Wilfred Campbell

AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY.

FOUNDED ON THE LIFE AND CHARACTER
OF
THE GREAT POPE GREGORY VII,

His Struggle for Supremacy with Henry IV of Germany, and His Enforcement of the Celibacy of the Clergy.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Hildebrand, Pope Gregory VII.
Henry IV, of Germany.
Peter, Damiani, a monk (friend to Hildebrand).
Gerbhert, a married priest of Milan.
Ariald, a decretal preacher (lover of Margaret).
Arnulph, a decretal preacher.
Brunelli, a cardinal.
Bishop of Bamburg.
Wolf, Lord of Bamburg, a German Noble.
Two Burghers.
Brun,	}	two monks.
Wast,
An Abbot.
A Warder.
Queen of Germany.
Margaret, wife of Gerbhert and daughter of Hildebrand.
Catherine, mother of Margaret and former wife of Hildebrand.
Cardinals, Lords, Bishops, Soldiers, Monks, Burghers and Pages.

HILDEBRAND.

---

ACT I.

SCENE I.—(Rise outer Curtain.) An Inn-yard in Milan. Two Burghers discovered seated at a table, drinking.

1st B. Well, well, these be the strange days indeed, indeed!

2nd B. (Rather drunk.) How now, neighbor Burnard, how now?

1st B. Heardst thou not the news, good Neighbor? But with thy nose always i’ the wine-pot, thou canst not know anything aside its rim.

2nd B. Wine-pot, wine-pot, thou sayst ha! ha! nose i’ the wine-pot thou sayest, ’tis better than sticking it into every business save thine own, hey! neighbor Burnard! But what be this news that would keep the nose out o’ the wine-pot?

1st B. There be a new Pope at Rome, the Monk, Hildebrand. How like you that?

2nd B. God, keep us all! Now thou dost say it! It seemeth they be making new Popes every Michaelmas. This were no reason for to keep the nose outside the wine-pot. Here’s to his health, God save him!

’Twere a merry grape was squeezed for this, good Neighbor. Here’s long life to thee an’ the Holy Pope, and especially to the royal Henry. Soon may he come to Italy.

1st B. It be said, Henry cannot sleep o’ nights i’ his bed, for the making of this same Pope, Hildebrand, or Hellbrand, as some folks call him. But hast thou heard the greater news?

2nd B. Nay, what now? Nothing be new now. Nothing be new, along o’ fighting and preaching and lechering and damning in the Church and State. Nothing be new save drinking, and that be ever new. Ha! ha! What else be new?

1st B. ’Tis concerning this same scarce-baked Pope, this Hellbrand. ’Tis said he hath sworn by the mass and all the saints never to rest until he hath unwived all the priests i’ Europe. How like you that, good neighbor Burnard?

2nd B. Ho! ho! ’Tis a good joke. Unwive the priests! ’Tis a good joke. ’Twere well for me and thee did he swear a vow to unwive all the burghers i’ Milan. ’Twould gie one I know more peace i’ his bed o’ nights. ’Tis the priests ever have all the good fortune i’ Europe. Ah me, ah me! ’Tis ever so.

1st B. Yea, but there’s more news yet, good Neighbor, this same Hellbrand, which be a good name for him if he be Pope, hath sent out two wondrous preachers, endowed with uncommon powers of tongue and orders, to spread this same doctrine in all Italy and throughout Europe; an’ it be said they took fearsome oaths, on pain of eternal damnation, not to rest till they had done so; an’ further, ’tis said, they be here to-night to preach i’ the market.

2nd B. I’ Milan?

1st B. (Rising.) Yea i’ Milan, here, i’ the square.

2nd B. Well now! It do be passing strange, well now! It be a damn law, and he be a damn liar, who saith not. A most unnatural law, for our good pastor. Were it my case now, it were fitting, (1st goes out) who taketh a lecture every midnight near upon cock-crow, such as no Pope’s Bull could outwit in language an’ rhetoric. Say good Neighbor, what thinkest thou? Might I not be made a priest? What be qualifications? (Ha! he hath gone!) I could drink with an abbot, yea, an archbishop, yea, I’ll see this same Hellbrand about the matter: it shall be done, be done, ha! ha! it shall be done. (Reels out.)

(Rise inner Curtain, the market place.) Enter several jolly Monks.

1st. (Sings) Ours be a jolly life,

No care nor ill have we,

We neither toil nor starve nor beg,

But live right merrily.

All. No wife to scold, no child to squall,

An’ put us on the rack;

We drink good wine, we kiss the maids,

An’ the Pope is at our back.

2nd. So here’s unto the jolly monk, (all grasp hands),

And here’s to him, alack, (all clench fists)

Who’d turn him from his board and bunk,

For the Pope is at his back.

All. The Pope is at our back, good Freres,

The Pope is at our back;

We fleece the churls, we scorn the King,

For the Pope is at our back. (All pass on.)

Enter a great crowd of Burghers, men and women, who fill the market. Enter Arnulph and Ariald, the decretal preachers. Arnulph ascends a pulpit to harangue the crowd.

Arnulph. Know ye Citizens and Burghers of Milan, that whereas in the past, by reason of evils and curses, through the power of the Devil, Holy Church hath fallen into abomination, to the shame of men and sorrow of Heaven, it hath here now and at this time, behooved her to cast off certain of those abominations, to wit, especially that most heinous sin, whereby the priests of the altar, do, without grace and carnally given, co-habit in concubinage with those weaker vessels, even as do the common and unsanctified of humanity; wherefore know ye Citizens and Burghers of this city of Milan, that the Holy Father doth now and at this time, by me and through me, instruct you each and collectively, of the dreadful enormity of this most damnable sin, whereby the holy priesthood is made of none effect, and Holy Church doth languish in weakness and vassalage to the princes and lords of this carnal world,—know ye,—

A Burgher. Most reverend Doctor, cut ye short the “know ye’s” an’ the “wherefores” and th’ “verbiations” an’ the “latinities” an’ come down from your high flown rostrum an’ tell us the church’s will. We be plain men.

Other Burghers. Well done, Big Gellert. Thou art in the right of it. Bravo! Gellert.

Ariald. Insolent Lump! would’st thou interrupt a doctor of Holy Church?

Gellert. Holy Church confound him and thee, too, thou sour-faced varlet! Who’s a talking of Holy Church? He is but a stray rooster from some mad convent, an’ thou his mate ranting on a mad doctrine. Holy Church teacheth no such damned doctrine. Be we fools?

Burghers. Well hit, Big Gellert, thou canst give him the latinities of it. Hit him back, old Pigeon!

Arnulph. Beware, thou impious Mountain of mortality, an’ ye foolish burghers lest ye insult in me a power that is behind me.

A Clerk. Come, come, get thee down, we want no such strange doctrines. We have had clergy, good men with wives and chicks i’ Milan, these centuries back, an’ we be no Sodom.

Arnulph. I know not your customs, but in the name of Holy Church, I Arnulph, hereby command ye on pain of deepest Hell hereafter, that ye abstain from all masses made or performed by any priest who continues in this unholy state, for I tell you be he priest, archdeacon, bishop or archbishop, he is accursed, and doubly accursed.

Gellert. Thine be a big curse indeed, an’ by ’r Lady, thou mouthest it well.

Clerk. Dost thou tell us our good pastor be in mortal sin because he liveth with a good wife as do other men?

Arnulph. Have I not said it?

Gellert. Then art thou a brazen liar, an’ comest thou down, I will give the non of it on thy brazen chops, thou leathern-lunged Varlet of Satan.

Arnulph. Dog of Hell, the arm that toucheth me Heaven will wither!

(A great clamor arises.) Enter Gerbhert, the Parish Priest.

Gerbhert. What meaneth this disturbance i’ my parish? I thought I ruled a peaceful, God-fearing people, an’ not a brawling rabble.

Gellert. Pray, good Father, ’tis yon loud-mouthed Dog of Satan, hath insulted you an’ all Milan by his mad heresy.

