughter of a bondman of the Abbey of Saint Germain.
THE ABBOT OF ST GERMAIN, HUGON DE SENNECTERRE.
THE KING OF FRANCE.
THE QUEEN OF FRANCE.
THE KING'S CHAMBERLAIN.
A FAT BURGESS OF PARIS.
A THIN ONE.
A STRANGER.
Monks of the Abbey; a Crowd, etc., etc.,

SCENE I

ANSEAU DIT LE TOURANGEAU and TIENNETTE, meeting on a road in the Clerk's
Meadow. The road has a grassy border, vines in the background and the roofs of
the Abbey of Saint Germain. It is a Sunday at sunset, the Angelus ringing.
ANSEAU, a man of middle age, large, squarely built, richly dressed, black
bearded, with a gold chain round his neck. Hanging from it the badge of the
"Subjects of the King." He is a free man, and a burgess of the City of Paris.
TIENNETTE, a young girl, fair; dressed in sack-cloth with a rope girdle. She
is leading a cow which browses in the ditch. They stand while the Angelus rings;
then she passes ANSEAU without looking up; ANSEAU turns and looks after
her.
Ans. A pretty pass,
That I, a ten years' master jeweller,
A burgess and a man of forty years
Spent soberly in service of my craft
Have not the courage for a mere "God-den"
To such a petticoat. ...
[He calls: "Ho-la" and beckons to TIENNETTE. She comes back slowly,
leading the cow after her.
Ans. Ah, sweetheart, is your state so poor a one
That, on a Sabbath, in despite of law
You come abroad to work. Have you no fear?
Tien. My lord, I have no fear; I am below
The notice of the laws and the Lord Abbot
Doth give us licence thus to graze our cow
After the hour of vespers.
Ans. Well, my dear,
You set the welfare of your soulless beast
Above the welfare of your little soul?
Tien. Our little souls, my lord? Our soulless beast
Is more than half our lives and more than all
The little souls that we have never seen.
Ans. Why, then, you're passing poor. And yet you have
Your jewels and the gold you carry with you.
Your eyes and hair; I would I had such gold.
Where are your lovers? You are near a city
Where what you have...
Tien. Nenny, my lord. I have...

[She holds out her left arm and shows him, on it, a silver band such as
is worn by grazing cattle, but without the bell. ANSEAU raises his hands in
horror.
Ans. A chattel of the Abbey's...
Tien. Ah, my lord,
I'm daughter to the Abbey's serf Etienne.
Who marries me becomes—it makes no boot
Though he be even burgess or more great—
Becomes a bonded serf with me and falls
Body and goods to the Abbey. If he love
Withouten wedlock, then the children fall
Again to the Abbey. ... Were I ten times less
Ill-favoured than I am, the most in love
Would flee me like the plague.
Ans. And do you say
That not a one, for love of your blue eyes
And of your mouth and of your little hands,
Did ever try to buy your liberty,
As I bought mine o' the King?
Tien. It costs too dear.
It costs too dear, my lord. All those I please
At meeting go away as they did come.
It costs too dear.
Ans. And have you never thought
Of seeking other lands on a good horse
Behind a rider. ...
Tien. Oh, one thinks ... one thinks ...
But, sir, the Abbey's arms are very long.
They'd hang me if they caught me, and the man,
If he were noble, he must lose his lands;
If simple, life and all. I am not worth
Such stakes. Besides, I live in fear of God
Who set me where I am.

