University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

—The Count and Jaromir.
COUNT.
The legends of our house?—I'll tell you one.
There were two brothers who grew up together,
As if they had one heart; their tasks, their sports
Were shared; at evening side by side they slept,
At morning waked together; when they talk'd
With all youth's eagerness of future days,
They imaged but one plan, for neither knew
Their hopes could be divided. Years pass'd on,
And never brought they with them less of change.
But when the elder came to man's estate,
There was too mark'd a difference in their lot:
The first held wealth and rank,—the younger one
Dependent; 'tis a bitter word, and most
When bred together in equality.
And then the younger brother rashly wed,
And lovely children crowded at his knee,
Foredoom'd to the same life that he had led,
Where pride and poverty contend, and shame
Grows deeper from suppression. Years pass'd on:
At length a deadly sickness smote the Count;
His brother, with a strange unholy joy,
Stood by the dying man; for he was heir
To that proud castle and its wide domain,
And past loves were all lost in future hopes.
Then was a secret told him which destroy'd
Those golden dreams,—that brother had a child!
Death scoffs at worldly vanities, and death
Avow'd the secret marriage pride conceal'd.
He died; and now his lonely orphan's fate
Was in the new Count's hands, and he play'd false:
The boy was left in poor obscurity,
The mother's claim put down, and fraud and strife
Grasp'd their inheritance. That unjust lord,
The curse was on him,—one by one they died,
The children, for whose sake he sold his soul.
One only daughter cheer'd his desolate house!
And all search for the orphan was in vain,
Till chance restored him, and her father sought
To make her his atonement.

JAROMIR.
Count, no more!
I know the history, though till now I deem'd
Myself unknown. It was with bitter thoughts
And evil hopes I sought this castle first;
But love and kindness greeted me; I saw
An old man with remorse upon his brow.

COUNT.

JAROMIR.
But, oh! there needs not this.—

COUNT.
Hush! hush
I am impatient as a wearied man
Eager to lay a weighty burthen down.
Come to me presently.

[Exit.
JAROMIR.
I do not feel as I should feel at this.
Acknowledged heir of a most noble house,
Beloved and loving, wherefore should the past,
Which hitherto has seem'd but as a dream,
Of which I took no heed,—why should the past
Come darkly up like an o'ertaking storm,
Whose heaviness weighs down the atmosphere
Of present hope? Which shall I curse the most
My father's pride, my uncle's avarice?
But for these, bred according to my birth,
Familiar but with honourable deeds,
My fiery youth allow'd an open field,
The name of every gallant ancestor
A bond upon my soul against disgrace,
My name had been as stainless as my crest.
But, nursed in poverty, my infant ears
Listening to curses, how must wrongs have changed
A mother's nature, when the first lisp'd words
Her child's young lips were taught, were oaths and threats
Of deep revenge! Brought up to scorn my state,
Yet shut out from all other, while the blood
Of my bold forefathers stirr'd in my veins,
What have they made me? Robber—murderer!
One of the ready sword and reckless hand,
Who values blood by gold. Where art thou now,
Spirit of enterprise, that urged me on—
Spirit of vengeance, that at midnight rang
My mother's dying words within my brain,—
Where are ye now? Hush'd as the worn-out wave!
And in your stead do fear and sorrow come;
Till, even as a child that dreads the dark,
I dread the future. Bertha, thou hast struck,
As with an angel's hand, my rocky heart,
And call'd forth its pure waters: higher hopes,
Gentle affections, thankfulness to God,
And kindliness towards my fellow-men,
Are gushing in my bosom's stony depths;
And all subdued and chasten'd by a sense
Of my unworthiness. No more I hold
A blind and terrible fatality
Is paramount upon this weary life—
This gulf of troubled billows—where the soul,
Like a vex'd bark, is toss'd upon the waves
Of pain and pleasure by the warring breath
Of passions, which are winds that bear it on,
And only to destruction. Never more
Shall I speak recklessly of death; or shun
A quiet thought or solitary hour;
Or drown that consciousness, our moral life,
In the red wine cup: now my better heart
Luxuriates in repose; I can pass days
Stretch'd in the shade of those old cedar trees,
Watching the sunshine like a blessing fall,—
The breeze like music wandering o'er the boughs,—
Each tree a natural harp,—each different leaf
A different note, blent in one vast thanks-giving.
[In leaning from the casement he catches a sight of Bertha.
I see her now. How more than beautiful
She paces yon broad terrace!—The free wind
Has lifted the soft curls from off her cheek,
Which yet it crimsons not,—the pure, the pale,—
Like a young saint. How delicately carved
The Grecian outline of her face!—but touch'd
With a more spiritual beauty, and more meek.
Her large blue eyes are raised up to the heav'ns,
Whose hues they wear, and seem to grow more clear
As the heart fills them. There, those parted lips,—
Prayer could but give such voiceless eloquence,—
Shining like snow her clasp'd and earnest hands,
She seems a dedicated nun, whose heart
Is God's own altar. By her side I feel
As in some holy place. My best love, mine,
Blessings must fall on one like thee!