Gerbhert. Insulteth me, good Gellert? (To Arnulph.) Who are you who without my license come disturbing my flock with thine unseemly harangues? Come down from yon pulpit! (To the crowd.) Good People, in God’s name, go home.

Arnulph. Nay, I will not come down till I have delivered this my message to this foolish mob, an’ to thee, thou carnal-minded Priest. In the name of the Holy Church I exhort ye,—

Gel. He saith, Pastor Gerbhert, that thou canst no more make masses, being a wedded man.

Gerb. (To Arnulph.) Be this true?

Arn. It is true, by the Mother of God. An’ thou wilt feel it too ere thou art an hour older.

Gerb. Nay, Man, thou art mad, this cannot be!

Ar. ’Tis even so as we be Holy Church’s men.

Gerb. Ha! art thou not Ariald, once of Rome?

Ar. Yea, I am that same Ariald.

Gerb. Then tell me Ariald, by our one-time friendship, that this man be mad, an’ his message but a foolish doctrine.

Ar. Nay, Gerbhert, but ’tis thou art foolish, an’ this law but too true, thou must obey.

Gerb. Then will I fight this mad heresy, this inhuman code. That we must give up our wives an’ babes, our pure homes, an’ all that is holiest on earth! Nay, it cannot be! ’Tis devilish!

Ar. But thou must obey or be driven out.

Gerb. Ariald, thou knowest my Margaret, thou knowest her sweet nature, her holy conversation. She hath no devil, that her loving should make me unworthy.

Gel. ’Tis damnable, good Father. But give me the word an’ we will trounce them out o’ the market.

Enter Margaret, the Priest’s Wife.

Marg. Gerbhert! Gerbhert! Good citizens have you seen the pastor? Mother Bernard, poor soul, needeth the last rites, she be dying.

Gel. Aye, thou wert ever an angel of mercy from heaven to the sick an’ poor.

Marg. What aileth thee, Gerbhert? What may be the matter?

Gerb. Come hither Margaret, this man telleth me

So strange a thing, I know not if he be mad

Who sayeth it, or I who hear his words.

He sayeth I am no more a priest of God

While I’m thy husband.

Marg. Not priest of God while thou art husband? Nay!

But he is mad indeed, for thou art both,

A good kind pastor, as these people know,

And as I know, a good and loving husband.

Gerb. He saith ’tis some new law within the church.

He saith in sooth, sweet Margaret, I must either

Put thee away or leave the priesthood.

Marg. An’ what say you, my Gerbhert?

Gerb. That I will fight it to the bitter end,

I will be both or there’s no God in Heaven.

Ariald, thou knowest my good Margaret,

The woman of my choice, my youth’s one love,

I will not give her up. The Holy Father

Shall know of this strange doctrine. He shall judge

’Twixt thee and me.

Arn. Know then thou carnal Priest that even now

He hath decided; ’tis by his own will

That we be here, here is his written word.

(Holds up the Pope’s Bull.)

Yea, further, you shall choose you even now.

Thou shalt not shrive yon dying woman, till

Thou hast renounced this woman.

Gerb. My sweet Margaret, put your trust in me.

(To Arnulph.) Thou cruel preacher, show me yon dread bull,

Whose horns do even now rend me. Tell me now

’Tis but a lie and not great Hildebrand’s.

I knew him once, he seemed a kindly man,

And never one to part a wife and husband.

Gel. Let me see yon paper, let me see thou liest.

Nay, ’tis the Pope’s name. This be a damned world!

Good Father Gerbhert, tell us if this paper

Be what he saith? (Hands paper to Gerbhert, who reads.)

(Margaret goes near Gerbhert.)

Gerb. Margaret, come not so near, O Margaret come not so near,—I love thee Margaret—but—O my God!

Marg. Gerbhert, Gerbhert, thou wilt not desert me,

Remember our sweet babe.

Ar. Margaret, touch not that man, he is God’s own. Leave him.

Arn. Even so. Wouldst thou curse him with thy touch?

Marg. Evil Man, good Friends, forgive my misery.

But even now, as I did pass our home,

I left his little one, and mine, asleep,

His sweet face pillowed on his rosy arm,

I bent and kissed him, he did look so like

His father, and now good friends forgive me, it is but

A passing madness, but it seemed these men

Had built a wall of hideous black between

Me and my husband.

Gerb. Margaret, back! as thou lovest me!

Nay, touch me not, I am a banished man,

Good Friends, brave Gellert, pardon my poor feelings.

For I am now afflicted by dread heaven

For some gone, unknown sin of my past youth.

Perchance I murdered one in hideous sleep,

Strangled some infant on its mother’s breast,

Violated some pure sanctuary;

That this dread blackness lieth on me now.

O Margaret, thou art springtime vanished past,

And this be autumn all dead leaves and rain,

With all of mem’ry’s summer ’twixt us twain,

To think and dream forever. Forgive, my friends,

This weak unseemliness in me your pastor.

I ever did love mercy, dealt but tardily

With those who seemed to suffer more than sin,

Looked up to heaven and led my people, trusting;

And now I am brought beneath the cruelest hand

That ever pointed two roads to a man.

Arnulph, Ariald, forgive my former heat,

You do but your bare duty. Friends they’re right,

And I your whilom pastor in the wrong.

For I mistook the face of earth’s poor love

And dreamed a stair of human happiness

Did lead to Heaven. See me now rebuked.

’Tis the Pope’s will. Arnulph, read thou this.

I charge thee, as the pastor of this parish,

That you leave out no word however hard,

Nor soften down one sentence of this curse,

Or its conditions.

Arn. Of a surety I’ll not.

Ar. He shall not! And harken, you, good people, do you listen!

Marg. Gerbhert, come home, I will not hear that curse

That parts us twain. My breaking heart it seems

Doth hear our baby cry.

Arn. Silence Woman!

Marg. You would silence the angels. Work you this deed,

I tell you Man, you shut all Heaven out

And let in Hell, you desolate God’s glad homes

By your brute ministry that knows not love.

Arn. The love of heaven knoweth not carnal love.

Marg. Forgive me Sir! Stern Sir! would woman’s tears

But move you, would woman’s pleaded prayers

But change you to the softest kindly thought,

I would beg of you, read not that curse.

Arn. Silence, Woman!

Gerb. Margaret, by your love for me, be silent.

Arn. (Reads.) In the name of God, amen: Gregory the Seventh by the will of Heaven, Pope, Vicar of Christ, successor of Holy Peter, sendeth greeting to all Christian peoples, and commandeth, that any priest living with a woman in the so-called marriage state, shall be accursed:—that any person who receiveth at his hands any or more offices of Holy Church shall also be accursed.—That furthermore, all offices so exercised by him shall not only be rendered null and void of all good effect, but shall rather be regarded by Holy Church as acts accursed. That this same law be proclaimÉd in all parishes throughout Christendom. Know ye that this be my will.

Signed,

Gregory.

Marg. Gerbhert, O God, Gerbhert, where art thou?

Gerb. Margaret, touch me not, we must obey

When Heaven speaks.

Marg. Not when it utters thunders such as this.

Arn. Choose, Gerbhert, twixt this woman and thine office.

Take her with thee to Hell, or both win Heaven.

Gerb. I have chosen, let me go and die.

Marg. O Gerbhert, come and kiss our little babe,

Say one good-bye, to home, before you go,

I’ll not detain you, I say it on my knees,

I’ll not detain you.

Gerb. Margaret, would you curse us with your love?

I can hear the Holy Father’s voice

Though he’s in Rome, saying, nay, nay, to thee.

Farewell, Margaret, we will meet in heaven.

(Goes out with Arnulph and Ariald.)

Marg. Nay, I am mad, ’twas this o’er nursing did it.

Gerbhert, tell me, tell me, I am mad.

Good friends, O pardon your poor Margaret.

O who will lead me home!

[Curtain.