[She begins to drag the cow further along the road. ANSEAU stands
silent. At last he says absentmindedly:
Ans. But then—your age?
Tien. I do not know, my lord, but the Lord Abbot, They say, doth keep
account. ...
Ans. And what's your name?
Tien. I have no name, my lord, my father was
Baptiz'd Etienne, and so my mother was
"The woman called Etienne," and as for me
They call me Tiennette, but I've no name.
Ans. (in the same tone). Your cow, now, is a noble beast.
Tien. My lord,
Her milk's the best of all the country side.
If you do thirst...
Ans. Why, no, I have no thirst
That that could satisfy. Now listen you. ...
I am that Anseau called le Tourangeau,
My fame is what it is, my work no worse.
After my light I've lived and done my best,
And I am wealthy past the middle wealth.
I never followed women; ev'ry night
Your gallants passed my windows they have seen
My steadfast lamp behind the iron grilles,
Have seen me bent above the shining gold
Or black against my forge. I once was poor,
Now I am wealthy past the middle wealth.
I am a man like other men, not worse
And little better, not I think unkind
Nor too much given to mirth. And so I've lived
Since I could wield a chisel of mine own.
But now—I cannot tell you when or how,
What set me thinking, how the thought increased—
I could not sleep at night, nor brace to work.
It may have been a month; I do not know.
Till, of a sudden, as small bubbles run
To merge into one whole, the thought was there;
I must be married. I must have some soul
To share my joys with and to share my griefs,
And bear me little children. ... Ever since
That thought has been all me. I was to-day
Before the altar of Saint Eloy's church
(The seven small gold saints and the large cross
Set with carbuncles are my proper work),
And prayed that he would set within my path
A woman fitted for my prime of life.
You see me: this is I. The air's so hot
Within the narrow streets I came out here
Where I have never walked this seven years.
The little birds were singing down the sun
The bell rang out and in the sacred minutes
I saw you stand against me; was it not
An answer from the Saint?
Tien. Alas, if but
The price were not so great.
Ans. I've little skill
In women, but there is a certain sound
Comes from true metal; I've a skill in that,
And when I look at you and when you speak
I seem to hear that sound.
Tien. If but the price
Were not so great. I am not worth the tenth.
You do not know. ... I've little skill in men.
You frighten me a little; what know I?
If there is any truth for such as I
You seem to have that truth. If any goodness
Is in the world for me, it seems in you.
You should be strong and gentle, I am weak.
I do not know; I say I do not know.
Alas, alas...

[She begins to weep softly. ANSEAU crosses himself, joins his hands
and says:
Ans. I make a vow to my Lord Saint Eloy, under whose invocation are all
master jewellers, to invent two shrines of gilded silver of the finest work it
shall be granted to me to achieve. I make a vow to fill them, the one with a
likeness of the Holy Virgin, to the end that if I achieve the liberty of my
wife, she be glorified; the other for my patron Saint Eloy if only I have
success in this my emprise. And I swear by my eternal salvation to persevere
with courage in this affair, to spend in it all that I possess and to quit of it
only with my life. So God help me, Anseau dit le Tourangeau.

[TIENNETTE has sunk upon her knees; ANSEAU bends and raises her. The
cow has moved slowly up the side of the ditch and is browsing on the vines.
Tien. Alas, alas... You do not know.
You must take back your vow.
I could love you all my life. Alas, alas...
Ans. The vow is said; there is no taking back.
Tien. You do not know, alas, you do not know. ...

[She runs to the cow as the scene closes.

