Читать книгу The Saint's Tragedy - Charles Kingsley - Страница 6

Lewis.  So all these lands are mine; these yellow meads—

These village greens, and forest-fretted hills,

With dizzy castles crowned.  Mine!  Why that word

Is rich in promise, in the action bankrupt.

What faculty of mine, save dream-fed pride,

Can these things fatten?  Mass!  I had forgot:

I have a right to bark at trespassers.

Rare privilege!  While every fowl and bush,

According to its destiny and nature

(Which were they truly mine, my power could alter),

Will live, and grow, and take no thought of me.

Those firs, before whose stealthy-marching ranks

The world-old oaks still dwindle and retreat,

If I could stay their poisoned frown, which cows

The pale shrunk underwood, and nestled seeds

Into an age of sleep, ’twere something: and those men

O’er whom that one word ‘ownership’ uprears me—

If I could make them lift a finger up

But of their own free will, I’d own my seizin.

But now—when if I sold them, life and limb,

There’s not a sow would litter one pig less

Than when men called her mine.—Possession’s naught;

A parchment ghost; a word I am ashamed

To claim even here, lest all the forest spirits,

And bees who drain unasked the free-born flowers,

Should mock, and cry, ‘Vain man, not thine, but ours.’

Wal.  Possession’s naught?  Possession’s beef and ale—

Soft bed, fair wife, gay horse, good steel.—Are they naught?

Possession means to sit astride of the world,

Instead of having it astride of you;

Is that naught?  ’Tis the easiest trade of all too;

For he that’s fit for nothing else, is fit

To own good land, and on the slowest dolt

His state sits easiest, while his serfs thrive best.

Lewis.  How now?  What need then of long discipline,

Not to mere feats of arms, but feats of soul;

To courtesies and high self-sacrifice,

To order and obedience, and the grace

Which makes commands, requests, and service, favour?

To faith and prayer, and pure thoughts, ever turned

To that Valhalla, where the virgin saints

And stainless heroes tend the Queen of heaven?

Why these, if I but need, like stalled ox

To chew the grass cut for me?

Wal.  Why?  Because

I have trained thee for a knight, boy, not a ruler.

All callings want their proper ’prentice time

But this of ruling; it comes by mother-wit;

And if the wit be not exceeding great,

’Tis best the wit be most exceeding small;

And he that holds the reins should let the horse

Range on, feed where he will, live and let live.

Custom and selfishness will keep all steady

For half a life.—Six months before you die

You may begin to think of interfering.

Lewis.  Alas! while each day blackens with fresh clouds,

Complaints of ague, fever, crumbling huts,

Of land thrown out to the forest, game and keepers,

Bailiffs and barons, plundering all alike;

Need, greed, stupidity: To clear such ruin

Would task the rich prime of some noble hero—

But can I nothing do?

Wal.  Oh! plenty, Sir;

Which no man yet has done or e’er will do.

It rests with you, whether the priest be honoured;

It rests with you, whether the knight be knightly;

It rests with you, whether those fields grow corn;

It rests with you, whether those toiling peasants

Lift to their masters free and loyal eyes,

Or crawl, like jaded hacks, to welcome graves.

It rests with you—and will rest.

Lewis.  I’ll crowd my court and dais with men of God,

As doth my peerless namesake, King of France.

Wal.  Priests, Sir?  The Frenchman keeps two counsellors

Worth any drove of priests.

Lewis.  And who are they?

Wal.  God and his lady-love, [aside]  He’ll open at that—

Lewis.  I could be that man’s squire.

Wal [aside]  Again run riot—

Now for another cast, [aloud]  If you’d sleep sound, Sir,

You’ll let priests pray for you, but school you never.

Lewis.  Mass! who more fitted?

Wal.  None, if you could trust them;

But they are the people’s creatures; poor men give them

Their power at the church, and take it back at the ale-house:

Then what’s the friar to the starving peasant?

Just what the abbot is to the greedy noble—

A scarecrow to lear wolves.  Go ask the church plate,

Safe in knights’ cellars, how these priests are feared.

Bruised reeds when you most need them.—No, my Lord;

Copy them, trust them never.

Lewis.  Copy? wherein?

Wal.  In letting every man

Do what he likes, and only seeing he does it

As you do your work—well.  That’s the Church secret

For breeding towns, as fast as you breed roe-deer;

Example, but not meddling.  See that hollow—

I knew it once all heath, and deep peat-bog—

I drowned a black mare in that self-same spot

Hunting with your good father: Well, he gave

One jovial night, to six poor Erfurt monks—

Six picked-visaged, wan, bird-fingered wights—

All in their rough hair shirts, like hedgehogs starved—

I told them, six weeks’ work would break their hearts:

They answered, Christ would help, and Christ’s great mother,

And make them strong when weakest: So they settled:

And starved and froze.

Lewis.  And dug and built, it seems.

Wal.  Faith, that’s true.  See—as garden walls draw snails,

They have drawn a hamlet round; the slopes are blue,

Knee-deep with flax, the orchard boughs are breaking

With strange outlandish fruits.  See those young rogues

Marching to school; no poachers here, Lord Landgrave,—

Too much to be done at home; there’s not a village

Of yours, now, thrives like this.  By God’s good help

These men have made their ownership worth something.