---

Cath. What can keep her, what can keep her? Oh, here she comes. (Enter Margaret, weeping.)

Marg. Mother, Mother, take me, take me home.

Home? Where be home? Are not these walls familiar?

Did they not mean the place where we had dwelt,

And hoped and loved? And what are they made now,

But empty phantasies of a broken past?

O Mother, Mother, bring me to my child,

The world is dead, the world is aged and dead.

Cath. My God, my God, Margaret, are you mad?

Marg. My husband! Oh, my husband!

Cath. Gerbhert! What of Gerbhert? Is he dead?

Marg. Aye, dead to me.

Cath. You speak in riddles, daughter.

Marg. Life is a hideous riddle unto some,

That it were better they had never solved.

Cath. Margaret, I am your mother. Tell me quick,

Gerbhert, where is Gerbhert? Will he come?

Marg. He will never come. O Mother! O Mother!

Cath. What are your words? Where hath he gone, my Child?

Marg. How can I tell you? ’Tis the church’s will

That he must leave me, I must be no wife,

Or he no husband. The Pope hath sworn it.

Cath. The Pope! The Pope, you say?

Marg. Aye, the Pope.

Cath. Nay, not the Pope. You are dreaming, dreaming, Child,

This working with the sick, hath turned your brain.

Marg. Nay mother, ’twere a blessing, were I mad.

’Tis only but too true, I heard it now

Out in the market. Gerbhert heard it too,

And he hath gone. O God! yes he hath gone,

And on his face the doom of Death was writ.

Cath. Mother of heaven! and it hath come to this.

Is there no God, that men in heaven’s name

Break up earth’s homes, and make a waste like this?

Daughter, Margaret, where hath Gerbhert gone?

Marg. Let me die. But let me die in peace.

Cath. Nay, nay, this shall not be, this hideous law

Must drift aside. Daughter, harken me.

Marg. There is no hope. The Pope hath willed it so.

Cath. Nay, he will hear me, I will make him hear.

I have a secret you have never known,

Nor any in Italy.

Marg. The Cardinals at Rome will never hear thee.

Gregory will never, never hear thee.

’Tis vain.

Cath. Fear not for me, I will at once to Rome

And crush this evil matter, get his will

To bring back Gerbhert, if he will not harken,—

Marg. We can but die!

Cath. I will go and make all matters ready,

So early dawn surprise me on my journey.

Marg. Nay, mother, leave me not. I feel as if

All life were desolated. Leave me not.

(Her child cries within.)

Yea, my sweet fatherless babe, I’ll come to thee,

Not all Rome’s Popes can say nay, nay, to that. (Goes within.)

Cath. (Going out.)

O, thou that cursed me in mine early days,

And cast this shadow all across my life;

Wilt thou now add this sorrow to mine age?

And darken my last years? Is there no God?

O, Night, who art the same, whose stars look down

On peace and madness, human joy and pain,

If there be help within thy mighty depths

For earth’s poor creatures, help me, help me, now. (Goes out.)

Enter Ariald.

Ar. She is alone. My power, this is thine hour.

Margaret! Margaret!

Enter Margaret eagerly.

Marg. O, Gerbhert! Have you come?

Ar. Margaret!

Marg. Sir!—O cruel disappointment! I had thought

It were my husband.

Ar. ’Tis but a friend.

Marg. Then Friend, bring back my husband, bring him back

On my knees I beg it.

Ar. I may not, Margaret, Heaven only hath power

To stay your parting, think no more on Gerbhert.

Marg. Then wherefore here?

Ar. In pity for your sorrow I have come.

A wedded woman, yet no longer wed,

So young and fair, so helpless to protect

Yourself and child against this wicked world:

Yea, I would help you.

Marg. My heart, had it but room for else than sorrow

Would thank your kindness. You can help me best

By bringing back the father of my child,

The friend who onetime loved you.

Ar. It cannot be, in all things else than that

My power can help you. You sin grievous sin

When you still mourn him.

Marg. Nay, nay, if sin, then life is all one sin,

One hideous hell, and God but a great devil.

Ar. Woman, you blaspheme.

Marg. Nay, rather thou blasphemest, teaching me

That human love, be contraband to heaven.

Not all your Popes and Cardinals standing by,

Can make me, looking on my baby’s face,

Forget his father.

Ar. Margaret, by this love you bear your child,

Forget this Gerbhert. He was never yours.

By right divine, he ever was Holy Church’s.

You only damn his soul, do you succeed.

Marg. Never! never! This be hideous, hideous!

My womanhood calls out against this lie.

Ar. If you are wise you will forget this man.

I tell you he is dead to you and earth.

A few short years for prayer and cloister tears,

Are all that’s left him. Margaret you are fair,

And young and budding for the joys of earth.

Forget this Gerbhert. There are other men

Would seek thy love.

Marg. What mean these words? Insult not this my sorrow.

Ar. Margaret, if thou wouldst only but trust me,

My love is thine.

Marg. Thou devil!

Ar. Margaret, know my power. Thou art alone,

With me to make thy life a hell or heaven.

Marg. Nay, I have God. O heaven, show thy face

Through this dread blackness!

Ar. Not God nor any can give thee succor now.

Thy husband dead to thee forever more,

Choose! Black Starvation knocketh at thy door!

Pity thy child if thou wilt not thyself.

I have long loved thee, Margaret, trust to me,

Bethink thee of thy child.

Marg. Out! out! Blasphemer! If the Church be vile,

If justice be swept from earth and pity dead,

Though devils walk this world, though God be gone,

Know, there be left one righteous woman’s scorn

For such as thee.

Ar. When thou dost see bleak desolation come,

Gaunt, burning hunger fill thy baby’s eyes,

Thou’lt come to me.

Marg. If thou be Satan, thou black Prince of Fiends,

Thou wearest this man’s form, thou firest his heart.

(To Ariald.) Go! Devil! ere I forget my womanhood. Go!

Ar. (Going out.) Remember!

Marg. If there be nothing in this world for me,

I have a friend no priest nor Pope can take,

Whose name be Death.

[Curtain.

---

ACT II.

SCENE I.—A room in the Papal Palace at Rome. Enter Hildebrand as Pope and Peter Damiani, a fanatic.

Hild. Know, Peter, I am a man of single purpose,

To make all Europe bow to Peter’s knee,

To build the power of God o’er human thrones,

And humble kings to Christ by me His Legate.

Pet. Now, thou art Hildebrand.

Hild. To make the Crown subservient to the Cross

In all things; kill out simony;

And make the church sole granter of all fiefs

In bishopric or abbey; hold all kings

In spiritual feudality to my will,

To wear or doff their crowns at word of Heaven,

As represent in me, God’s vicarate.

Pet. There spake Peter, indeed.

Hild. For this same reason I carry this purpose now,

To separate humanity from the church,

And re-create a world within this world,

A kingdom in these kingdoms, alienate

From all the loves and ties that weaken men,

By rendering all the priesthood celibate,

EspousÉd only unto Holy Church.

Pet. Wilt carry this purpose to the bitter end?

Hild. Yea, will I, unwive I half the world.

Pet. Now will God’s kingdom rise and Hell’s go down,

With man’s presumption. Now we’ll get our hands

Clutched at the throats of all these bloody princes.

Hild. Yea, Peter.

Pet. Ha, ha, thou, too, hast a hate for kings.

Hild. Whoever saw a monk who loved a king?

The king was ever our natural enemy.

But see in me no heaven-brooding monk,

But many men in one, a pope, a king,

A fierce ambition, like a burning flame,

To put these times and peoples ’neath my feet,

And conquer empires to my finger’s will,

So that I nod, and all kings nod with me.

This be the ruling passion of my life.

It saved me from the common daily sins.

Dost thou know, Damiani, I once loved

A woman, even as other men have loved,

Did marry her, o’ercome by human passion;

But driven by the demons of my fate,

Fled from her unto a monastery,

Where nights of prayer and fasting weaned my heart

To larger hopes and cravings. Never since

Have I set eyes upon my youthful love

Nor heard of her, though sometimes in my dreams

She comes back like a nightmare to my heart.