END OF SCENE I

SCENE II

[Paris. A place in front of the Church of St Luke. A great crowd of burgesses,
their wives, children, pedlars, friars and pages is round the house of
Maître ANSEAU.
A STRANGER; a FAT BURGESS; his WIFE; a THIN BURGESS; his
MOTHER.
The STRANGER, a man in parti-coloured hose, with one long sleeve torn and
hanging by a thread, a peaked red beard, two peacock's feathers held by a brooch
to a hat that has a long flap in front. He struggles out of the crowd and
salutes the FAT BURGESS, who has his wife upon his arm.
The Stranger. Sir, I beseech you, sir, I am but very newly come to this
town. Sir, I beseech you, tell me how I may come to the house of one (he reads
from a paper) Maître Anseau, dit le Tourangeau.
The Fat Burgess. That, sir, is the house, of stone, beside the Church.
But if you would come to it you must even fly like the birds of heaven.
The Crowd. Maître Anseau ... Maître Anseau.
The Stranger. Sir, I am newly come to this town. The Lord Percy is to
wed, sir, and having a mind to —the Lord Percy of
Northumberland—present his transcendent bride with a jewelled stomacher,
and hearing of the surpassing skill of this Maître Anseau, sent me, sir,
his gentleman, sir. ...
The Crowd. Maître Anseau, Maître An ... seau! Cracked be all
shaven skulls ... we will tear down the Abbey ... we will...
The Stranger. And so, sir, if your master be so well be-customed, it
beseems me, sir, to think that my worshipful Lord will scarce be suited, nor his
transcendent bride be stomachered, this many days.
The Crowd. Hurrah, hurrah! Be of good cheer. For the glory of Paris be
skulls cracked!
The Stranger. I have been torn as if by wild beasts. Behold me ...
The Fat Burgess. Sir, it would seem that you know not the lamentable
story. It is in this way, sir ...
[His voice is lost in the noise of the crowd. He can be seen gesticulating.
The THIN BURGESS interrupts him. They discuss in dumb show; the wives join
the discussion. Then a lull.
The Fat Burgess. And so, sir, the King's Chamberlain, owing to our Master
great sums for a pouncet-box set in onion stones ...
The Thin Burgess. Neighbour, you mislead. I have it from Maître
Anseau himself. The pouncet-box was paid for. It was out of the great love the
Chamberlain bore our master. ...
The Fat Burgess. Well, be it as you will, neighbour. For love or debt
the King's Chamberlain hies him with Maître Anseau to the Abbot. And the
crafty Abbot...
The Crowd. Pestilence carry off Abbot Hugon... May the plague take him
off ere he take one of our free burgesses for a serf.
The Fat Burgess. This crafty Abbot will not abate one jot; but sitteth
as mum as a fox in a drain. The Master offereth great fortunes for this wench.
But the Abbot will have him for a serf if he marry her, thinking to gain for the
Abbey the incomparable skill of...
The Thin Burgess. Neighbour, you mistake. It is a matter of principle.
(To the Stranger). Sir, the thing is thus. This Abbot would enslave all
us free burgesses and he makes with our Master a beginning. He hath other
wenches for all us burgesses. ...
The Wife of the Thin Burgess. Oh, the guile, the guile. ...
The Fat Burgess. Principle or no principle, the matter stands thus.
Maître Anseau going again to the Clerk's Meadow finds there no Tiennette.
For, sir, our 'prentices having planned to carry her off in their despite, these
wicked priests did have her clapped up close. Since which time our Master hath
been suffered to see her only through a little grille. ...
The Thin Burgess. See the craft of it. This is to whet his appetite.
The Fat Burgess's Wife. Oh, sir, they say it be pitiful to see them
there. They do buss the bars of each side and the tears do run, do run like
juice from a roasting capon. A did use to be a lusty man, and now A's grown so
pale, so pale. ...
The Fat Burgess. He eats not...
The Thin Burgess. Sleeps not.
The Fat Burgess. Does no work...
The Thin Burgess. Sighs and groans.
The Fat Burgess. Raves and swears...
The Thin Burgess. And the crux of the matter is: to-day he shall make
his final choice, whether to have the Tiennette and a serf's life, or leave her
and take to...
A Loud Voice. The King has gone to the Abbey. ...
The Crowd. Maître Anseau. Maî...tre An...seau. ...
The Thin Burgess. The King, sir, doth owe our Master great sums and
shall intercede for him. ...
The Fat Burgess. I do wager ten yards of white velvet to a bodkin he do
leave her to go her way and he his.
The Wife of the Thin Burgess. I do wager fourscore and two of my
fatting capons he do have her. ...
The Voice again. The King has gone to the Abbey. ...
The Crowd. Maître Anseau... Maître Anseau. ...
The Fat Burgess. Be it a wager...
The Wife of the Thin Burgess. Be it a wager and shake hands upon it.
...
[A great uproar behind; the crowd sways backwards and forwards, then opens.
Maître ANSEAU is seen to be mounting a white jennet from the steps of his
house.
The Crowd. To the Abbey, to the Abbey ... (They run off.)
The Stranger. I shall be killed; I shall be killed. ... My hat is gone.
END OF SCENE II

