Complete Poems and Plays

by T. S. Eliot

  You will agree with me that such interference by an Archbishop offends the instincts of a people like ours. So far, I know that I have your approval: I read it in your faces. It is only with the measures we have had to adopt, in order to set matters to rights, that you take issue. No one regrets the necessity for violence more than we do. Unhappily, there are times when violence is the only way in which social justice can be secured. At another time, you would condemn an Archbishop by vote of Parliament and execute him formally as a traitor, and no one would have to bear the burden of being called murderer. And at a later time still, even such temperate measures as these would become unnecessary. But, if you have now arrived at a just subordination of the pretensions of the Church to the welfare of the State, remember that it is we who took the first step. We have been instrumental in bringing about the state of affairs that you approve. We have served your interests; we merit your applause; and if there is any guilt whatever in the matter, you must share it with us.

  FIRST KNIGHT. 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.

  FOURTH KNIGHT. 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.

  FIRST KNIGHT. 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 KNIGHTS]

  FIRST PRIEST. 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.

  THIRD PRIEST. 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.

  FIRST PRIEST. O my lord

  The glory of whose new state is hidden from us,

  Pray for us of your charity.

  SECOND PRIEST. Now in the sight of God

  Conjoined with all the saints and martyrs gone before you,

  Remember us.

  THIRD PRIEST. Let our thanks ascend

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

  CHORUS [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 praye
r 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.

  THE FAMILY REUNION

  Persons

  AMY, DOWAGER LADY MONCHENSEY, IVY, VIOLET, and AGATHA, her younger sisters

  COL. THE HON. GERALD PIPER, and THE HON. CHARLES PIPER, brothers of her deceased husband

  MARY, daughter of a deceased cousin of Lady Monchensey

  DENMAN, a parlourmaid

  HARRY, LORD MONCHENSEY, Amy’s eldest son

  DOWNING, his servant and chauffeur

  DR. WARBURTON

  SERGEANT WINCHELL

  THE EUMENIDES

  The scene is laid in a country house in the

  North of England

  PART I

  The drawing-room, after tea. An afternoon in late March.

  Scene I

  AMY, IVY, VIOLET, AGATHA, GERALD, CHARLES, MARY

  [DENMAN enters to draw the curtains]

  AMY. Not yet! I will ring for you. It is still quite light.

  I have nothing to do but watch the days draw out,

  Now that I sit in the house from October to June,

  And the swallow comes too soon and the spring will be over

  And the cuckoo will be gone before I am out again.

  O Sun, that was once so warm, O Light that was taken for granted

  When I was young and strong, and sun and light unsought for

  And the night unfeared and the day expected

  And clocks could be trusted, tomorrow assured

  And time would not stop in the dark!

  Put on the lights. But leave the curtains undrawn.

  Make up the fire. Will the spring never come? I am cold.

  AGATHA. Wishwood was always a cold place, Amy.

  IVY. I have always told Amy she should go south in the winter.

  Were I in Amy’s position, I would go south in the winter.

  I would follow the sun, not wait for the sun to come here.

  I would go south in the winter, if I could afford it,

  Not freeze, as I do, in Bayswater, by a gas-fire counting shillings.

  VIOLET. Go south! to the English circulating libraries,

  To the military widows and the English chaplains,

  To the chilly deck-chair and the strong cold tea —

  The strong cold stewed bad Indian tea.

  CHARLES. That’s not Amy’s style at all. We are country-bred people.

  Amy has been too long used to our ways

  Living with horses and dogs and guns

  Ever to want to leave England in the winter.

  But a single man like me is better off in London:

  A man can be very cosy at his club

  Even in an English winter.

  GERALD. Well, as for me,

  I’d just as soon be a subaltern again

  To be back in the East. An incomparable climate

  For a man who can exercise a little common prudence;

  And your servants look after you very much better.

  AMY. My servants are perfectly competent, Gerald.

  I can still see to that.

  VIOLET. Well, as for me,

  I would never go south, no, definitely never,

  Even could I do it as well as Amy:

  England’s bad enough, I would never go south,

  Simply to see the vulgarest people —

  You can keep out of their way at home;

  People with money from heaven knows where —

  GERALD. Dividends from aeroplane shares.

  VIOLET. They bathe all day and they dance all night

  In the absolute minimum of clothes.

  CHARLES. It’s the cocktail-drinking does the harm:

  There’s nothing on earth so bad for the young.

  All that a civilised person needs

  Is a glass of dry sherry or two before dinner.

  The modern young people don’t know what they’re drinking,

  Modern young people don’t care what they’re eating;

  They’ve lost their sense of taste and smell

  Because of their cocktails and cigarettes.

  [Enter DENMAN with sherry and whisky. CHARLES takes sherry and GERALD whisky.]

  That’s what it comes to.

  [Lights a cigarette]

  IVY. The younger generation

  Are undoubtedly decadent.

  CHARLES. The younger generation

  Are not what we were. Haven’t the stamina,

  Haven’t the sense of responsibility.

  GERALD. You’re being very hard on the younger generation.

  I don’t come across them very much now, myself;

  But I must say I’ve met some very decent specimens

  And some first-class shots — better than you were,

  Charles, as I remember. Besides, you’ve got to make allowances:

  We haven’t left them such an easy world to live in.

  Let the younger generation speak for itself:

  It’s Mary’s generation. What does she think about it?

  MARY. Really, Cousin Gerald, if you want information

  About the younger generation, you must ask someone else.

  I’m afraid that I don’t deserve the compliment:

  I don’t belong to any generation.

  [Exit]

  VIOLET. Really, Gerald, I must say you’re very tactless,

  And I think that Charles might have been more considerate.

  GERALD. I’m very sorry: but why was she upset?

  I only meant to draw her into the conversation.

  CHARLES. She’s a nice girl; but it’s a difficult age for her.

  I suppose she must be getting on for thirty?

  She ought to be married, that’s what it is.

  AMY. So she should have been, if things had gone as I intended.

  Harry’s return does not make things easy for her

  At the moment: but life may still go right.

  Meanwhile, let us drop the subject. The less said the better.

  GERALD. That reminds me, Amy,

  When are the boys all due to arrive?

  AMY. I do not want the clock to stop in the dark.

  If you want to know why I never leave Wishwood

  That is the reason. I keep Wishwood alive

  To keep the family alive, to keep them together,

  To keep me alive, and I live to keep them.

  You none of you understand how old you are

  And death will come to you as a mild surprise,