’Tis strange that heaven makes our being so.

But she hath gone, a phantasma upon

The fading walls of my heart’s memory.

I will not dwell upon her.

Pet. Gregory, thou wouldst do well to keep

A guard upon thy passions.

Hild. Dost know me Peter? I am Hildebrand.

The ages after they will know of me,

As one who ruled himself and all the world

With iron hand, who changed the course of nature,

And rode unmoved o’er rivers of human tears

For God’s high glory.

Pet. Unwive the priests! Unwive the priests! ’Tis my life’s passion.

Hild. Peter, Peter, thou art over-hard on woman,

She is not all the devil thou hast thought her.

Pet. Yea, devil! devil! Mention not the name!

They are all devils, even thy holy Princess.

Hild. Peter!

Pet. Yea, Gregory, I will say it to thy face.

’Tis not the Pope she leans on, ’tis the man.

I tell thee Hildebrand, Beatrice loveth thee,

And thou art Pope. O Woman, Woman, Woman!

Thou Satan’s agent for to damn this world!

Hild. Ah, Peter, thou much mistakest Beatrice!

If ever a daughter of the Mother of God

Did move with saintly footsteps o’er this earth,

’Twas Beatrice. All Holy homes of God

Within her happy Duchy rise to bless her.

The grateful poor who dwell in her own cities

Would do her reverence. Peter, thou art mad

On this one subject. Now to another matter.

Here is the map of Europe, all mine own.

The red Wolf of the Normans he may growl,

The Tigers of the south may snarl and whine,

But all are mine, are mine. I hold all sheep,

The many flocks who go to make my fold.

Pet. Yea, thou wilt shear them, Hildebrand.

But what of Henry?

Hild. That name! that name! I would that this same Henry

Were shut in hell! Of Europe’s many kings,

This Henry is the one I fear the most.

These dogs of Italy, hounds I hold in leash

To tear each other when they’d throttle me.

The Norman William hath his own affairs.

He is a heathen hound whom I would use

To keep my Christian sheep in quiet fold,

France hath her ills whereof I know full well,

But Henry! Henry is the name I hate!

His is the other name that stands for Rome.

My hope is this, if I can only put

This arrogant emperor underneath my foot,

As this same parchment, (hear it crunch and crack!)

So I’d crush him and make me emperor,

Then mine would be the single will of Europe.

This is my aim.

Pet. Why dost thou pander then? He laughs at thee

And all thy legates, moves his licensed way

As though no Mother Church held holy sway

In his dominions, selleth bishoprics

And abbeys, and making mock allegiance

Laughs in his sleeve at thee, the Pope of Rome.

Hild. Let him laugh, his scorn will eat him yet.

The day will come when he will cease to laugh,

For I am Hildebrand, I bide my time.

I hold a physic that will purge his pride

Of all its riches.

Pet. Give him that physic quickly, Hildebrand.

Thou art not fierce enough. Use, use thy power,

Ere it deserts thee. What be this power?

Hild. The Papal curse.

Pet. Yea, use it Gregory, use it even now.

Hild. Wait, Peter, thou wilt see a picture yet,

Wilt hear a music that will like thine ears,

Thou wilt see Henry, Monarch of half Europe,

The man who scoffs at monks, and uses men

As players, would poor chessmen for his use

To play with, thou wilt see this man

Shorn of his greatness, blasted like some trunk

Out in a wasteland, suing with suppliant knee,

And begging his royalty from the carpenter’s son.

Enter a Page, who kneels.

Page. Your Holiness, Ambassadors wait without with letters from Normandy. (Presents letters.)

Hild. (Reads.) To his Holiness, the Lord Pope of Rome, William of Normandy sendeth greeting; Holy Father thine obedient son and ally, William, Prince of the Normans, who is about invading England for the purpose of putting the outlawed Saxon under the power of Holy Church, would humbly beseech thy immediate public blessing on his undertaking. This land be sworn by Harold in fief to William, on the bones of holy saints.

[Signed] William.

Hild. Ha, Insolent!

Pet. Writeth he thus to the successor of Peter?

Hild. Insolent! Ally, ally to me, Gregory.

Immediate, poor suppliant truly this.

Ah, Europe, Europe, thou art hard to grind.

This rude wolf would make a bargain, aye,

’Tis little he doth care for Holy Church.

He’ll filch my England’s abbeys, waste her towns,

To fill his Norman lusts. Yet he is strong.

I’ll use this wolf to bow the Saxon neck.

Pet. Send him thy curse.

Hild. Nay, Peter, he would laugh and throat it down

In Rhenish flagon. What cares he for Popes

But for his uses? I will send my curse

Some other day, to-day will go my blessing.

My curses I have need of for this Henry.

(To Page.) Show them in.

Enter Ambassadors.

Hild. You come from Normandy.

1st Am. Yea, my lord, we would pray your holiness’ blessing.

Hild. Then you have it.

My heart is ever with my Norman children.

Would that they loved war less and peace the more.

O Angel of Peace, when wilt thou compass Europe?

Tell William he is my well-beloved son,

High in my favor, take my blessing to him,

God’s mercy goes to England when he goes,

And Holy Church’s curse on all his foes.

Pet. Amen.

Ambs. My lord, our thanks. We are blest indeed.

Hild. (To Page.) Bring hither our most costly banner.

(Page brings banner.) (Hildebrand takes banner.)

May all who fight beneath thee ever conquer,

And heaven strike the foe that meeteth thee.

(Gives the banner.) Take this banner to our well-beloved William of Normandy, and say thus to him,—

That sending him this we make him, William of England.

Amb. We will, Your Holiness.

Hild. My blessing with you. By him who maketh kings,

Go you propitious.

Exit Ambassadors.

Hild. They came in proud, they went out meek enough.

Give me but time and I will tame all wolves

From Alps to Appenines.

Enter Page.

Page. More ambassadors await without, your Holiness.

Hild. From whence?

Page. Germany, your Holiness.

Hild. Ha, ha, now, we meet another matter.

Pet. Now thou growest iron.

Hild. Yea, then I gave with smiles what I owned not

Now here with sternness I would hold mine own.

There is no Pope while there’s an Emperor,

’Tis my chief creed. Give me the letter.

(Reads) Ha, what be this? Refuses to retire

The German abbot he made without my leave,

Tells me that being king he holds in fief

All power of benefice. The hound! the hound!

I’ll make him stoop. I’ll crush his pride out yet.

Yea, more, he says he’s coming soon to Rome

To take his crown of Empery at my hands,

Then craves my blessing, sent him with all speed,

“Your filial son.” A filial son, indeed,

A son of Hell, was fitter sonship. Peter,

This king makes me a devil.

Pet. Send him thy curse, thy ban, ’twere fitting answer

To such a message.

Hild. Nay, I will try him yet, not that last move,

Till lesser fails. Call in the Cardinals.

Cardinals file in. Ambassadors are brought in.

Hild. You come from His Majesty, Henry of Germany.

Amb. We do, your Holiness.

Hild. It grieves me much that our unfilial son

Should keep from Holy Church those ancient powers

Given to her of old and handed down,

Gifts to Peter.

Amb. What be these powers, your Holiness?

Hild. Powers of right, powers of gift, powers of office,

Powers to loose and bind, lift and lower, bless and ban.

Amb. Hath she not yet those powers, my Lord?

Hild. Nay, nay, and never shall until she may

Enforce those powers, by other stronger powers.

Abbeys, Bishoprics, Priesthoods, whose are these?

Peter’s or CÆsar’s? Gregory’s or Henry’s?

Amb. The king saith not, my lord.

Hild. Tell Henry, our undutiful son, so soon

As he doth show his fealty to the Church,

By rendering up to her those pristine gifts

Of benefice, and giveth to her hands,

What unto her belongs, so soon will she

Grant him her blessing. Tell him, mighty Peter,

Christ’s Vicar and ambassador of God

Speaketh by me, the seventh Gregory,

Calling unto him to do my will,

Or dread my curse.

