Complete Works of Ford Madox Ford, page 807
There — drink the scent of my hair:
There — snatch your moment of bliss.
She sings again.
Tender — Tender — Tender, trusting and true
That, That, That they may be, they may be otherwhere:
Si — tu veux autre chose, je n’ai rien de plus,
Qu’est c’-Qu’est c’-Qu’est c’ que tu fais dans cette galère?
IN TENEBRIS
All within is warm,
Here without it's very cold,
Now the year is grown so old
And the dead leaves swarm.
In your heart is light,
Here without it's very dark,
When shall I hear the lark?
When see aright?
Oh, for a moment's space!
Draw the clinging curtains wide
Whilst I wait and yearn outside
Let the light fall on my face.
SONG OF THE HEBREW SEER
OH would that the darkness would cover the
face of the land,
Oh would that a cloud would shroud the face of high heaven,
Would blot out the stars, and hush, hush, hush the
winds of the west,
That the sons of men might sink into utter rest,
Forgetting the God in whose name their fathers had striven
Might strive no longer and slumber as slumbers the desert sand.
That then, oh, my God, should Thy lightnings flash forth,
That Thy voice, oh, Jehovah, should burst on mine ear
In the thunder that rolls from the east and the north
And thy laugh on the rushing of winds that bear
The myriad, myriad sounds of the sea.
AN IMITATION
(TO IN M.)
COME, my Sylvia, let us rove
To that secret silent grove,
Where the painted birds agree
To tune their throats for you and me.
We will foot it in the shade
Of ev’ry dappled, dancing glade,
Till Ob’ron and his fairy train
Shall shout for joy and swear amain:
Such form as thine was never seen
Sporting o’er the velvet green.
SONNET
(SUGGESTED BY THE “PHŒBUS WITH ADMETUS” BY GEORGE MEREDITH)
AFTER Apollo left Admetus’ gate,
Did his late fellows feel a numb despair,
Did they cry “Comrade, comrade” everywhere
Thro’ the abandoned byres, and curse the fate
That let them for awhile know him for mate
To mourn his going? Did his vacant chair
Before the fire, when winter drove them there
Make the sad silence more disconsolate?
Did yearning ears all vainly, vainly strain
To half recall the voice that now was mute?
Did yearning eyes strive all in vain, in vain,
To half recall the glory of his face,
To half recall the God that for a space
Had quickened their dead world? and, ah, his lute...
SONG DIALOGUE
“IS it so, my dear?”
“Even so!”
“Too much woe to bear?”
“Too much woe!”
“Wait a little while,
We must bear the whole,
Do not weep, but smile,
We are near the goal.”
“Is it dark — the night?”
“Very dark!”
“Not a spark of light?”
“Not a spark!”
“Yet a little way
We must journey on;
Night will turn to day
And the goal be won.”
“Will the dawn come soon?”
“In an hour;
See! the sinking moon
Loses power.
Saffron grey the west
Wakes before the sun.
Very soon we’ll rest
Now that day’s begun.”
LITTLE PLAYS
The following pieces in dramatic form were published, viz., “Perseverance d’Amour” and “The Face of the Night,” in the volume bearing the latter name; the “Mother” appeared also in the Fortnightly Review. “King Cophetua” and the “Masque” were published in “Poems for Pictures.” I have grouped them here together for the convenience of the reader who does not like poems in dialogue.
PERSEVERANCE D’AMOUR
A LITTLE PLAY
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 SENNECTF.RRE.
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, foins 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 cozv as the scene closes.
END OF SCENE I
SCENE II
[Parts. 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, he 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...