Here comes one of them.

Lewis.  I would speak to him—

And learn his secret.—We’ll await him here.

Con.  Peace to you, reverend and war-worn knight,

And you, fair youth, upon whose swarthy lip

Blooms the rich promise of a noble manhood.

Methinks, if simple monks may read your thoughts,

That with no envious or distasteful eyes

Ye watch the labours of God’s poor elect.

Wal.  Why—we were saying, how you cunning rooks

Pitch as by instinct on the fattest fallows.

Con.  For He who feeds the ravens, promiseth

Our bread and water sure, and leads us on

By peaceful streams in pastures green to lie,

Beneath our Shepherd’s eye.

Lewis.  In such a nook, now,

To nestle from this noisy world—

Con.  And drop

The burden of thyself upon the threshold.

Lewis.  Think what rich dreams may haunt those lowly roofs!

Con.  Rich dreams,—and more; their dreams will find fulfilment—

Their discipline breeds strength—’Tis we alone

Can join the patience of the labouring ox

Unto the eagle’s foresight,—not a fancy

Of ours, but grows in time to mighty deeds;

Victories in heavenly warfare: but yours, yours, Sir,

Oh, choke them, choke the panting hopes of youth,

Ere they be born, and wither in slow pains,

Cast by for the next bauble!

Lewis.  ’Tis too true!

I dread no toil; toil is the true knight’s pastime—

Faith fails, the will intense and fixed, so easy

To thee, cut off from life and love, whose powers

In one close channel must condense their stream:

But I, to whom this life blooms rich and busy,

Whose heart goes out a-Maying all the year

In this new Eden—in my fitful thought

What skill is there, to turn my faith to sight—

To pierce blank Heaven, like some trained falconer

After his game, beyond all human ken?

Wal.  And walk into the bog beneath your feet.

Con.  And change it to firm land by magic step!

Build there cloud-cleaving spires, beneath whose shade

Great cities rise for vassals; to call forth

From plough and loom the rank unlettered hinds,

And make them saints and heroes—send them forth

To sway with heavenly craft the spirit of princes;

Change nations’ destinies, and conquer worlds

With love, more mighty than the sword; what, Count?

Art thou ambitious? practical? we monks

Can teach you somewhat there too.

Lewis.  Be it so;

But love you have forsworn; and what were life

Without that chivalry, which bends man’s knees

Before God’s image and his glory, best

Revealed in woman’s beauty?

Con.  Ah! poor worldlings!

Little you dream what maddening ecstasies,

What rich ideals haunt, by day and night,

Alone, and in the crowd, even to the death,

The servitors of that celestial court

Where peerless Mary, sun-enthroned, reigns,

In whom all Eden dreams of womanhood,

All grace of form, hue, sound, all beauty strewn

Like pearls unstrung, about this ruined world,

Have their fulfilment and their archetype.

Why hath the rose its scent, the lily grace?

To mirror forth her loveliness, from whom,

Primeval fount of grace, their livery came:

Pattern of Seraphs! only worthy ark

To bear her God athwart the floods of time!

Lewis.  Who dare aspire to her?  Alas, not I!

To me she is a doctrine, and a picture:—

I cannot live on dreams.

Con.  She hath her train:—

There thou may’st choose thy love: If world-wide lore

Shall please thee, and the Cherub’s glance of fire,

Let Catharine lift thy soul, and rapt with her

Question the mighty dead, until thou float

Tranced on the ethereal ocean of her spirit.

If pity father passion in thee, hang

Above Eulalia’s tortured loveliness;

And for her sake, and in her strength, go forth

To do and suffer greatly.  Dost thou long

For some rich heart, as deep in love as weakness,

Whose wild simplicity sweet heaven-born instincts

Alone keep sane?

Lewis.  I do, I do.  I’d live

And die for each and all the three.

Con.  Then go—

Entangled in the Magdalen’s tresses lie;

Dream hours before her picture, till thy lips

Dare to approach her feet, and thou shalt start

To find the canvas warm with life, and matter

A moment transubstantiate to heaven.

Wal.  Ay, catch his fever, Sir, and learn to take

An indigestion for a troop of angels.

Come, tell him, monk, about your magic gardens,

Where not a stringy head of kale is cut

But breeds a vision or a revelation.

Con.  Then, if proved,

As I dare vouch thee, loyal in thy love,

Even to the Queen herself thy saintlier soul

At length may soar: perchance—Oh, bliss too great

For thought—yet possible!

Receive some token—smile—or hallowing touch

Of that white hand, beneath whose soft caress

The raging world is smoothed, and runs its course

To shadow forth her glory.

Lewis.  Thou dost tempt me—

That were a knightly quest.

Con.  Ay, here’s true love.

Love’s heaven, without its hell; the golden fruit

Without the foul husk, which at Adam’s fall

Did crust it o’er with filth and selfishness.

I tempt thee heavenward—from yon azure walls

Unearthly beauties beckon—God’s own mother

Waits longing for thy choice—

Lewis.  Is this a dream?