SCENE III
[The Great Hall in the Abbey of Saint Germain. To L. very large doors, opened
and showing through their arches an apple close, red apples lying in heaps on
the turf below whitened tree trunks. Facing the doors the Abbot's chair.
Swallows fly in and out among the gilded beams of the tall roof.
The ABBOT HUGON, Monks, Cross-bearer. Behind— The Crowd, Soldiers of
the Abbey, King's Soldiers; Afterwards—Bondsmen of the Abbey.
The ABBOT HUGON, a very old man. His shaven face, very brown, small and
dried, hangs forward on his breast, a richly-jewelled mitre pressing it down. He
is seated in his chair facing the open doors. The Monks are round his chair
which stands high on stone steps.
The Crowd is being pressed in place at the back of the Hall by the
Soldiers of the Abbey, who set their halberd staves across the faces. The
King's Soldiers look on laughing. A great uproar. A flourish of trumpets
sounds without; the ABBOT is assisted to his feet and gives the benediction
towards the doors.
Enter the KING OF FRANCE. He rides a black stallion into the hall; the
QUEEN in a white litter borne by two white mules. The curtains of the litter
and the clothes of the mules are sewn with golden fleur-de-lis, the mules are
shod with gold. A train of lords and ladies follow them. The KING'S
CHAMBERLAIN comes to stand by the head of the King's horse.
The Crowd. The King ... the King. Do you see the King? ... Now the Queen.
Ah ... h ... h ...
[The KING salutes the ABBOT who blesses him again. Their lips can be
seen to move, but what they say is lost in the exclamations of the Crowd. ...
The KING bends to speak to his CHAMBERLAIN, who exit. The
QUEEN puts her head out of the litter.
The Crowd. The Queen ... Do you see the Queen? ... Ah ... h ... h ...
[The CHAMBERLAIN returns with ANSEAU DIT LE TOURANGEAU, who kneels in
the space between the KING and the ABBOT.
The Crowd (a great cry). Ha, Maître Anseau, Maître Anseau. A
free man. No serf ... no serf . ...
[It grows silent. The voice of the KING is heard as if continuing a
speech.
The King. Be of good courage, man.
My lord the Abbot will have need of us
Upon a day.
The Crowd. Huzza... hear the King ... the King. ...
The King. For in the end, we are the King of France.
If what men say be true we are more poor
Than you are. Therefore courage, man, look up.
Set a high price and with a smiling face
Cast down that price. Lord Abbot name it him,
He's stores of gold, they say. Now, Master, rise.
Stand up, man, and unpouch. Lord Abbot, name
The lowest ransom.
The Abbot. Sire, the price is fixt.
The Crowd. Strangle that Abbot. Cast him down to us.
The Abbot. The price is fixt. There is one only price.
I am the servant of the Abbey's fame,
Glory, renown and ancient heritages.
Our statutes fix the price, I can no more.
We live in troublous times; the breakers roar
Against the ship o' the Church; the times are evil;
And I a feeble, poor old man who stand
By the grace of God at the helm. What would you have?
To bate one jot of our enforced rights
Were to cast down into that raging sea
One of the sails we trust to for our voyage
And final harbouring. The price is fixt.
The Crowd. Let us unfix it. Cast him down to us.
The King. You hear him, Master?
Ans. Oh, I hear him, sire.
The King (to his Chamberlain). You should be famous to defeat the laws,
To find out quibbles; cheat the statutes' due,
What say you?
The Chamberlain. Sire, I can but what I can.
The Abbot is too strong; 'tis manifest
That he who's certain of the whole would be
Ill skilled at bargaining to take a part.
The Abbot's case is that. And for the rest:
I've argued with our Master; I have said:
"Good Master, think, the world is very large,
And full t'o'erflowing of dames passing fair."
I've told him that the tenth part of his goods
Would purchase him the name of nobleman,
Another tenth a lady to his bed,
The noblest and the fairest in the land.
What would you have? The man is made of iron
And will not bend; the Abbot will not break,
And I have wasted breath.
The King. Good madam Queen,
Entreat my lord the Abbot for these lovers.
The Queen. My lord, I've done a many things for you,
Have broidered copes, have made my ladies sew.
Your altar cloths with pearls. Beseech you now
Have pity on these lovers.
The Abbot. Oh, fair Queen,
In that I am a man I pity them.
In that I am God's servant I must shut
My eyes, my ears, my heart. Since there have been
An abbey in this place, and monks and bondsmen—
As who should say: Through all the mists of time.
It hath not been decreed that there should fall
A burgess of the city to the Abbey.
If now this precedent should be despised
There would not...
The Queen. Oh, a truce to precedent.
What is this wench? A girl who leads a cow;
In sackcloth. Doth the honour of the Abbey
Depend on girls in sackcloth?
The Abbot. Oh, fair Queen,
The precedent...
The Queen. Depends on girls in sackcloth!
Good, my lord Abbot, I had thought you wise,
Old learned Churchmen had had better wits.
What you? a man of three-and-ninety years
Who by the very nature of your vows
Are closured out from love... to say a wench
That leads a cow is necessary to
The honour of your Abbey. ...
The Abbot. Lady Queen,
I am an old man; doting I do say:
This wench that leads a cow is necessary
To the honour of our Abbey. ...
The King. Gentle wife,
You have the Abbot on the hip, but sweet,
A-meanwhiles our good Master kneels on thorns.
Lord Abbot, make an end; produce this wench,
This Helen that doth rive our world in twain,
And let our Master make his utter choice.

