 | Stephania |  |
2
STEPHANIA
A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS—WITH A PROLOGUE
3
4
- Crescentius, Consul of Rome, Roman.
- Tolomeo, Senator, Roman.
- Ferdinand, Brother of Stephania, Roman.
- Guido, Friend of Crescentius, Roman.
- Officers and Suite of Crescentius, Roman.
- Count Tammo, Gentleman of the Court of Otho, German.
- Herald, German.
- Officers and Suite of Otho, German.
- Stephania, Wife of Crescentius.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
OF THE PROLOGUE..
- Otho III., Emperor.
- Baron Ernstein, Gentleman of the Court and Friend of the Emperor.
- Count Tammo, Gentleman of the Court and Friend of the Emperor.
- Atto, Gentleman of the Court.
- Hugo, Gentleman of the Court.
- Guido, Friend of Crescentius.
- Fritz, Officer of the Imperial Guard.
- Ferdinand, Brother of Stephania.
- Chamberlain of the Emperor.
- Stephania, Widow of Crescentius.
- Anna, a Sister of the Convent of Good Sisters.
- Tessa, Handmaid of Stephania.
- Two Ladies of the Court.
OF THE PLAY.
5
PROLOGUE.
Scene I.
—Hall in the Castle St Angelo.Tolomeo and Ferdinand.
Ferd.
What news to-day?
Tol.
Nothing of note as yet.
Ferd.
You come now from the ramparts, do you not?
Tol.
I do.
Ferd.
Crescentius was there?
Tol.
He was.
Ferd.
And what thinks he?
Tol.
Whatever he may think
He says but little. Yet I judge his hopes
Are greatly dashed below their former height.
Our case to me looks nearly desperate.
We may hold out a week—at best, perhaps,
A month—but what avails it? at the end
6
For other issue.
Ferd.
Who can tell the end?
At least we'll fight it out while life remains.
We are compelled to that. What can we hope
From yielding, save an ignominious death,—
Death every way? Then let it find us here
With sword in hand, and harness on our breast.
Tol.
But when we fall, Rome falls, and can it be
She shall be trampled down beneath the hoofs
Of these coarse Germans?
Ferd.
Not until they pass
Above our corpses. In the breach we'll stand
To die for her: we can no more. For me
I care not—but poor Rome.
Tol.
Some turn may come.
Fortune is fickle—her wheel never rests—
We have good friends without, and here within
We're not yet at our last.
Ferd.
But very near.
Provisions fail, our men are weak and worn,
Our friends outside are scattered. Vain from them
To hope immediate help. We on ourselves
And on the castle's strength alone must trust.
Tol.
How must Crescentius feel! to see his hope,
That Rome again regenerate should rise
Under his guidance to its ancient height,
Thus rudely shattered, and his air-spun schemes
Of freedom, equal rights, self-government,
All ruined fall.
Ferd.
Almost it breaks his heart.
But, hark! a trumpet. See! beyond the bridge
The enemy are swarming for attack.
We must be at our posts. No! look! they halt;
7
It crosses now the bridge. 'Tis at the gate.
Another trumpet, and the gates swing back
To give them entrance. Shall we stay, or go
To meet Crescentius?
Tol.
Stay! here he must come
To give the herald audience.
Ferd.
True, he must;
And here he comes.
Enter Crescentius, with officers and suite.
Cres.
My lords, my friends, the self-styled Emperor,
Our enemy, the enemy of Rome,
Hath sent his herald with a flag of truce.
What he demands I know not. Say, my lords,
Shall we receive him here?
[They give assent.
So be it, then.
Go, captain, bid him enter; we will hear
The purport of his message.
Enter Herald, accompanied by Count Tammo, Atto, and Hugo, and others.
Cres.
Herald, speak,
In what name do you come? what seek you here?
Her.
I seek Crescentius, leader of the band
Who here defiant of the Emperor's rights
Commands this castle.
Cres.
I am he.
Her.
Then list!
His imperial Majesty, styled Otho Third,
Emperor of Germany and Italy,
Duke, marquis, count, and baron, holding sway
8
And many realms beside—now summons all
Here gathered, rebels to his sovereign power,
This castle to surrender, which you hold
Rebellious and defiant. Yielding this
At once without delay, he proffers now
Of his good grace, though not of your desert,
Safe-conduct hence, free pardon for the past,
Without condition, unto one and all.
Cres.
And what if we refuse, and here intrenched
Defy his power?
Her.
Then death to one and all.
