University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

Apartment of Stephania.
Stephania alone in Court-dress.
Ste.
So, I have cast the convent chrysalis,
To issue forth into the garish day
A painted butterfly. How strange it seems!
Strange! worse—revolting! How I hate myself.
Why did I not the deed at once? 'Twas then
So easy, natural, sure; now, day by day
'Tis harder, more unnatural. Am I then
Become a thing of milk and whey? No, no.
But oh, this feigning, these false smiles, even this dress
Disgusts me; but if now I strike, although
I sate revenge, one way my purpose fails.
'Tis you, Crescentius, you who hold my hand,—
I must free Rome, or I avenge you not;
You died for liberty, and so must he.
And then the world shall know me as I am,
And none shall dare to spurn me in the streets,
As once he did—never! Who's there, I say?

Enter Anna.
Anna.
'Tis I, my lady.

Ste.
Call me by my name;
Sister Prudentia call me yet once more.
Oh Anna, Anna, what a change is this!

Anna.
You look as you were wont on former days.
And yet so long you've worn the convent dress,
I had almost forgotten how you looked
In those old days.

Ste.
Ay! it seems strange to me.
I was not happy in the convent there,
But you were ever kind and good to me.
Shall I be happier now?

Anna.
I trust you will.

Ste.
The path is dark before me. Come what will,
I never shall forget those convent days,
Never forget your kindness. Nay! who knows?
Some day I may come back to you again
More crushed than ever, for the world is hard.

Anna.
The world is what we make it, good or bad.

Ste.
And we are what the world makes us as well.

Anna.
I come to take my leave,—for, as you see,
All now is changed. My place no more is here.
Farewell, Stephania! For the last, last time
Prudentia, sister, may the world to you
Bring happiness,—may the Blessed Virgin rain
Her peaceful influence on you! We shall pray
Always for you, wherever you may be.

Ste.
Ah yes! whatever comes, drive me not forth
From out your hearts, and if I fall, forgive.
Embrace me, Anna, take me to your heart;
Never forget me, and whatever comes,
Think of me kindly—make excuse for me.

Anna.
Be sure of that; and now, farewell.

Ste.
Farewell!
I shall so miss you.

Anna.
Tessa will remain.
You will not need me.

Ste.
Yet one more embrace,
And God be with you.

Anna.
And with you as well.
[Exit Anna.

Stephania
alone.
So the last link is broken of that life.
Now for the new one, hateful though it be.
For the near present, I must play my part;
Cajole, profess, lie, if it serves my need,
And be what most I hate—a hypocrite.

Enter Otho.
Otho.
May I come in!

Ste.
I pray your Majesty.

Otho.
And this is you, Stephania? On my soul
I scarcely should have known you in this guise.
How it becomes you! You were fair before,
Under the cloud; but now more fair, more bright,
Like cloudless sunshine, robed as should be robed
The lady whom I love. You scarce can know
How very, very dear you are to me.
Give me your hand; turn not your face away.
Trust me, and give me, if not all I ask,
A smile at least.

Ste.
Nay; what have I to do
With smiles? You see me stand before you here,
A poor, weak, broken woman, with no hope,
Small joy; perplexed in duty, bound to take
A blind, dark path, lead though it may to death.

Otho.
Nay, rather it shall lead to life and love,
So you will not refuse me for a guide?

Ste.
Never! I have a vow that I must keep.

Otho.
You have renounced your vows.

Ste.
No! I have not.
They are suspended, not renounced. To you
A vow is nothing, but to me 'tis life.

Otho.
Were you so happy in the convent, then?

Ste.
Happy? I happy? See these cheeks so wan
With grief and tears, and ask me if you can
If I was happy? Ah! for me the spring
Of life is broken, youth is gone, and nought
Remains on earth to fill my cup with joy.

Otho.
By heavens! you never were one half so fair,—
Yours is life's ripeness, not its first faint flower.
Let us both turn our backs upon the past;
We will have no more sorrows or regrets,—
Love holds the door wide open now for joy.

Ste.
No! not for me.

Otho.
For you, for both of us.

Ste.
Who can look forward? Who among us knows
What one short hour may bring; some sudden bolt,
Out of the sky so seeming clear, may strike
Even you.

Otho.
It may, but yet I fear it not;
Death is inevitable. All the more,
While life is ours, let us rejoice and love.