[At a sign from ABBOT HUGON, four-and-twenty acolytes issue out from
behind the chair. They strew white rose petals upon the steps until it is like a
hill of snow. Enter TIENNETTE.
The Crowd. Ah ... h ... h ...
[TIENNETTE is dressed like a maiden-queen in white, with a white coif sewn
with gold, with a girdle of silver filigree, with white gloves embroidered with
pearls. The ABBOT HUGON beckons to her to mount the steps to him. She does
so.
The King (to Maître Anseau). Nay, man, hadst well be wealthier than
we
To set a price on her that led your cow.
[To the Abbot.] If you will do us favour in this thing.
We shall requite you. We are France and Paris. ...
The Crowd. Paris and France!...
The King. And France and Paris have been touchèd home
By fortunes of these lovers. ... Hear us roar!. ...
The Crowd. Paris and France!
The Abbot. Ah, sire, what would you do?
You touch yourself by melling in this thing.
If we should blench to this unquiet mob
They would gain strength from broken precedent
Which is a dyke against this hungry sea
Wherein a breach being made, the sea sweeps in
And overwhelms us... overwhelms all France,
The Abbey and the Court. ...
The Crowd. Paris and France.
The King (to them). Nenny, ye lend the Abbot similes
That are not pleasant savoured. Master speak. ...

