Complete Poems and Plays (35 page)

F
IRST
K
NIGHT
.
Morville has given us a great deal to think about. It seems to me that he has said almost the last word, for those who have been able to follow his very subtle reasoning. We have, however, one more speaker, who has I think another point of view to express. If there are any who are still unconvinced, I think that Richard Brito, coming as he does of a family distinguished for its loyalty to the Church, will be able to convince them. Richard Brito.

F
OURTH
K
NIGHT
.
The speakers who have preceded me, to say nothing of our leader, Reginald Fitz Urse, have all spoken very much to the point. I have nothing to add along their particular lines of argument. What I have to say may be put in the form of a question:
Who
killed
the
Archbishop?
As you have been eye-witnesses of this lamentable scene, you may feel some surprise at my putting it in this way. But consider the course of events. I am obliged, very briefly, to go over the ground traversed by the last speaker. While the late Archbishop was Chancellor, no one, under the King, did more to weld the country together, to give it the unity, the stability, order,
tranquillity
, and justice that it so badly needed. From the moment he became Archbishop, he completely reversed his policy; he showed himself to be utterly indifferent to the fate of the country, to be, in fact, a monster of egotism. This egotism grew upon him, until it became at last an undoubted mania. I have unimpeachable evidence to the effect that before he left France he clearly prophesied, in the presence of numerous witnesses, that he had not long to live, and that he would be killed in England. He used every means of
provocation
; from his conduct, step by step, there can be no inference except that he had determined upon a death by martyrdom. Even at the last, he could have given us reason: you have seen how he evaded our questions. And when he had deliberately exasperated us beyond human endurance, he could still have easily escaped; he could have kept himself from us long enough to allow our righteous anger to cool. That was just what he did not wish to happen; he insisted, while we were still inflamed with wrath, that the doors should be opened. Need I say more? I think, with these facts before you, you will unhesitatingly render a verdict of Suicide while of Unsound Mind. It is the only charitable verdict you can give, upon one who was, after all, a great man.

F
IRST
K
NIGHT
.
Thank you, Brito, I think that there is no more to be said; and I suggest that you now disperse quietly to your homes. Please be careful not to loiter in groups at street corners, and do nothing that might provoke any public outbreak.

[
Exeunt
K
NIGHTS
]

F
IRST
P
RIEST
.
O father, father, gone from us, lost to us,

How shall we find you, from what far place

Do you look down on us? You now in Heaven,

Who shall now guide us, protect us, direct us?

After what journey through what further dread

Shall we recover your presence? when inherit

Your strength? The Church lies bereft,

Alone, desecrated, desolated, and the heathen shall build on the

ruins,

Their world without God. I see it. I see it.

T
HIRD
P
RIEST
.
No. For the Church is stronger for this action,

Triumphant in adversity. It is fortified

By persecution: supreme, so long as men will die for it.

Go, weak sad men, lost erring souls, homeless in earth or heaven.

Go where the sunset reddens the last grey rock

Of Brittany, or the Gates of Hercules.

Go venture shipwreck on the sullen coasts

Where blackamoors make captive Christian men;

Go to the northern seas confined with ice

Where the dead breath makes numb the hand, makes dull the brain;

Find an oasis in the desert sun,

Go seek alliance with the heathen Saracen,

To share his filthy rites, and try to snatch

Forgetfulness in his libidinous courts.

Oblivion in the fountain by the date-tree;

Or sit and bite your nails in Aquitaine.

In the small circle of pain-within the skull

You still shall tramp and tread one endless round

Of thought, to justify your action to yourselves,

Weaving a fiction which unravels as you weave,

Pacing forever in the hell of make-believe

Which never is belief: this is your fate on earth

And we must think no further of you.

F
IRST
P
RIEST
.
                                           O my lord

The glory of whose new state is hidden from us,

Pray for us of your charity.

S
ECOND
P
RIEST
.
                     Now in the sight of God

Conjoined with all the saints and martyrs gone before you, 

Remember us.

T
HIRD
P
RIEST
.
             Let our thanks ascend

To God, who has given us another Saint in Canterbury.

C
HORUS
[
while
a
Te Deum
is
sung
in
Latin
by
a
choir
in
the
distance
]
.

We praise Thee, O God, for Thy glory displayed in all the

creatures of the earth,

In the snow, in the rain, in the wind, in the storm; in all of Thy

creatures, both the hunters and the hunted.

For all things exist only as seen by Thee, only as known by Thee,

all things exist

Only in Thy light, and Thy glory is declared even in that which

denies Thee; the darkness declares the glory of light.

Those who deny Thee could not deny, if Thou didst not exist; and

their denial is never complete, for if it were so, they would not

exist.

They affirm Thee in living; all things affirm Thee in living; the

bird in the air, both the hawk and the finch; the beast on the

earth, both the wolf and the lamb; the worm in the soil and the

worm in the belly.

Therefore man, whom Thou hast made to be conscious of Thee,

must consciously praise Thee, in thought and in word and in

deed.

Even with the hand to the broom, the back bent in laying the fire,

the knee bent in cleaning the hearth, we, the scrubbers and

sweepers of Canterbury,

The back bent under toil, the knee bent under sin, the hands to the

face under fear, the head bent under grief,

Even in us the voices of seasons, the snuffle of winter, the song of

spring, the drone of summer, the voices of beasts and of birds,

praise Thee.

We thank Thee for Thy mercies of blood, for Thy redemption by

blood. For the blood of Thy martyrs and saints

Shall enrich the earth, shall create the holy places.

For wherever a saint has dwelt, wherever a martyr has given his

blood for the blood of Christ,

There is holy ground, and the sanctity shall not depart from it

Though armies trample over it, though sightseers come with guide-books looking over it;

From where the western seas gnaw at the coast of Iona,

To the death in the desert, the prayer in forgotten places by the broken imperial column,

From such ground springs that which forever renews the earth

Though it is forever denied. Therefore, O God, we thank Thee

Who hast given such blessing to Canterbury.

Forgive us, O Lord, we acknowledge ourselves as type of the

common man,

Of the men and women who shut the door and sit by the fire;

Who fear the blessing of God, the loneliness of the night of God,

the surrender required, the deprivation inflicted;

Who fear the injustice of men less than the justice of God;

Who fear the hand at the window, the fire in the thatch, the fist in

the tavern, the push into the canal,

Less than we fear the love of God.

We acknowledge our trespass, our weakness, our fault; we

acknowledge

That the sin of the world is upon our heads; that the blood of the

martyrs and the agony of the saints

Is upon our heads.

Lord, have mercy upon us.

Christ, have mercy upon us.

Lord, have mercy upon us.

Blessed Thomas, pray for us.

A
MY,
D
OWAGER
L
ADY
M
ONCHENSEY,
I
VY,
V
IOLET
,
and
A
GATHA
,
her
younger
sisters

C
OL. THE
H
ON.
G
ERALD
P
IPER
,
and
THE
H
ON.
C
HARLES
P
IPER,
brothers
of
her
deceased
husband

M
ARY
,
daughter
of
a
deceased
cousin
of
Lady
Monchensey

D
ENMAN
,
a
parlourmaid

H
ARRY,
L
ORD
M
ONCHENSEY
,
Amy’s
eldest
son

D
OWNING
,
his
servant
and
chauffeur

D
R.
W
ARBURTON

S
ERGEANT
W
INCHELL

T
HE
E
UMENIDES