Wal.  Ay, by the Living Lord, who died for you!

Will you be cozened, Sir, by these air-blown fancies,

These male hysterics, by starvation bred

And huge conceit?  Cast off God’s gift of manhood,

And, like the dog in the adage, drop the true bone

With snapping at the sham one in the water?

What were you born a man for?

Lewis.  Ay, I know it:—

I cannot live on dreams.  Oh for one friend,

Myself, yet not myself; one not so high

But she could love me, not too pure to pardon

My sloth and meanness!  Oh for flesh and blood,

Before whose feet I could adore, yet love!

How easy then were duty!  From her lips

To learn my daily task;—in her pure eyes

To see the living type of those heaven-glories

I dare not look on;—let her work her will

Of love and wisdom on these straining hinds;—

To squire a saint around her labour field,

And she and it both mine:—That were possession!

Con.  The flesh, fair youth—

Wal.  Avaunt, bald snake, avaunt!

We are past your burrow now.  Come, come, Lord Landgrave,

Look round, and find your saint.

Lewis.  Alas! one such—

One such, I know, who upward from one cradle

Beside me like a sister—No, thank God! no sister!—

Has grown and grown, and with her mellow shade

Has blanched my thornless thoughts to her own hue,

And even now is budding into blossom,

Which never shall bear fruit, but inward still

Resorb its vital nectar, self-contained,

And leave no living copies of its beauty

To after ages.  Ah! be less, sweet maid,

Less than thyself!  Yet no—my wife thou might’st be,

If less than thus—but not the saint thou art.

What! shall my selfish longings drag thee down

From maid to wife? degrade the soul I worship?

That were a caitiff deed!  Oh, misery!

Is wedlock treason to that purity,

Which is the jewel and the soul of wedlock?

Elizabeth! my saint!  [Exit Conrad.]

Wal.  What, Sir? the Princess?

Ye saints in heaven, I thank you!

Lewis.  Oh, who else,

Who else the minutest lineament fulfils

Of this my cherished portrait?

Lewis.  Loves me!  My Count, that word is quickly spoken;

And yet, if it be true, it thrusts me forth

Upon a shoreless sea of untried passion,

From whence is no return.

Wal.  By Siegfried’s sword,

My words are true, and I came here to say them,

To thee, my son in all but blood.

Mass, I’m no gossip.  Why?  What ails the boy?

Lewis.  Loves me!  Henceforth let no man, peering down

Through the dim glittering mine of future years,

Say to himself ‘Too much! this cannot be!’

To-day, and custom, wall up our horizon:

Before the hourly miracle of life

Blindfold we stand, and sigh, as though God were not.

I have wandered in the mountains, mist-bewildered,

And now a breeze comes, and the veil is lifted,

And priceless flowers, o’er which I trod unheeding,

Gleam ready for my grasp.  She loves me then!

She who to me was as a nightingale

That sings in magic gardens, rock-beleaguered,

To passing angels melancholy music—

Whose dark eyes hung, like far-off evening stars,

Through rosy-cushioned windows coldly shining

Down from the cloud-world of her unknown fancy—

She, for whom holiest touch of holiest knight

Seemed all too gross—who might have been a saint

And companied with angels—thus to pluck

The spotless rose of her own maidenhood

To give it unto me!

Wal.  You love her then?

Lewis.  Look! if yon solid mountain were all gold,

And each particular tree a band of jewels,

And from its womb the Niebelungen hoard

With elfin wardens called me, ‘Leave thy love

And be our Master’—I would turn away—

And know no wealth but her.

Wal.  Shall I say this to her?

I am no carrier pigeon, Sir, by breed,

But now, between her friends and persecutors,

My life’s a burden.

Lewis.  Persecutors!  Who?

Alas!  I guess it—I had known my mother

Too light for that fair saint,—but who else dare wink

When she is by?  My knights?

Wal.  To a man, my Lord.

Lewis.  Here’s chivalry!  Well, that’s soon brought to bar.

The quarrel’s mine; my lance shall clear that stain.

Wal.  Quarrel with your knights?  Cut your own chair-legs off!

They do but sail with the stream.  Her passion, Sir,

Broke shell and ran out twittering before yours did,

And unrequited love is mortal sin

With this chaste world.  My boy, my boy, I tell you,

The fault lies nearer home.

Lewis.  I have played the coward—

And in the sloth of false humility,

Cast by the pearl I dared not to deserve.

How laggard I must seem to her, though she love me;

Playing with hawks and hounds, while she sits weeping!

’Tis not too late.

Wal.  Too late, my royal eyas?

You shall strike this deer yourself at gaze ere long—

She has no mind to slip to cover.

Lewis.  Come—

We’ll back—we’ll back; and you shall bear the message;

I am ashamed to speak.  Tell her I love her—

That I should need to tell her!  Say, my coyness

Was bred of worship, not of coldness.

Wal.  Then the serfs

Must wait?

Lewis.  Why not?  This day to them, too, blessing brings,

Which clears from envious webs their guardian angel’s wings.  [Exeunt.]