Amb. Yea, my Lord.

Hild. Tell him that He who makes and unmakes,

Lifts and lowers, thrones and dethrones,

Speaks by me.

[Exit Ambassadors, Cardinals and Peter.

Page. The Countess of Canossa awaits without, my Lord.

Hild. Show her within.

Enter Beatrice.

Hild. My gentle Countess, saintly Beatrice,

Welcome to my first royalty of Heaven.

Thou comest to me as cometh the evening star

After the heat and turmoil of the day,

Shedding the beauty of thy womanliness

On my rude cares. How fares Canossa?

Beat. O, Hildebrand, I come to thee no star,

But rather as a brook to some great river,

I flee me to the succor of thy presence.

Hild. Doth he so use thee, our one flower of women?

The brute, the beast, hath he maltreated thee?

Beat. Nay, not that yet, but leagues him, I much fear,

With that mad King of Germany.

Hild. Henry, agen!

Wait a little yet, we’ll heal that ulcer.

Beat. You know poor Bishop Gudrun, he is dead.

Hild. Nay, when died he? He was a goodly priest.

But scarce a zealous pastor. So he’s gone?

Beat. When I would come to thee to fill his place,

Canossa, with a loud and brutal laugh,

Says, nay, the Emperor must fill the chair

And at his prayer the licentious Prince hath sent

One of his courtiers, some rude, worldly man,

To fill the benefice. He laughs at thee,

And puts thy new reforms to open scorn.

Hild. Wait, sweet Beatrice, water not thy face

And weaken not my heart with thy sad tears.

Canossa knoweth not he hath an enemy

More deadly than he fears, who is a devil.

Did I but let him loose and he would sweep

Earth and Italy clear of such Canossas.

O Beatrice, this is a world of woes,

And I being many men have many woes,

I climb so many hills my feet grow weary;

Now, I’m a king and fain would rule this earth,

Now am a saint and fain would purge its ills,

Now am a priest and fain would throttle its wills,

Again the man with all a man’s desire

To feel and hate and love as other men.

O Beatrice, I would I were deep heaven

To wear so pure a star upon my breast.

When I see thee, this world with all its cares,

Its hard ambitions, hates and hellish battles,

Doth vanish past, like day at evening’s hour,

When only sweet thoughts stay. Must go so soon?

Beat. Yea, My Lord, but I will come again.

Enter an Abbot and several Monks dragging an old man with a long beard, who is accused of witchcraft. The Abbot and Monks fall on their faces. The old man stands.

Hild. Stand! (They all stand up trembling.) Who be this?

Ab. Most Holy Pope, Vicar of Christ, Lord of the Church, Keeper of the Keys;—

Hild. Nay. Make thy speech brief!

Ab. Most Holy,—that is to say, we are accursed.

Hild. Even so. Ye look it. Proceed!

Monks. Yea! yea! um! um!

Ab. Yea, Most Holy, we be much accursed by reason of yon cursed—(The old man takes out some tablets and seating himself on the floor proceeds to calculate.)

Ab. Yon, yon—

Hild. Say on, Sirrah! Accursed? hast lost thy tongue? (Abbot and Monks all groan.) Speak on or means shall be found to make thee!

Ab. Nay, nay, Most Holy! He be cursing us now wi’ his deviltries. I may not mention his name because of the blight. Wilt thou not bless me so that I may proceed unharmed?

Hild. (Makes the sign of the cross.) Yea, ’tis done. Proceed!

Ab. (Growing bolder.) Yon cursed dog of a sorcerer hath bewitched us all.

Monks. Yea, yea, Most Holy.

Hild. He hath then but little to do.

Ab. Nay, Most Holy, he hath done much.

Hild. (To Wiz.) Stand up! (The wizard remains sitting, gazes at Hild., then at Monks, then returns to his calculations.)

Hild. Wilt thou stand up? (To Monks) Make him!

Ab. and Monks. Nay, nay, he be making devils wheels at us now, even now we be dead men.

(The old man finishes his calculation, then rises slowly and approaches Hild.) Hast thou sent for me?

Hild. Who art thou?

Wiz. I am the centre, Macro, acro, Magister, ha! ha! ha!

Hild. (To Ab.) What hath he done?

Ab. Oh, Oh, Most Holy, everything.

Hild. Name his offence.

Ab. He hath lamed Brother Benedict, rheumed Brother Isaac, physiced Brother Petrice, hath slain Brothers Wildert, Gebert an’ Andrice, hath tied us all up by the heels to the devil, an’ hath bewitched the whole convent.

Hild. (To Wiz.) Hast done this?

Wiz. Hast done what? mensa, mensae, mensae, ha! ha! ha! (Sits down and proceeds to make angles and circles.)

Ab. He be ever like this, Most Holy, as thou seest.

Hild. Will he not understand? I would know his manner of thought.

Ab. It is by reason of his magic and his great age, Most Holy.

Hild. How old be he?

Ab. Some say one thousand, some five hundred, but the most three hundred and fifty years, Most Holy.

Hild. Nay! How do you converse with him?

Ab. We hang him by the thumbs till he answer that be one way.

Wiz. (Shakes his fist at Ab.) Macro, acro, sacro, ha, ha, ha.

Hild. This man be mad.

Wiz. Yea, all mad, mad, prayers, fasts, prayers, saints, tinkle, tinkle, all mad, yea, they are all mad, acro, macro, I am the centre, hear me.

Hild. Didst thou bewitch these? (Pointing at Abbot and Monks.)

Wiz. Ha! ha! All swine, all swine.

Hild. Dost thou hear me?

Wiz. Ha, ha, three fat, three lean, one ascragged, antimonium a portion, nutgalls two portions, soak till midnight and go to couch with much fasting. Wouldst thou more?

Ab. Thou seest, Most Holy, he hath a devil. This same did slay three of our brothers with his devil’s antimonium or some such potion.

Wiz. They did desire to be fat. I did but potion them. ’Twere not my fault that they died of over-feeding.

Hild. Antimonium? Where didst thou get thy use for such a potion?

Wiz. By watching of the swine at their feeding. Some of this did by chance get mixed with their provender, and those that did eat of it grew quickly corpulent, and I,—thought me—

Hild. ’Twould suit the monks?

Wiz. Yea, but they overfed—

Hild. And died?

Wiz. Yea.

Hild. But these others—they accuse thee of their disorders.

Wiz. (To Monks.) Feed less, drink less, toil more, sleep less. Go not with the women, an your curse will leave you, ha, ha.

Ab. Nay, he hath a devil. We be church’s men.

Hild. Ye look it, what else doth he?

Ab. He maketh magic. He hath a devil’s wheel and he hath blasphemed saying he knoweth how many times the spoke of a wheel goeth to make the rim, thus meddling with matters abhorred. More, he saith the world be a ball, an floateth on nothing, the which we know to be a foul lie, seeing the Fathers have taught it be flat and standing on the foundations with Hell beneath.

Hild. (To Wiz.) Be this true?

Wiz. Yea, I am Magister, know all, cure all.

Hild. Canst thou cure disease?

Wiz. What wouldst thou have? Hast thou a flux, a frenzy, an evil eye, a gnawing of the tooth, a rheum, a discord, a gravel, a dysentry, a dropsy, a nightmare, an I can cure thee? The heart of a hen, the eye of a dragon, the tooth of a snake, the nose of a beetle caught twixt dusk and sunrise, all be a preventative agenst mala, medicanta. Yea, for all frenzies, camel’s brain an gall, rennet of seal, spittle of crocodile, an blood of turtle, taken with much prayer be certain remedies.

Hild. Indeed, of a verity, man thou art much accursed with knowledge.

Wiz. Ha, ha. Wouldst try me?

Hild. Nay, I be well, and thou sayest this earth be a sphere?