[Maître ANSEAU has risen to his feet and advances towards the ABBOT
holding out his arms.
The Queen (to her ladies). She's fair; why, yes, I think she's fair to
see.
She halts a little. But she's fair, she's fair.
Ans. Oh, Father Abbot, oh, you man of God,
If you have any pity in your heart,
If you have any hope of rest to come,
Bethink you, oh, bethink you. It grows late,
You stand upon the very verge of the shade
Death casts upon us. I do know the law
And I have made a vow. But, man of God,
The thing is in your hands. For me remains
No choice. The verdict lies with you. For me...
I have been poor, and I have been a bondsman,
And I am patient, oh! and I can bear.
But oh, you man of God, take heed, take heed.
If you have ever seen a little child,
And if your frozen eyes have thawed to see
The sunlight on the little children's faces,
Bethink you of the curse you cast upon
The children that that maid shall bear to me.
I have no choice, I have made the vow to God
And I fulfil it. But the little children...
Have you the heart to let them live that life,
Un-named, unknown, to live and die as beasts
That perish; all those tender little things
That God doth mean should burgeon in the light
And with their little laughter sing his praise.
The Abbot. I am a very ancient man, and stand
Within the shadow, and I stand and say:
The price is fixt.
Ans. Accursed rat o' the Church,
The price is fixt ... is fixt. Oh, horrible,
Insensate thirst for gold. Then, oh, thou man,
Thou spider gorging on the brink of hell,
Suck up my gold, my life. But oh, I keep
The better part of me, you cannot touch
The subtle engine God hath pleased to fix
Within my brain, you cannot use the skill
That made me what I am. And that I swear
Not torture, not the rack, not death itself
Shall set in motion. All your Abbey's rents
For twice a hundred years could never pay
What it shall lose thereby. I am more strong
Than iron's hard, and the more long-suffering
Than grief is great. For you I might have been
A fashioner of things divine; for you
I shall be but a pack-horse.

[TIENNETTE, who had covered her face with her arms, stretches out her arms
to ANSEAU.
Tien. Oh, my love,
My lord, my more than life, thou noble man,
Forsake me, oh, forsake me, I did say
"You did not know," and, oh you did not know.
When you did make your vow. Forsake me, then,
And go your ways. ...
Ans. I cannot go my way;
I have no way but only this with you.
Tien. There is a way that God hath shown to me—
These last few weeks they have been schooling me
Within their cloisters—and there is a way,
By which, if you do love me more than all,
You shall enjoy me and go free in the end.
For this the law is—they have told me so—
If I should die before a child is born,
You should go free though losing house and store,
The occasion of your serfdom being dead.
And oh, my lord and life,
You shall. But for my sin of laying hands
Upon myself, full surely the Lord God
Shall pardon me, full surely the Lord God
Shall pardon who doth know and weigh all hearts.

[The ABBOT lays his hand upon her arm.
The Crowd. You shall not hurt her; we will have you down.
Old Spider... Rat o' the Church.
The King. Ah, make an end,
Lord Abbot, for our dames have eyes all wet.
The Abbot. The price is fixt.
Ans. And I must pay the price.
The Crowd. You shall not; no, you shall not. We are the free burgesses of
Paris.

[The ABBOT HUGON beckons Maître ANSEAU to come up to him. He slowly
ascends the steps. The thurifers draw round and a cloud of incense goes up.
The Monks chant and the KING removes his beaver. The QUEEN and her
ladies cross themselves.

A great uproar in the hall; the Soldiers of the Abbey are thrown down and
the Crowd breaks through; the King's Soldiers force it back. The sound
of bells comes in from without. Enter the Bondsmen of the Abbey bearing a
canopy. The ABBOT is seen blessing ANSEAU and TIENNETTE. Afterwards
they go down the steps together. A Monk beckons them to stand beneath the
canopy, which has gold staves with little silver bells. During this wedding
there has been a constant clamour. Now it falls silent.
The Abbot. Anseau, thou serf and bondsman of our Abbey,
Acknowledge that thy goods and life are ours.
Ans. I do acknowledge it.
The Abbot (to the Bondsmen). Bare ye his arm,
Up to the elbow. Armourer, set thou on
This bondsman's wrist the shackle of his state.
[The Armourer rivets a silver collar upon the arm of ANSEAU. Whilst he
is doing it the ABBOT descends the steps and comes to them.
The Abbot. My hands are very feeble, I am old. (To Tiennette.) Give
me some help, thou wife of the new bondsman.

