Complete works of ford m.., p.808
Complete Works of Ford Madox Ford, page 808
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 trail of lords and
ladies follow them. The King’s Chamberlain
comes to stand by the head of the Kings 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
tip to him. He slowly ascends the steps. The thurifers
draw round and a cloud of incense goes tip. 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 Anscau). 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?
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 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