Ste.
Live then, and love the little while you may.

Otho.
I will; and you shall be my love and joy,—
You shall be mine.

Ste.
No, never!

Otho.
Ah! you must.
You shall be mine—all doubts, distrusts, and fears,
Love shall subdue; for, like the mountain stream
Swollen by freshets, fed by melting snows,
Fierce, strong, impetuous, it shall know no stay
Till from its course it sweeps all obstacles.

Ste.
Ah! to their ruin, and when summer comes
What will remain of all the glad spring knew?
A parched, waste, desert bed of scattered stones,
Where even the sturdiest weeds refuse to grow.

Otho.
No! no!

Ste.
Ah, well! at best a thin weak stream,
That hesitates and scarce can find its way,
And stagnates in dull pools, the lifeless stream
That men call friendship. Oh! I know you men.
Our love is life,—yours is an hour's caprice,
A moment's passion, a fierce flame of straw,
Spent in an hour, and violent as brief.

Otho.
You do me wrong: mine is no hour's caprice,—
'Tis deep as life.

Ste.
Ay! so you say, so think.
Perhaps you think so. Leave me, let me go;
Urge me no further. No! it cannot be;
You push me to my fate.

Otho.
You have no heart,
No pity in your breast, that thus you scorn
The love I proffer.

Ste.
If I have no heart,
'Tis vain to ask for it. Pity I have,—
Let that suffice.

Otho.
No; it will not suffice.
Pity, indeed! Hear me—what pledge, what oaths,
Will satisfy you? See, my power is large;
Ask what you will, try me, it shall be yours.

Ste.
Oh, I ask nothing; oaths are withes of straw.
You cannot bind the future with an oath.

Otho.
Hear me, Stephania! I will lift you up
So high that all the world shall envy you.
Ay! I will wed you, place you on the throne.

Ste.
Ah! this you would not. Nay! you dare not do!

Otho.
I swear it—on the Holy Book, I swear.

Ste.
Otho, take heed, these words would bind your soul,
Not before man, but before God Himself.
Once spoken, should you break them, hell itself
Would yawn before you for your perjury.
You would deserve the cruellest of fates.

Otho.
I know it—I accept it—come what may,
And I repeat them. Do you trust me now?

Ste.
I know not. You have broken once your faith.
How dare I trust you now?

Otho.
Oh, sting no more
My tortured memory with that dreadful crime.
Forget the past, and give yourself to me,—
You shall have all. My acts of love shall run
Before your thoughts, outstripping every wish.

Ste.
Think what the world would say.

Otho.
Let the world rail,
I care not. I am placed too high to heed.
And heed not you, for I will be your world.
Oh, my Stephania!
Who dares break in thus?
Enter Ernstein.
You, Ernstein! know you not—

Ern.
Your Majesty,
I crave your pardon; but his Holiness
Is at the gates, demands an audience,
And now is entering.

Otho.
I will see him not.
Tell him I'm ill, I'm busy, make excuse,
Invent whate'er you will, no matter what.

Ern.
I pray your Majesty, consider well.

Otho.
I will not see him now—find some excuse;
Tell him—oh heavens! is there no excuse?
Ernstein, I say, send him away.

Ern.
He's here!
He's entering now, your Majesty.

Otho.
Well, well;
Say I will see him in the audience-room.
More lectures, I suppose, more homilies!

Ern.
Count Tammo, sire, is there to show him in.
I crave your pardon for intruding thus,—
I thought you were alone, the occasion pressed.

Otho.
Countess, permit me to present my friend,
The Baron Ernstein, my most valued friend.
Baron, I leave this lady now with you.
Donna Stephania, I kiss your hand;
I will return the moment I am free.
[Exit Otho.

Ern.
Countess, excuse me for my awkwardness.
I knew not you were here; I thought to find
Sister Prudentia with his Majesty.

Ste.
Baron, you see her here, and only her,—
'Tis but a change of dress that alters me.

Ern.
Pardon, but as I had not seen your face
Save through a veil and in a convent dress,
I scarce could recognise you thus. The change
Is as it were a change from night to day.

Ste.
You flatter, Baron.

Ern.
I but speak the truth.
Countess, your skill and kindness have restored
Our Emperor again to health, to joy.
None is more grateful for it than myself.

