The Complete Poems and Plays of T. S. Eliot

by By (author): T. S. Eliot

  They often bark, more seldom bite;

  But yet a Dog is, on the whole,

  What you would call a simple soul.

  Of course I’m not including Pekes,

  And such fantastic canine freaks.

  The usual Dog about the Town

  Is much inclined to play the clown,

  And far from showing too much pride

  Is frequently undignified.

  He’s very easily taken in —

  Just chuck him underneath the chin

  Or slap his back or shake his paw,

  And he will gambol and guffaw.

  He’s such an easy-going lout,

  He’ll answer any hail or shout.

  Again I must remind you that

  A Dog’s a Dog — A CAT’S A CAT.

  With Cats, some say, one rule is true:

  Don’t speak till you are spoken to.

  Myself, I do not hold with that —

  I say, you should ad-dress a Cat.

  But always keep in mind that he

  Resents familiarity.

  I bow, and taking off my hat,

  Ad-dress him in this form: O CAT!

  But if he is the Cat next door,

  Whom I have often met before

  (He comes to see me in my flat)

  I greet him with an OOPSA CAT!

  I think I’ve heard them call him James —

  But we’ve not got so far as names.

  Before a Cat will condescend

  To treat you as a trusted friend,

  Some little token of esteem

  Is needed, like a dish of cream;

  And you might now and then supply

  Some caviare, or Strassburg Pie,

  Some potted grouse, or salmon paste —

  He’s sure to have his personal taste.

  (I know a Cat, who makes a habit

  Of eating nothing else but rabbit,

  And when he’s finished, licks his paws

  So’s not to waste the onion sauce.)

  A Cat’s entitled to expect

  These evidences of respect.

  And so in time you reach your aim,

  And finally call him by his NAME.

  So this is this, and that is that:

  And there’s how you AD-DRESS A CAT.

  Cat Morgan Introduces Himself

  I once was a Pirate what sailed the ’igh seas —

  But now I’ve retired as a com-mission-aire:

  And that’s how you find me a-takin’ my ease

  And keepin’ the door in a Bloomsbury Square.

  I’m partial to partridges, likewise to grouse,

  And I favour that Devonshire cream in a bowl;

  But I’m allus content with a drink on the ’ouse

  And a bit o’ cold fish when I done me patrol.

  I ain’t got much polish, me manners is gruff,

  But I’ve got a good coat, and I keep meself smart;

  And everyone says, and I guess that’s enough;

  ‘You can’t but like Morgan, ’e’s got a good ’art.’

  I got knocked about on the Barbary Coast,

  And me voice it ain’t no sich melliferous horgan;

  But yet I can state, and I’m not one to boast,

  That some of the gals is dead keen on old Morgan.

  So if you ’ave business with Faber — or Faber —

  I’ll give you this tip, and it’s worth a lot more:

  You’ll save yourself time, and you’ll spare yourself labour

  If jist you make friends with the Cat at the door.

  MORGAN.

  PLAYS

  MURDER IN THE CATHEDRAL

  This play is fully protected by copyright

  and no performance can be given without

  a licence from the Author’s agents

  THE LEAGUE OF DRAMATISTS

  84 DRAYTON GARDENS, LONDON, S.W.10

  from whose Secretary all information

  about fees or royalties can be obtained.

  Characters

  PART I

  A CHORUS OF WOMEN OF CANTERBURY

  THREE PRIESTS OF THE CATHEDRAL

  A MESSENGER

  ARCHBISHOP THOMAS BECKET

  FOUR TEMPTERS

  ATTENDANTS

  The scene is the Archbishop’s Hall,

  on December 2nd, 1170

  PART II

  THREE PRIESTS

  FOUR KNIGHTS

  ARCHBISHOP THOMAS BECKET

  CHORUS OF WOMEN OF CANTERBURY

  ATTENDANTS

  The first scene is in the Archbishop’s Hall,

  the second scene is in the Cathedral,

  on December 29th, 1170

  Part I

  CHORUS. Here let us stand, close by the cathedral. Here let us wait.

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

  our feet

  Towards the cathedral? What danger can be

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

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

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

  act

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

  Towards the cathedral. We are forced to bear witness.

  Since golden October declined into sombre November

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

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

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

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

  to the fire,

  The New Year waits, destiny waits for the coming.

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

  Saints at All Hallows,

  Remembered the martyrs and saints who wait? and who shall

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

  warm

  By the fire, and deny his master?

  Seven years and the summer is over

  Seven years since the Archbishop left us,

  He who was always kind to his people.

  But it would not be well if he should return.

  King rules or barons rule;

  We have suffered various oppression,

  But mostly we are left to our own devices,

  And we are content if we are left alone.

  We try to keep our households in order;

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

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

  colour,

  Preferring to pass unobserved.

  Now I fear disturbance of the quiet seasons:

  Winter shall come bringing death from the sea,

  Ruinous spring shall beat at our doors,

  Root and shoot shall eat our eyes and our ears,

  Disastrous summer burn up the beds of our streams

  And the poor shall wait for another decaying October.

  Why should the summer bring consolation

  For autumn fires and winter fogs?

  What shall we do in the heat of summer

  But wait in barren orchards for another October?

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

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

  saints.

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

  I have seen these things in a shaft of sunlight.

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

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

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

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

  you?

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

  For us, the poor, there is no action,

  But only to wait and to witness.

  [Enter 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,

&nbs
p; 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.