Even now his troops are gathered for the assault,
And ere the day is past you living men
Who thus defy him shall as corpses hang
Along these battlements.
Cres.
Ha! deems he then
The task so easy?
Her.
Hard or easy, now,
Is not the question. The event is sure.
The harder 'tis, the direr at the end
Will be his vengeance,—this he bids me say.
Tam.
Yield to the summons, brave Crescentius;
List to good counsel, though an enemy's.
True, you may still defy us for a while,
But only for a while. Your little band,
Brave though it be, must yield at last, and then
Count on no mercy. Now while yet 'tis time,
Consider well,—the bravest needs must yield.
'Tis vain to hope for victory with such odds.
Cres.
Against these battlements your strength has tried
For weeks its utmost. You have stormed these walls,
9
As yet with what result? The refluent tide
Which beat against them has with bloody ebb
But stained the river, piled the bridge with slain,
And here unconquered still we stand, and still
We may defy you.
Tam.
For a certain space,
But not for ever. At the end must come
Defeat. Men, brave howe'er they be,
Are flesh and blood; must eat, must drink, or die.
Bend to necessity: the terms are fair
The Emperor offers—pardon for the past,
Safe-conduct hence, unharmed in life or limb.
Cres.
Pardon! for what? Pardon is but for wrongs.
What crime is ours that he should pardon us?
Who made him arbiter of Life and Death
Over us or Rome? Is he Rome's rightful lord?
How came he so? No! Rome to us has given
Alone the right to speak, to act for her.
What rights are his save those of tyranny?
We stand for Freedom, Law, and equal rights.
Tam.
I'll not discuss his right. He has the power,
And he will use it, be assured of that.
But this is idle talking, we attend
Your answer; will you yield, or will you not?
Cres.
I have no power to answer by myself.
We will consider it.
Tam.
Pray you, be brief;
Time presses.
Cres.
I will instant counsel take
10
And you shall have our answer.
Tam.
Be it so.
[They withdraw.
Cres.
What say you, friends? What answer shall we make?
'Tis all too true what the Count Tammo says.
Our case is hopeless. We may fight it out
Even to the end, but what will it avail?
Will dying at our post help Rome? To die
Is not so difficult, if some great end
Be won by dying. If we yield, perchance
Some time may come when we a better stand
May make for her. Fate is against us now.
What shall we do?
Ferd.
Shall we throw down our arms
Before this boy. No; let us fight it out.
Guido.
Fight what out? For what purpose? At the end
We shall be forced to yield. He offers us
Safety and pardon. Better days may come
With better hopes. None worse can come than these.
Our case is hopeless.
Hugo.
Can we trust this boy?
Will he redeem his pledge to hold us safe
Of life and limb? I doubt it.
Ferd.
So do I.
Tol.
He would not dare to break his faith with us.
That would dishonour him, and leave a stain
Of shame and perjury upon his soul.
Guido.
That I agree: he dare not be so base.
11
For such an infamy.
Ferd.
I trust him not;
And yet, in truth, I know not what to say.
Tol.
Already we are short of food. How long
Can we continue thus? Not for myself
Or us I speak, but for our men-at-arms.
How long will they hold out? We soon, I fear,
Shall have an enemy within, if once
Their food should fail.
Guido.
Too true, indeed, too true.
Cres.
(To those who have not spoken)
You do not speak, my friends; what counsel you?
To bow to fortune and surrender now,
Hoping for better days—or fight it out.
All.
We are agreed. 'Tis vain to fight it out.
We cannot hope for better terms. We say
Surrender.
Cres.
Then so be it. For myself,
Since Fate has willed that all my hopes for Rome
Be for the moment crushed, what matters it
What comes to me? I would have gladly died
For her and Freedom, gladly died to lift
From her proud neck the tyrant's yoke that now
Bows it to earth; but this denied, come death,
Come life, to me 'tis equal. But for you,
I will not on my conscience take your death
By stubbornly persisting against Fate.
And so, I yield.
Call in the herald now.
Herald enters, with Tammo and others.
Tam.
You have decided on your answer?
12
Ay!
Under the pledge your king through you has given
Of safety unto all,—no penalties
Exacted for the past, no vengeance taken,
Free all to go as pleases us,—we yield.
The fortress we surrender.
Tam.
'Tis well done.
I will at once convey unto our liege
Your wise decision. Herald, note the answer!
You give immediate possession?
Cres.
Ay!
Tam.
I take my leave then. Farewell, gentlemen,
For a brief space.