Wiz. Yea, ’tis truth. See here.

Hild. And it floateth on nothing?

Wiz. Yea, yea, wouldst thou not learn? Wouldst thou not listen?

Hild. Ha.

Ab. Thou seest he hath a devil. He honoureth not even thee, Most Holy.

Wiz. (To Hild.) Wilt thou not listen? Art thou also as these fools? An age of fools! An age of fools! Macro, macro, I am the centre. (Falls to calculating anew.)

Hild. Peace, peace, Sirrah, I would hear thee agen on this strange matter. Thou wilt stay here. (To the Ab. and Monks.) And ye back to your monastery, and do as he saith, feed less, drink less, toil more, sleep less, and go not with the women, and I will remove your curse. Now begone!

Ab. and Monks. (Bowing out.) O holy father, we be much accursed!

Wiz. (Shakes his fist at them.) Acro, macro. (They flee in great terror.)

Enter Peter.

Pet. More woes, more woes, more woes, another woman!

(Enter Page.) A strange woman would see your Holiness.

(Enter Catherine wrapt in a cloak. She advances and throws the cloak off.)

Hild. Catherine!

Cath. Hildebrand!

Hild. ’Tis thou!

Cath. Yea, my Lord. Thy wife! (Kneeling at his feet.)

O, holy Father, by all the love that once

United our two hearts, I plead with thee,

Have mercy on the daughter of thy love.

Hild. My daughter! nay, Woman, not so, not so!

Cath. Yea, I have sought thee out these many years,

Did track thee to thy monastery then here.

O save thy daughter, mighty Hildebrand.

Hild. (Turns and covers himself with his cloak.)

O Woman, Woman, I know thee not. Away!

I know not wife save only Holy Church.

Pet. Away! away! cursed Woman, away!

Presume not on Christ’s Vicar, the great Pope,

The father of his people and the world.

Cath. O me! accursed me! I come not here

To curse thee, nor to bless, nor yet presume

To dare pollute thy state by name of husband.

’Tis only but a common, human word

Belonging to the poor ones of this world:—

But to beseech the Holy Pope of Rome

To cover with corner of his mercy’s mantle

The daughter of his loins.

Hild. O, Peter, Peter, take this woman away.

Pet. Begone Woman. Thou art sacrilegious.

Cath. Nay, spurn me not, she is my only daughter,

I pray thee help her, ’tis a little thing,

For thee who hath so much of worldly power,

To lift thy hand and by a single word

Restore her happiness.

Hild. O Woman, what would’st thou ask?

Cath. She is our daughter, awful Hildebrand,

Married short time unto that goodly priest

Gerbhert, of St. Amercia, at Milan.

Hild. O, God! O, God!

Cath. He is a holy clerk, well bred in orders,

Of good repute among his loving people,

Who look up to him as their Father in God,

Dwelling among them as the beckoning hand

Leading to heaven.

Hild. O, God! O, merciful God!

Cath. They have a little babe, a sweet, wee mite

Just come from Heaven.

Pet. Hence, Scorpion, know ye not this is the Holy Father?

Cath. Remove this curse, those terrible monks have placed

Upon his priesthood.

Hild. O Woman, I cannot, I cannot.

Cath. By all our former love! They cannot part!

He holds her as the apple of his eye,

She sees in him the man that God hath given.

Remove this awful curse.

Hild. Woman, thou speakest to a columned stone,

I am a marble. If I have a heart,

Thou’lt hear it beating, rock within this rock,

Thou art a sea that beatest my sides in vain.

Cath. Do I hear thee aright? Thou art adamant

Unto this piteous pleading of my heart,

Thou sendest thine only daughter, our sweet child,

Out into defenceless misery, breakest her heart.

Unnatural, unnatural, unnatural!

It seems but yesternight they said good-bye,

And now she sits and rocks her child and saith

Over and over agen its father’s name.

Pet. Go, Woman, he is dead to thee and thine.

Hast thou no pity? Hast thou not one sigh

For this thy work?

(Hildebrand stands silently with his back to her, his cloak wrapt about his face.)

Cath. Hast thou no pity? By all our past, one word,

One parting word.

Pet. Thou speakest to a stone. Go!

Cath. (Goes out wringing her hands.)

O, Agony, O Misery, Blackness, Hell,

There’s no hope now.

Enter the Queen and an Attendant.

Att. This way, Your Majesty.

Queen. You speak me, majesty. I am no Queen,

The lowest woman in this mighty realm,

Reigning in some humble herdsman’s heart,

Might top my queenship. O Henry, Henry,

What is there in my face, my form, my spirit,

That you should scorn me? Hath my essence changed,

Since by the holy altar facing Heaven

We plighted wedding troth; to less and less,

That you should hate me?

(Enter Bishop of Bamburg.) My Lord Bishop! (Kneels.)

Bam. (Lifting her.) Nay, humble not thy lonely majesty,

Thy stately womanliness, most noble Margaret,

By such poor acts.

Queen. O, Bamburg, be my angel, my good guide,

Leading me by roads to Henry’s favour.

Bring back his heart to its one-time allegiance,

And make earth’s springtime laugh for me once more.

Bam. Nought in all my bishopric hath grieved me

Like this strange act of Henry’s. I have spoke him

Happily in all save only this.

Patience, my Lady, patience, look to Heaven.

Perchance some day he’ll know thy noble heart.

Queen. O, Bamburg, as the queen of this great realm,

More sacred, as the mother of his child,

I beg you get me audience. Did I plead,

His heart might soften.

Bam. Madam, thy wishes are to me commands,

I fear me much the issue in his mood,

But be my head the penalty, I will bring

You to him.

[Exit both.

SCENE III.—An Audience Room in the Castle. Enter Attendant. Enter Henry in haste, with Gilbert a Lord.

Hen. Now by my crown, I’ll harry those villains out.

(To the Page.) Quick, wine! (To Gilbert.]) You say this news be true.

This Saxon Rodulph, would pluck Henry down,

And wear his Empery. Ha, this likes me well!

Gil. ’Tis said, Your Majesty, the Saxon towns

Have all revolted.

Hen. And Rudolph leads them!

Enter Bamburg.

Well, Bamburg, have you heard the latest news?

The North’s revolted. Rodulph heads the Saxons

To conquer Germany and take my crown,

And on it all, this bold, insulting letter,

Reads me a lesson from His Holiness,

Yon arrogant priest, the scheming Pope of Rome.

Bam. Henry, as your father’s oldest friend,

As your most faithful subject I would plead,

Be not o’er hasty in this sudden business.

Hen. Bamburg, I am sick of being a child,

You drive me mad by your pacific measures.

While you are dallying, they will ride me down

With squadrons and with curses. Nay, no more!

I’ll ride me north and show mine enemies

I’ll bring yon Rodulph’s head upon a pike-pole.

Bam. What of this Roman message?

Hen. Call in the messengers. (Enter a Cardinal and a Roman bishop.)

(To Ambs.) Go you to Rome?

Card. Yea, Your Majesty.

Hen. Go, tell your master, if he be the Pope

That I am Emperor, who can lift him down.

Tell him, in spiritual matters, Henry bows

To his opinion, in matters temporal, never!

This is my answer, safe speed you Romewards.

[Exit Ambassadors.

Bam. Your Majesty, before you go will see

But one more suppliant.

Hen. Nay, Bamburg, nay not now, I’m hurried.

Bam. By my love, I beseech you!

Hen. Is it so urgent? Well, be hasty Bamburg.

My troops await me, and my sword-arm aches

To hack yon Rodulph.

(Enter Queen veiled.) Who be this?

Bam. One who deserves your patience and your love,

If you love aught on earth, proud Henry.

Go you not forth to battle with your foes

Till you have made your spirit’s peace with her,

Your realm’s Queen, the mother of your child.

Hen. Bamburg, Bamburg, you trifle with my kindness.

This goes too far, know you that I am King!

One word and I will hale you to a dungeon

For this insult.

