The Complete Poems and Plays, 1909-1950

by T. S. Eliot

  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 PRIESTS]

  FIRST PRIEST. Seven years and the summer is over.

  Seven years since the Archbishop left us.

  SECOND PRIEST. 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?

  THIRD PRIEST. 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.

  FIRST PRIEST. 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 MESSENGER]

  MESSENGER. 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.

  FIRST PRIEST. What, is the exile ended, is our Lord Archbishop

  Reunited with the King? what reconciliation

  Of two proud men?

  THIRD PRIEST. What peace can be found

  To grow between the hammer and the anvil?

  SECOND PRIEST. Tell us,

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

  That divided them? Is it peace or war?

  FIRST PRIEST. 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?

  MESSENGER. 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.

  FIRST PRIEST. But again, is it war or peace?

  MESSENGER. 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]

  FIRST PRIEST. 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.

  SECOND PRIEST. 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!

  THIRD PRIEST. 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.

  CHORUS. 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;

  Evil the wind, and bitter the sea, and grey the sky, grey grey grey.

  O Thomas, return, Archbishop; return, return to France.

  Return. Quickly. Quietly. Leave us to perish in quiet.

  You come with applause, you come with rejoicing, but you come bringing death into Canterbury:

  A doom on the house, a doom on yourself, a doom on the world.

  We do not wish anything to happen.

  Seven years we have lived quietly,

  Succeeded in avoiding notice,

  Living and partly living.

  There have been oppression and luxury,

  There have been poverty and licence,

  There has been minor injustice.

  Yet we have gone on living,

  Living and partly living.

  Sometimes the corn has failed us,

  Sometimes the harvest is good,

  One year is a year of rain,

  Another a year of dryness,

  One year the apples are abundant,

  Another year the plums are lacking.

  Yet we have gone on living,

  Living and partly living.

  We have kept the feasts, heard the masses,

  We have brewed beer and cider,

  Gathered wood against the winter,

  Talked
at the corner of the fire,

  Talked at the corners of streets,

  Talked not always in whispers,

  Living and partly living.

  We have seen births, deaths and marriages,

  We have had various scandals,

  We have been afflicted with taxes,

  We have had laughter and gossip,

  Several girls have disappeared

  Unaccountably, and some not able to.

  We have all had our private terrors,

  Our particular shadows, our secret fears.

  But now a great fear is upon us, a fear not of one but of many,

  A fear like birth and death, when we see birth and death alone

  In a void apart. We

  Are afraid in a fear which we cannot know, which we cannot face,

  which none understands,

  And our hearts are torn from us, our brains unskinned like the

  layers of an onion, our selves are lost lost

  In a final fear which none understands. O Thomas Archbishop,

  O Thomas our Lord, leave us and leave us be, in our humble and

  tarnished frame of existence, leave us; do not ask us

  To stand to the doom on the house, the doom on the Archbishop,

  the doom on the world.

  Archbishop, secure and assured of your fate, unaffrayed among the

  shades, do you realise what you ask, do you realise what it

  means

  To the small folk drawn into the pattern of fate, the small folk who

  live among small things.

  The strain on the brain of the small folk who stand to the doom of

  the house, the doom of their lord, the doom of the world?

  O Thomas, Archbishop, leave us, leave us, leave sullen Dover, and

  set sail for France. Thomas our Archbishop still

  our Archbishop even in France. Thomas Archbishop, set the

  white sail between the grey sky and the bitter sea, leave

  us, leave us for France.

  SECOND PRIEST. What a way to talk at such a juncture!

  You are foolish, immodest and babbling women.

  Do you not know that the good Archbishop

  Is likely to arrive at any moment?

  The crowds in the streets will be cheering and cheering,

  You go on croaking like frogs in the treetops:

  But frogs at least can be cooked and eaten.

  Whatever you are afraid of, in your craven apprehension,

  Let me ask you at the least to put on pleasant faces,

  And give a hearty welcome to our good Archbishop.

  [Enter THOMAS]

  THOMAS. Peace. And let them be, in their exaltation.

  They speak better than they know, and beyond your understanding.

  They know and do not know, what it is to act or suffer.

  They know and do not know, that action is suffering

  And suffering is action. Neither does the agent suffer

  Nor the patient act. But both are fixed

  In an eternal action, an eternal patience

  To which all must consent that it may be willed

  And which all must suffer that they may will it,

  That the pattern may subsist, for the pattern is the action

  And the suffering, that the wheel may turn and still

  Be forever still.

  SECOND PRIEST. O my Lord, forgive me, I did not see you coming,

  Engrossed by the chatter of these foolish women.

  Forgive us, my Lord, you would have had a better welcome

  If we had been sooner prepared for the event.

  But your Lordship knows that seven years of waiting,

  Seven years of prayer, seven years of emptiness,

  Have better prepared our hearts for your coming,

  Than seven days could make ready Canterbury.

  However, I will have fires laid in all your rooms

  To take the chill off our English December,

  Your Lordship now being used to a better climate.

  Your Lordship will find your rooms in order as you left them.

  THOMAS. And will try to leave them in order as I find them.

  I am more than grateful for all your kind attentions.

  These are small matters. Little rest in Canterbury

  With eager enemies restless about us.

  Rebellious bishops, York, London, Salisbury,

  Would have intercepted our letters,

  Filled the coast with spies and sent to meet me

  Some who hold me in bitterest hate.

  By God’s grace aware of their prevision

  I sent my letters on another day,

  Had fair crossing, found at Sandwich

  Broc, Warenne, and the Sheriff of Kent,

  Those who had sworn to have my head from me

  Only John, the Dean of Salisbury,

  Fearing for the King’s name, warning against treason,

  Made them hold their hands. So for the time

  We are unmolested.

  FIRST PRIEST. But do they follow after?

  THOMAS. For a little time the hungry hawk

  Will only soar and hover, circling lower,

  Waiting excuse, pretence, opportunity.

  End will be simple, sudden, God-given.

  Meanwhile the substance of our first act

  Will be shadows, and the strife with shadows.

  Heavier the interval than the consummation.

  All things prepare the event. Watch.

  [Enter FIRST TEMPTER]

  FIRST TEMPTER. You see, my Lord, I do not wait upon ceremony:

  Here I have come, forgetting all acrimony,

  Hoping that your present gravity

  Will find excuse for my humble levity

  Remembering all the good time past.

  Your Lordship won’t despise an old friend out of favour?

  Old Tom, gay Tom, Becket of London,

  Your Lordship won’t forget that evening on the river

  When the King, and you and I were all friends together?

  Friendship should be more than biting Time can sever.

  What, my Lord, now that you recover

  Favour with the King, shall we say that summer’s over

  Or that the good time cannot last?

  Fluting in the meadows, viols in the hall,

  Laughter and apple-blossom floating on the water,

  Singing at nightfall, whispering in chambers,

  Fires devouring the winter season,

  Eating up the darkness, with wit and wine and wisdom!

  Now that the King and you are in amity,

  Clergy and laity may return to gaiety,

  Mirth and sportfulness need not walk warily.

  THOMAS. You talk of seasons that are past. I remember

  Not worth forgetting.

  TEMPTER. And of the new season.

  Spring has come in winter. Snow in the branches

  Shall float as sweet as blossoms. Ice along the ditches

  Mirror the sunlight. Love in the orchard

  Send the sap shooting. Mirth matches melancholy.

  THOMAS. We do not know very much of the future

  Except that from generation to generation

  The same things happen again and again.

  Men learn little from others’ experience.