[Exeunt.
Cres.
'Tis done! Summon at once the garrison;
Open the gates, and call Stephania in.
Ah! here she comes.
Enter Stephania.
Ste.
What means this, gentlemen? Crescentius?
Cres.
We have surrendered.
Ste.
What! Surrendered?
Cres.
Ay.
Ste.
Surrendered? Heavens! has it come to this?
Cres.
There was no other way.
Ste.
It was not you
Who counselled this. Oh no; it was not you.
Cres.
Not I alone. 'Twas so decreed by all.
Ste.
What! to this boy—this petty emperor?
Cres.
Petty or not, he has ten thousand arms,
We scarce a hundred. He has all the world
To feed his soldiers, we a starving hoard
That fails even now.
13
Surrender! On what terms?
Cres.
Safety of life and person unto all—
Pardon to all.
Ste.
Pardon! I scorn the word.
And you, you trust him. O Crescentius!
O gentlemen! weak woman though I am—
No strength but heart—I would have fought it out
While one red drop of blood ran in these veins.
I would have courted death—rushed to it glad
As to a bridegroom—flung me in his arms
Howe'er he came, rather than tamely yield,
And sue for pardon to this bragging boy.
Cres.
We have not sued. Foiled now in arms, not heart;
We yield, with hope unbroken still to fight
With better chance hereafter.
Ste.
So you hope!
So do not I. I do not trust his pledge;
You'll hang for this—we all of us shall hang.
Cres.
Stephania—rule yourself—be calm—nor wound
Further our bleeding hearts—submit.
Ste.
Not I.
Submit—to him—never!
Cres.
What must be, must.
We shall have better days, Stephania.
Ste.
God grant it; but for me, I have small hope.
Enter the garrison, and arrange themselves around the hall.
Cres.
There are the trumpets; swarming o'er the bridge
The soldiers come. Otho is at the gates;
Here let us wait for him.
14
You who have striven with me through the stress
Of all these bleeding days with heart and hand,
Ne'er losing courage,—ever prompt, firm, brave,
I have beyond my gratitude and thanks
But bitter words to say. You have done all
That brave men could to win the soldier's crown
Of victory, but you see 'tis all in vain.
Fate is against us; we are forced to yield.
Safety of life to all is given. Our bond
Is for the present ended. So, farewell;
My blessing take, and Rome's, and may we meet
Later to win what we to-day have lost.
Enter Otho and train of attendants.
Otho.
Where is Crescentius? Ah! I see him there.
Bid all lay down their pikes and swords and arms.
Tammo, see to it. (To his men)
Forward, you: disarm
The whole of them. You are their leader here,
Crescentius, are you not?
Cres.
I am.
Otho.
Your sword to the Count Tammo, and you, sirs,
Who stand beside him, do the same. So, so.
Ah! you surrender; do you? On my faith,
'Tis well you do so, else I had not spared
One head among you. As it is, all you
Who are mere soldiers, tools your leader used,
You shall be free. Go! For the rest, they all
Shall have what they deserve, nor more nor less.
[The soldiers file out. Otho's friends gather around him and endeavour to restrain him.
15
(To Cres.)
Well, what have you to say? We wait to hear.
Cres.
Fortune is with your Majesty. She has given
To you the victory—the defeat to us.
One favour only she has granted us,
That we have fallen in such noble hands,
For no one better than your royal self
Knows how to use the power that she confers.
Otho.
Ay! by the Lord! I do, as you shall see.
(To his friends)
Stand back, I say; I'll not be hindered thus!
(To Cres.)
You count upon my favour, do you? Well,
This is my favour,—all that you will get.
(To his guards)
Seize on that traitor! hang him to the walls—
Him and his brood beside him—all of them.
Tam.
Pause, think, my liege; you surely speak in jest.
Otho.
Jest—jest, indeed. Stand back from me, I say!
Do you not hear me? Do I not speak plain?
Hang up those traitors. What! you hesitate?
Seize them at once—ah! will none move? Then I
With my own sword will slay him.
Tam.
What? unarmed!
Oh, I beseech your Majesty, be calm.
Remember, you have pledged your royal word
That none shall suffer harm in life or limb,
I pray you.
All
(pressing round him).
Sire, we pray you all reflect.
16
Otho.
My royal word!
What is a pledge to traitors such as these?
The blood that they have shed, the lives they have taken,
Cry out for vengeance. Hang them all, I say!
Hang them all up! That is their fitting end.
All.