[The ABBOT HUGON undoes the collar from the arm of ANSEAU.
The Crowd. Ah ... h ... h ... What is this? What is this?
The Abbot (to Maître Anseau). Thou art a master jeweller. Hast skill
To break the collar from thy new wife's arm
And not to hurt her?

[ANSEAU stands as if amazed. The ABBOT frees TIENNETTE.
Lo, thou burgess's wife,
How is it, to be free?
The Crowd. What? ... what ... What is this? ... Are they free?
[As the curtain falls ANSEAU and TIENNETTE stand as if amazed. The
monks raise their hands in horror.

END OF SCENE III

THE AFTER SCENE

[The Chamber of the ABBOT. A bare, small, whitewashed room. On the floor,
in a broad ray of sunlight that falls from the barred windows, stand two great
gilt shrines. The door of the one is closed; through the half-opened doors of
the other one sees an image of the Virgin in the likeness of TIENNETTE
having a little child upon her arm and a cow kneeling at her feet.
The ABBOT; Two Religious.
The ABBOT lies with his eyes closed upon a narrow pallet, a black rosary
falling from his clasped hands. The Two Religious stand motionless, their
heads covered by their cowls, at his feet.
A long silence in which is heard the cooing of a blue pigeon on the window-
sill. The ABBOT opens his eyes.
The Abbot. So ye are there; I sent for you. The end Is very near me now.
[He makes a weak gesture with one hand as if pointing to the shrines.
You see those things?
What say you, brothers, did I dote? I know,
I say I know, have known this many months
What you have whispered in the refectory.
"The Abbot dotes," you said, "The Abbot dotes"...
You said I doted; that my heart was touched
By whimperings of lovers. One of you
Shall step into my shoes a short day hence.
Oh, let your dotage work as well as mine
For honour of the Abbey; do but once
One-half of what I did in this one thing!
You said I doted, that my heart was touched.
Nenny, I have a heart, but I am old
And very cunning. I have seen more things
Than most. And I do know my world, I say.
You would have kept him, you. My heart was touched,
In happy hour, I say, my heart was touched,
Mine that has nursed the Abbey's honour here
As mothers nurse their babes. You would have held
The letter of the law and raised a storm.
That had cast down our house... The burgesses
Do love us now; this twelvemonth they have brought
More offerings than in a lustre past.
You would have kept the law and raised a storm
That must have shorn us of one-half the rights
We have upon the city. I did know
That, in the acclamations of my mercy
The collar I have set upon their necks
Would gall no withers, yet the precedent
Be riveted. And there is more than this
I gained whose heart was touched by lovers' tears.
It brought us these two shrines. I tell you, men,
I prophesy who lie at the point of death,
That when all precedents are swept away,
And you and I and all of us become
A little dust that would not fill a cup,
These shrines shall be the glory of the Abbey,
Its chiefest profit and most high renown.
For men shall marvel at the handiwork,
And women tell the story at their work,
And crossed lovers come from all the lands
To make their offerings and shed salt tears
Unto the saints that let their hearts be moved
By these two lovers of the time before.
I prophesy,
Upon the point of death, I know my world,
I have been in it for a mort of years. ...
And one of you shall step into my shoes.
You stand there thinking it; I know my world.
[He closes his eyes, then opens them and looks at the image of the Virgin.
Oh, blessed child upon thy mother's arm,
Remember when our Brotherhood is tried. ...
(To the Religious.) Go, get ye to your whisperings again
And say I doted. ...
Brothers, go with God.
Send me a little wine and let me sleep.

[He closes his eyes again. Exeunt the Religious. The blue pigeon flies
from the window-sill. Its wings clatter in the stillness.





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