Complete Poems and Plays (26 page)

C
HORUS
.
Here let us stand, close by the cathedral. Here let us wait.

Are we drawn by danger? Is it the knowledge of safety, that draws

our feet

Towards the cathedral? What danger can be

For us, the poor, the poor women of Canterbury? what tribulation

With which we are not already familiar? There is no danger

For us, and there is no safety in the cathedral. Some presage of an

act

Which our eyes are compelled to witness, has forced our feet

Towards the cathedral. We are forced to bear witness.

Since golden October declined into sombre November

And the apples were gathered and stored, and the land became

brown sharp points of death in a waste of water and mud,

The New Year waits, breathes, waits, whispers in darkness.

While the labourer kicks off a muddy boot and stretches his hand

to the fire,

The New Year waits, destiny waits for the coming.

Who has stretched out his hand to the fire and remembered the

Saints at All Hallows,

Remembered the martyrs and saints who wait? and who shall

Stretch out his hand to the fire, and deny his master? who shall be

warm

By the fire, and deny his master?

Seven years and the summer is over

Seven years since the Archbishop left us,

He who was always kind to his people.

But it would not be well if he should return.

King rules or barons rule;

We have suffered various oppression,

But mostly we are left to our own devices,

And we are content if we are left alone.

We try to keep our households in order;

The merchant, shy and cautious, tries to compile a little fortune,

And the labourer bends to his piece of earth, earth-colour, his own

colour,

Preferring to pass unobserved.

Now I fear disturbance of the quiet seasons:

Winter shall come bringing death from the sea,

Ruinous spring shall beat at our doors,

Root and shoot shall eat our eyes and our ears,

Disastrous summer burn up the beds of our streams

And the poor shall wait for another decaying October.

Why should the summer bring consolation

For autumn fires and winter fogs?

What shall we do in the heat of summer

But wait in barren orchards for another October?

Some malady is coming upon us. We wait, we wait,

And the saints and martyrs wait, for those who shall be martyrs and

saints.

Destiny waits in the hand of God, shaping the still unshapen:

I have seen these things in a shaft of sunlight.

Destiny waits in the hand of God, not in the hands of statesmen

Who do, some well, some ill, planning and guessing,

Having their aims which turn in their hands in the pattern of time.

Come, happy December, who shall observe you, who shall preserve

you?

Shall the Son of Man be born again in the litter of scorn?

For us, the poor, there is no action,

But only to wait and to witness.

[
Enter
P
RIESTS
]

F
IRST
P
RIEST
.
Seven years and the summer is over.

Seven years since the Archbishop left us.

S
ECOND
P
RIEST
.
What does the Archbishop do, and our Sovereign

Lord the Pope

With the stubborn King and the French King

In ceaseless intrigue, combinations,

In conference, meetings accepted, meetings refused,

Meetings unended or endless

At one place or another in France?

T
HIRD
P
RIEST
.
I see nothing quite conclusive in the art of temporal

government,

But violence, duplicity and frequent malversation.

King rules or barons rule:

The strong man strongly and the weak man by caprice.

They have but one law, to seize the power and keep it,

And the steadfast can manipulate the greed and lust of others,

The feeble is devoured by his own.

F
IRST
P
RIEST
.
Shall these things not end

Until the poor at the gate

Have forgotten their friend, their Father in God, have forgotten

That they had a friend?

[
Enter
M
ESSENGER
]

M
ESSENGER
.
Servants of God, and watchers of the temple,

I am here to inform you, without circumlocution:

The Archbishop is in England, and is close outside the city.

I was sent before in haste

To give you notice of his coming, as much as was possible,

That you may prepare to meet him.

F
IRST
P
RIEST
.
What, is the exile ended, is our Lord Archbishop

Reunited with the King? what reconciliation

Of two proud men?

T
HIRD
P
RIEST
.
              What peace can be found

To grow between the hammer and the anvil?

S
ECOND
P
RIEST
.
                                                   Tell us,

Are the old disputes at an end, is the wall of pride cast down

That divided them? Is it peace or war?

F
IRST
P
RIEST
.
                                             Does he come

In full assurance, or only secure

In the power of Rome, the spiritual rule,

The assurance of right, and the love of the people?

M
ESSENGER
.
You are right to express a certain incredulity.

He comes in pride and sorrow, affirming all his claims,

Assured, beyond doubt, of the devotion of the people,

Who receive him with scenes of frenzied enthusiasm,

Lining the road and throwing down their capes,

Strewing the way with leaves and late flowers of the season.

The streets of the city will be packed to suffocation,

And I think that his horse will be deprived of its tail,

A single hair of which becomes a precious relic.

He is at one with the Pope, and with the King of France,

Who indeed would have liked to detain him in his kingdom:

But as for our King, that is another matter.

F
IRST
P
RIEST
.
But again, is it war or peace?

M
ESSENGER
.
                                            Peace, but not the kiss of peace.

A patched up affair, if you ask my opinion.

And if you ask me, I think the Lord Archbishop

Is not the man to cherish any illusions,

Or yet to diminish the least of his pretensions.

If you ask my opinion, I think that this peace

Is nothing like an end, or like a beginning.

It is common knowledge that when the Archbishop

Parted from the King, he said to the King,

My Lord, he said, I leave you as a man

Whom in this life I shall not see again.

I have this, I assure you, on the highest authority;

There are several opinions as to what he meant,

But no one considers it a happy prognostic.

[
Exit
]

F
IRST
P
RIEST
.
I fear for the Archbishop, I fear for the Church,

I know that the pride bred of sudden prosperity

Was but confirmed by bitter adversity.

I saw him as Chancellor, flattered by the King.

Liked or feared by courtiers, in their overbearing fashion,

Despised and despising, always isolated,

Never one among them, always insecure;

His pride always feeding upon his own virtues,

Pride drawing sustenance from impartiality,

Pride drawing sustenance from generosity,

Loathing power given by temporal devolution,

Wishing subjection to God alone.

Had the King been greater, or had he been weaker

Things had perhaps been different for Thomas.

S
ECOND
P
RIEST
.
Yet our lord is returned. Our lord has come back to his own again.

We have had enough of waiting, from December to dismal December.

The Archbishop shall be at our head, dispelling dismay and doubt.

He will tell us what we are to do, he will give us our orders, instruct us.

Our Lord is at one with the Pope, and also the King of France.

We can lean on a rock, we can feel a firm foothold

Against the perpetual wash of tides of balance of forces of barons and landholders.

The rock of God is beneath our feet. Let us meet the Archbishop with cordial thanksgiving:

Our lord, our Archbishop returns. And when the Archbishop returns

Our doubts are dispelled. Let us therefore rejoice,

I say rejoice, and show a glad face for his welcome.

I am the Archbishop’s man. Let us give the Archbishop welcome!

T
HIRD
P
RIEST
.
For good or ill, let the wheel turn.

The wheel has been still, these seven years, and no good.

For ill or good, let the wheel turn.

For who knows the end of good or evil?

Until the grinders cease

And the door shall be shut in the street,

And all the daughters of music shall be brought low.

C
HORUS
.
Here is no continuing city, here is no abiding stay.

Ill the wind, ill the time, uncertain the profit, certain the danger.

O late late late, late is the time, late too late, and rotten the year;