Ste.
I did but what I could. If my poor skill
Have prospered, let us thank God for the cure.

Ern.
Still let me thank you all the more. I see
Your modesty is equal to your skill.
We owe you much, and what within me lies,
To show my gratitude, you may command.

Ste.
Then, my good lord, your friendship I would crave.

Ern.
Command me, madam, for the best of will.

Ste.
I shall, and thanks for all your courtesy.
Pray you excuse me if I leave you now.

[He accompanies her to the door. Tammo enters as she is going out.
Tam.
Baron, his Majesty desires—
[Perceives Stephania, who salutes him and goes out.
Great God!
I cannot be mistaken. Who was that?

Ern.
Sister Prudentia.

Tam.
Folly! who was she?

Ern.
You seem excited, Tammo.

Tam.
Who was that?

Ern.
Sister Prudentia with a change of dress:
And change of name, I think, if I heard right.

Tam.
And what name has she now?

Ern.
Stop! let me think.
The Countess something—I scarce heard her name.

Tam.
I'll tell you, then; that was Stephania,—
Stephania, do you hear—Crescentius' wife!

Ern.
What! she Stephania?

Tam.
Yes, and yes, again.
Eyes, shape, hair, face, voice, mien, Stephania.

Ern.
It cannot be.

Tam.
It is. A face like hers
Who could forget? not I.

Ern.
Indeed, I think
Donna Stephania was the name he used.
But who could dream 'twas she. The name itself
I scarcely noticed. Ah! I like this not.
They were together here alone—both flushed
As by some strange exciting colloquy.
My entrance interrupted, and his tone
Was sharp beyond his wont. This bodes no good.

Tam.
What beauty! What a grace of look and mien—
Has she not, Ernstein?

Ern.
Ay! she's beautiful.
And yet I like her not. What does she here?
We must keep watch on her. The Emperor,
Once he has taken the bit into his teeth,
Is obstinate and headstrong—and 'tis plain
This woman has him in her artful toils.

Tam.
How say you now, my lord? Is anything
God ever framed so strange as woman is?

Ern.
Can she indeed forgive him for the past?

Tam.
You see she does. There's no such bitter wrong
Done by a man, woman will not forgive.
It is each other they will not forgive:
Let but a sister slip, and with one voice
They hound her to destruction. For man's crimes,
Except when jealous, they can find a plea.
Almost they seem at times to yield their love
Less to caresses than to cruelty.

Ern.
But this is monstrous, 'tis incredible!
No, Tammo; we must keep strict watch on her,
For she means mischief, be assured of it.

Tam.
Who knows? The doublings of a woman's heart
Are more capricious than a hunted hare's.
There are who, mad with wrongs, for their revenge
Will follow like a sleuth-hound on their trail,
Until they satiate their revenge in blood.
But these are few; with most of them their rage
Is violent and brief, and ends in tears.
Then they abjure all vengeance and turn round,
And think forgiveness is divine. Nay, more,
Pity at first attenuates crime, and then
Breeds kindness, tenderness, and so at last
Even on the rankest wrongs love springs and flowers.

Ern.
Oh, never, Tammo.

Tam.
Yet such monstrous things
At times do happen. Even brutal strength,
Wild, violent, passionate acts have charms for them,
As showing power and making counterpoise
To their own weakness. For the case in point
I read it thus. Her ardent nature spurned
The convent, with its dreary dull routine,
And her ambition tempted her to place
Her foot on fortune's ladder and climb up
Again to station. And what way so clear
As to win Otho's heart. That once achieved,
All things were in her grasp.

Ern.
Except good fame.

Tam.
Bah! the world ever fawns upon success.
Besides, why should she fling her life away
Because the stupid world speaks ill of her?

Ern.
But to what height does she aspire to climb?

Tam.
The highest if she can—the imperial height.

Ern.
And failing that, what then?

Tam.
Who says she'll fail?

Ern.
I say, but if she fails?

Tam.
Ah! then indeed
She must content herself with something less.

Ern.
Will she?

Tam.
She must.

Ern.
I do not think she will,
And there's the danger. Even take the case
Just as you put it—at the last there comes
Danger.

Tam.
What danger?

Ern.
Nay, I cannot tell,
And still I fear.