Queen. Henry, my Lord, one word before you go.

What have I done to gather all this hate?

Bam. Your Majesty may sever my poor body,

Mend you your love. Kill me, Henry, but

Murder not by scorn, the noblest love

That soul hath nourished. By these wintry hairs,

Though thou dost slay me, I will tell thee true

By this one act thou dost unking thyself.

Hen. No more, by heaven, no more, I know her not.

When will my subjects treat me less the child?

I am no ward now, and I ever hated

This foolish, enforced marriage. Let her Majesty

Get to some retirement. She demeans

Herself by these forced meetings.

[Exit.

SCENE IV.—A monastery near Milan. Night. Enter two monks, Brun, a fat little monk, and Wast, a tall, lean one, with an extremely ugly face.

Brun. How he doth take on, this new Friar Gerbhert. I had not thought a man would lose his appetite for any woman.

Wast. Ah, Brun, you gluttonous men know not of love. Such dangerous passions are beyond thy ken, lacking the attractive, the magnetic, you descend to lower pleasures. Now look on me a victim to woman’s fancy. Within those walls I find a haven from woman’s importunities.

Brun. Verily, Brother, thou must have slain hearts.

Wast. It was my daily sorrow, so many beauties sought me. I could not walk the streets, but I were pestered. It did sorrow me much, I could not pity all the passions I awoke, so fled me here, sacrificing my prospects, my youth, my person, rather than light fires I could not quench. (Eyeing himself in a metal hand-mirror.) Alas, alas, Brun, my beauty falleth off sadly of late.

Brun. Yea, thou hast a haggard cast to thy looks. It wonders me much where all thy provender goeth, it doth thee so little service.

Wast. Ah, Brun, Brun, so many broken hearts, so many tender reminiscences. But thou canst not touch my feelings. Yea, Brun, didst thou but know the former dignity, the port, the carriage of my person; the flash, the majesty of my eye; the symmetry, the moulding of my form; thou wouldst but marvel at this ruin I am.

Brun. I doubt it not old Sucker, but let not thy former beauty fret thy present comliness out o’ countenance.

Wast. Nay Brother, I will so endeavor, but I am ever on the tremble lest some one of those former victims, in cruel desperation maddened, may find me here and seize my person. Brun, wilt thou protect me in such extremity, wilt thou, Brother?

Brun. Yea, that I will, thou Wreck of former perfection. If any misguided person of that unfortunate sex be so seized by distraction as to make formidable attack upon thy classic person, she doth so on her peril, I promise thee, old much-afflicted, my hand upon it. Be the bottle finished? (A knocking is heard without.)

Wast. What be that sound? ’Tis she, ’tis she, at last! O me, O me, what will I do? (Gets behind Brun.) Brun! Brother! wilt thou protect me?

Brun. Confusion take thee, Wast, now be a man.

Wast. Yea, yea, I be a man, that be my sorrow, ah, oh, what sh—all I do? (Tries to hide himself in his cowl.)

Enter other monks in great confusion.

All. What be that noise? what be th—at no—ise?

One M. (Peers through the wicket and starts back in horror.) ’Tis a—oh blessed Peter, ’tis a woman!

All. What shall we do? O blessed Peter! what shall we do?

Wast. I am undone, undone, my fatal beauty assails me even here.

Brun. Wast, quit thy folly, go close to the gate and question her wants.

Wast. Not me, not me, not for all heaven’s riches.

All M’s. Nay, nay, let her not in. (Knocking continues.) Let us pray, Brothers, let us pray. (All huddle together.)

Brun. Then if ye will not, then I must ere the Abbot comes.

Monks fleeing. Nay, nay, let her not in, a woman, a woman, a woman!

[Enter Abbot.

Abb. Stop, Fools! (All stop.) Be it the Devil at your heels, ye flee so quickly?

All M’s. A woman, a woman! (Exit monks.)

Abb. (To Brun.) Open the gate. (Brun opens gate.—Enter Margaret, worn by illness and starvation.)

Abb. Woman, what want you here?

Marg. I want my husband. (At the back of the stage, in a dimly-lit cell, behind a grating, Gerbhert is seen kneeling. He rises, at sound of Margaret’s voice, a Monk holds a crucifix before him and he sinks back.)

Abb. Whom do you call by so profane a title within these holy walls?

Marg. My husband, Gerbhert, vicar at Milan. O let me see him, our little one is dying. Where doth he linger aliened from his home? (Gerbhert comes forward again, the Monk lifts the crucifix and he goes back wringing his hands.)

Abb. This is his home, he knows no wife nor children,

You must go hence.

Marg. If I called out unto these barren walls

And had they but a heart to hear my prayer,

Beneath their stony hardness they would open

To let me see him.

Abb. You must go forth, you blaspheme these pure precincts.

Woman, go.

Marg. Nay, drive me not forth, O holy Abbot,

By all you love, revere and hope on earth,

Drive me not forth, tear down this hideous wall

That hides me from my husband, let him know,

’Tis only for a little, little while,

Did he but know our little one was ill,

He’d hasten in the first impulse of sorrow,

At its slight cry, he’d be all shook with pity,

And now its dying. Gerbhert! Gerbhert! come!

Where are you Gerbhert?

Abb. You must go hence, or I will force you hence.

Marg. I have no soul to curse you, your own soul

Be its own Hell for this unnaturalness.

[Goes out.

Page. An Ambassador waits without, your Holiness.

Hild. From whence? Germany?

Page. Yea, my Lord.

Hild. Ha, now, the tide went out, the tide comes in. ’Tis but the spray to mine own thunders. Now, we’ll hear his answer to the Papal Curse.

Pet. Wilt thou receive a message from one accursed? He is no king, no ruler any more. This is no embassy.

Hild. Perchance, it may be prayer for pardon. Henry knoweth by this the power of Hildebrand.

Page. My Lord, it be but a rude petitioner hath come.

He tells no beads, nor maketh any prayers,

But rather stamps an’ mutters, raves an’ swears,

And sendeth Rome an’ all her cardinals

To Hell twice every minute.

Pet. Hale him to prison, the loud, blaspheming hound,

The damp of some rock cell would bring him round

To proper reverence for thy holy office,

He may intend a murder on thy person,

Let him not in.

Hild. Nay, but I will. Like master, like his dog,

I fain would see the issue of this cursing.

Yea, I would see this German foam at mouth,

Fear not, I’ll match him, call the Cardinals in.

(Exit Page. Enter Cardinals, who stand behind the Pope.)

(Enter the page, followed by the German Ambassador, who remains standing.)

Hild. (To Cardinals.) On your lives keep peace whatever he doth do. Leave him to me. (To the Ambassador.) Kneel!

Amb. Nay, I’ll not kneel to thee or other man

Till I have said my message.

A Card. Kneel, impious Man, ’tis the Lord Pope.

Pet. Hale him out, German Dog, Blasphemer,

He hath insulted the Holy Father.

Amb. (Draws.) Come on ye cowardly Monks, I scorn ye all,

Were he a king I’d bow my knee to him,

An Emperor, an’ I might buss his hand,

But only Pope, why popes have bribed me vain

To slay your betters.

Hild. Silence: am I Pope indeed, why blame this man,

When ye, obedient, insult me with your clamors.

(To the Amb.) Hail you from Germany?

Amb. I do, proud Priest, my name is Wolf of Bamburg,

Cradled in a nest that ne’er knew fear,

Bred of a breed that hath a joy of killing.

’Tis not a monk would make me tremble here.

My time is short, I would repeat my message.

Hild. What be thy message?

Amb. ’Tis to thee, proud Priest, an’ it doth come from Henry.

Hild. Speak!

Amb. Henry of Germany, whom in thine insolence,

Thou cursedst with thy foulest blasphemies,

Sendeth me, Wolf of Bamburg, unto thee,

To hurl thine arrogant curses in thy face,

And tell thee thou art no pope but a damned priest,

Who stolest thy popedom.