Tam.
My lord, what can she do?
Except to fall in love with me or you!
But we are lingering here. This great surprise
Drives from my mind my message. Come with me,—
The Emperor desires your presence. Come!

[Exeunt.
Enter Tessa.
Tessa.
Now they're all gone, I'll put to rights the room.
[Arranges various things.
My lady's humours are as changeable
As the quick colours on a pigeon's neck;
Harsh and impetuous now—now soft and kind.
Whoever knows what's in a woman's mind?
Rhymes—Tessa—always rhymes, as Gigi says.
[Sings as she arranges the room.
[Sings.
[Sings.

Enter Stephania.
Ste.
Ah, you are here, then? What is that you have?

Tessa.
Your cross, my lady.

Ste.
No, indeed, you've not.
I could not wish you a worse thing to have.

Tessa.
It is, my lady.

Ste.
Nay, I meant not that;
You think it pretty?

Tessa.
Oh, so beautiful!

Ste.
Then keep it if you like it,—it is yours.

Tessa.
What! mine to keep. Oh, thanks! my lady, thanks.

[Kisses her hand.
Ste.
Enough, enough, good child. Now bolt the door.
Take off these things. Let no one enter here,
No one, not even the Emperor himself
If he should come. I wish to be alone.
Open the window and let in some air,
I seem to stifle here—ay, that is well.

Tessa.
What shall I say, my lady, if by chance
The Emperor should come?

Ste.
Say that I'm ill,
My head is aching—anything you please.
I will see nobody—no matter whom.

Tessa.
Shall I bolt the outer door, my lady?

Ste.
Do.
[Hist! what a silence suddenly has come;
What means it? ah! the shrill cicadæ cease,
That have been dinning all the livelong day.

Tessa.
My lady, ever in the afternoon
I have observed they all at once will stop
About this hour, and then as twilight comes,
Renew their singing.

Ste.
That is singular.]
What time is it?

Tessa.
Some two hours after noon.

Ste.
So early yet! How slow the day drags on!
I am so weary—weary of it all.
['Tis time for my siesta—time to sleep,
And yet I cannot sleep.] Take the lute, Tessa,
And sing me some old song.

Tessa.
(takes the lute)
What shall I sing?
Shall it be gay or sad?

Ste.
Sing what you will.
Your voice, perhaps, will soothe me. I am sick
Of thinking, thinking,—anything you choose.

Tessa
sings.
Love's a light and fickle thing,
Comes and goes, comes and goes:
Swift of flight it spreads its wing,
On the rose-tree lights to sing,
Then unto another rose,
Off it goes.

Ste.
That is a foolish song, made for a girl.
Can you not sing me something strong and fierce,
Made for a woman that is struck and hurt?
I hate these poets' petty frail conceits
Of birds and roses. Sing me something else.

Tessa.
Shall I sing “You struck at my life”?

Ste.
I know it not; but sing it, let me hear.
It begins well.

Tessa.
sings.

Ste.
Ah! that is better far. Who taught you that?

Tessa.
'Tis an old song, that in my town girls sing
When they are jilted.

Ste.
Are there no more verses?

Tessa.
There is one more, my lady.

Ste.
Sing that too.

Tessa
sings.

Ste.
“He hereafter—but on the earth I—
Then I leave you to God.”
That is the way it ends, how does it begin?

Tessa.
“You struck at my life with your love,
I will never forgive you.”

Ste.
Oh, yes, yes, I remember. Thank you, Tessa.
Go, child, and leave me now. There, that will do.
Exit Tessa.
Stephania alone.
“You struck at my life with your love,
I will never forgive you.”
Never, never, never! How can we forgive
Such wrongs as that, unless we can forget,
And how forget? Leave punishment to God,—
But if God makes us here His instrument.
How does the song run?
“He hereafter—but on the earth I—
Then I leave you to God.”
Then, then, not here—here we must right ourselves.
And yet it is so hard, so very hard.
We brag that crime is not so swift of foot,
But justice with its slow and certain stride
Will overtake and seize it at the last.
Ah! who can tell? We know but what we see.
Crime skulks and smiles and wins the world's success,
Braves justice, slips from her through tortuous ways,
Steals her white robes, and counterfeits her so
That Justice, deeming her a sister, holds
Her strong hand out to help her. That's the world.