Pet. Hale him out, tear him to pieces. (A great clamor rises. The Cardinals would attack him.)

Hild. Silence! on your lives! This man is mine! (To Wolf.) Speak on!

Amb. He further saith to thee, thou bastard Pope,

As Emperor of Rome, come down, come down!

And leave that chair thou foully hast usurped,

And I his servant, say to thee, come down!

All Cards. Devil! German Dog! Tear him to pieces! (All rush forward.)

Hild. (Tears off his robe and throws it over the Ambassador.) Back! or fear my curse! Who strikes at that strikes me!

All. Nay, this is a devil.

Hild. Were he Satan himself, beneath that robe he were
As sacred as God’s holiest angel!

(To Amb.) Go Man and tell thy master, who is no king,

That Gregory hath one single word for him,

And that is pity. Let him ask his God

To pardon him as I do pardon him.

I lay no curse upon the innocent.

When he comes penitent to me in tears

I will receive him. Go! (Exit Amb.)

(To Cardinals.) Have ye no reverence for Gregory that,

Ye should revile revilings in this house?

God’s ministers should ever be men of peace,

And not a maddened rabble. As our Lord,

In that last season of his great martyrdom,

Bade holy Peter sheathe the angry sword,

So I rebuke ye. Had he slain me here,

You’d not have touched him!

[Exit Cardinals.

Hen. What is a king’s weak royalty to this Power

That lifts the crowns from kings and plucks them down

From earth-built majesties? I yesterday

Who wore a crown and called me Emperor

To these dominions, held a people’s fear,

To bind or loose betwixt my hollow hands,

Made and unmade, held life and death in fee,

Made dukedoms tremble at my royal coming,

And at my beck squadroned the earth with armies,

Am at his word a lonely, outcast man,

A stranger to the lordships of command,

Holding less power than doth my meanest subject.

Then did all eyes but follow at my glance,

All hands lift to the twitching of my thumb.

Did I but hate, a thousand scabbards clanged

To do me vengeance. Had I a single longing,

A myriad hearts trembled to beat my bidding.

But now I am so mean earth’s very slaves

Might pass me by, nor think to do me reverence.

What is this one man’s Power, this mighty Will,

That lifts its hand, saith suddenly yea or nay,

And peoples forget their duty to their lords,

And nobles forfeit reverence for their kings

And all of royalty’s golden splendor is wrecked

And shattered like a rainbow in a storm!

O Gregory, O Gregory, thou awful man,

Didst thou but speak I might become a clod,

Or weed or senseless turf beneath thy feet.

Enter the Bishop of Bamburg and a noble.

Hen. Come now and strip me, let my very life

But follow my royalty.

Bam. O, my poor Liege!

Lord. Yea, they have left him lone enough indeed.

Damn this Pope’s cursing.

Hen. Why call me Liege? The king hath gone, my Lord.

He went out yesterday when Gregory’s curse

Filled all this precinct. I am only Henry,

A leprous, palsied, outcast, damnÉd man.

Where are my servants? Have they fled me too?

Bam. They have, my Liege!

Hen. Gregory thou mighty monster, what art thou?

Thou art not God, for God at least is kind.

Thou art not nature, its workings are too slow

For such a sudden miracle. Why dost thou not

Take even my sight and hearing? It ’mazes me

Those be not fled. Yea, even my Taste and Smell,

What blasphemous Ministers these that do my bidding

Against thy mighty word. Take all, take all,

And let me die.

Bam. Sire, lose not your courage. Even yet,

A few of us for love of Heaven and thee,

Defy this haughty prelate. Shake at Rome

Defiance of her curses. Though a million curs,

With tail twixt legs flee at a bit of writing,

Forget that they are men because one man,

Who thinks him God, would shake with his poor thunders

The cowards of Europe; know that there be yet

A few hearts left thee. Gregory takes thy crown,

He hath not got thy manhood, that obeys

The laws of thine own nature. Show this priest,

This blasphemous usurper of our humanities,

That he may strip the moss but leave the tree

Of all thy kingship standing.

Lord. Yea, my Liege, some swords be left thee yet.

Hen. And ye still own me? Fear ye not this curse,

That blacks the world, the very earth I stand on;

Unkings me all, annuls my fatherhood,

Blasts all mine organs, refts me from my kind.

The very heaven must shut from me its light,

The stars no more look kindly, Night no more

Give me her holy balm, sweet, blessed sleep.

No friend, nor child, nor wife, this drives me out

Beyond the human. Say ye even yet

That ye do own me? This doth much amaze me.

Bam. We love thee yet and own thy majesty,

And kneel to thy allegiance.

Hen. If this were real, Henry’s heart could weep

With human gladness, but ’tis merely fancy.

You’d shrivel up like podshells were you men.

The very ground I stand on is accursÈd.

No more may flowers therefrom, but only thorns

And noisesome weeds proceed. Away! away!

Ere ye be cursÈd.

Bam. He seemeth distracted.

Lord. This curse doth lie full heavy of a truth.

Damn that Pope, if I but get to Rome

There’ll be two Popes. I’ll slice him i’ the middle.

Yea, I’ll create a fleshy schism ’twill bother

These damned, lewd priests to reckon.

Bam. My Lord, great Henry, hearken to thy friend,

’Tis Bamburg, he who loved thee as a child.

Dost know me?

Hen. It seemeth I know thee Bamburg, or ought to know,

Did not this haze of Hell o’erweight me down.

I thought thee fled. Why dost thou stand with me?

Knowest thou not that I am one accursed?

Bam. Hath nature no pity?

Hen. Were it the Queen alone who fled I’d bear it.

I never treated her as she deserved.

She was too kind, I used her brutal, Bamburg,

I used her brutal, she who was so kind.

Her voice was soft, but this my heart forgot

In that forced marriage. Had she fled alone

I had not minded, but the ones I loved,

The men I made and builded, raised them up,

Who drank my cup, took honors from my hand,

And made the heavens ring with their acclaims

Were I victorious: that all these should melt

Like some magician’s smoke at Gregory’s word;

’Tis monstrous; yea, so monstrous, that meseems

The heavens be turned to iron and yon cold sun

Be but a tearless socket turned upon me;

And Pity and Mercy all those kindly ministers

Fled from the universe where Henry stands,

Yea, Bamburg, had the mighty Lord of all

Such power of unrelenting as this Gregory,

The very fountains of nature would dry up,

The kindly elements refuse their office,

And morn and even, noon and cooling night

With blessed dews and sunlight, cease to be;

Till earth would stand one shrivelled chaos under

The pitiless heaven that looks on Henry now.

Bam. ’Tis the Queen that we be come about my Liege,

’Tis she hath sent us.

Hen. To mock my sorrow with false courtesies,

To note my shame and carry to her ears

My misery. O iron Ones, have ye

No mercy left?

Bam. Nay, nay, my Liege, curse not but hearken me,

The noble woman we call Germany’s Queen.

Sendeth unto Henry, greeting thus:

Though thou hast not an army thou hast love,

Though thou hast not a subject, yet a king

To her alone, her king of kingly men;

Though thou art cursed she still will keep to thee.

Hen. Oh Bamburg, this is worse than cursing, can kind Heaven

Hold such a blessing for a wretch like Henry?

Bam. It can and doth, Her Majesty waits without.

Hen. O, Bamburg I cannot see her, her true love,

Would so shame all my falseness all mine ill,

It seems her love would slay me.

[Enter Margaret.

1st M. By ’r Lady, t’was a rare sight, a rare sight, t’was never known afore, nor ever be agen in Europe.

2nd M. He comes agen this morn, ’tis three days since

He’s stood i’ the courtyard suing Gregory’s favour.

1st M. The king of Europe! This be the Church’s hope,

May every season send us a Pope.

I must within ere Brother John doth make

A fast which little fits my hunger’s constant ache.

2nd M. T’wixt heady wine an’ table well provide’,

’Tis a faring world till coming Eastertide.

[Exit.