Sire, we protest. In this we will not aid.
Command us for our honour, not our shame.
We cannot, will not, heed you. We appeal
Unto your better self—your real self.
Otho.
Look at him there—rebellion in his eyes,
Defiance in his port—once set him free,
New treason he will plot. Down on your knees,
Traitor, and beg your life if you would save it.
Ha, ha! You see he knows his doom is just.
Still silent and unmoved. Down on your knees,
Avow your crimes, speak what you have to say.
Tam.
Speak, speak, Crescentius. Kneel and help us all.
Let not an idle pride stand in the way
Of full submission.
Cres.
No; I will not kneel,
Even for my life. I have your solemn pledge
For that. No common man, much less a king,
With any sense of honour can go back
After such pledge. I hold you to your word.
Even should I kneel, not for myself, but these
Who stand beside me, what would it avail
To one who thus avows his perfidy?
Confess my crimes! What crimes? I know no crimes.
Slay me—slay all of us—you have the power,
And yours the crime will be, the stain, the shame,
17
To your honour, to your word, that strongly bars
The power you boast. As man to man we stand;
I claim your solemn pledge of freedom, life,
Safe-conduct unto all.
Otho.
You brave me then—
You thus insult me. Seize upon him there!
Seize him, I say! You will not—by the Lord!
Who dares oppose my will shall share his fate,
And hang beside him. I will crush this nest
Of traitorous serpents now beneath my heel.
Now, now, at once, nor wait one single hour.
Give him short shrift to make his peace with God,
Then swing him from the rampart. From his trunk
Hew off his head and cast it in the stream,
Then nail his corpse upon the outer walls,
That every traitor there may see his doom.
Tam.
My lord, my liege, I pray you do not this;
Stain not your honour thus. Pause, pause in time.
Reflect—oh, give at least your thoughts a chance.
Think ere you act, and give your passion stay.
Otho.
No, not a day—only one hour I give.
See that contemptuous face the traitor wears?
Seize him, I say!
[The soldiers advance and seize him.
Tol., Ferd., and the others.
'Tis infamous. What! murder men unarmed?
Give us our swords back, and let God decide
Who is the best. This is a coward's act.
Give us our swords—
Otho.
Peace! All shall have the sword,
18
[Stephania rushes forward—flings herself upon the neck of Crescentius.
Ste.
Oh, my Crescentius, kneel and beg your life!
Then I will beg it for you.
[She flings herself at the feet of Otho, and clings to his knees.
Spare his life,
I beg you—I beseech you—spare his life.
Otho.
Off with you, woman! Pluck her from my knees.
[He flings her away, and she falls on the pavement.
Ste.
Your oath, your oath—you swore to spare his life.
Spare it, or God shall smite you with His curse.
God shall avenge him: if not God, then I.
The whole wide world shall cry out murderer,
Perjurer and murderer. The very wind, the trees,
Shall hiss at you. The sea, all voiceful things,
In heaven or on the earth, where'er you go,
Shall cry—Out, perjurer!—out, murderer!
They shall pursue you, waking or asleep,
Haunt you with dreams, and rack you with remorse,
Till you shall hate your life, and long for death.
Otho.
Who is this woman that thus rails and storms?
Out with her, strip her, drive her to the streets,
Or, by the Lord! I'll hang her at his side.
[He turns and goes out with his train. Stephania rises from the floor, and stretches out her hands at him, and cries—
Ste.
Go, miserable wretch! go, perjured king!
19
And mine—that shall pursue you everywhere.
Tam.
(lingers behind and says to the officer)
Do not obey the order. List to me:
He will repent it.
Officer.
It will be too late
If his repentance comes after an hour.
Seek to persuade him soon.
Tam.
I will, I will.
[Exit Tammo. As the soldiers lead out Crescentius, Stephania clings to him.
Cres.
Farewell, Stephania! dearest wife, farewell!
Your fears are justified—this is the end.
Here we must part—God's blessing go with you.
I am betrayed to death, and foully too.
So was our Lord—like Him at least in this.
Weep not for me; my hopes are crushed, and death
Is a relief—one sharp pain, and then rest.
No trouble more, no fears, no weight of cares.
Ste.
You shall not die, Crescentius, no! no! no!
I cannot say farewell.
Officer.
Take her away.
[They bear her away.
Ste.
Farewell, beloved. If I live, I live
But to avenge you.
Cres.
Ah, Stephania,
God will avenge with sharper stings than man.
20
ACT I.
A Room in the Imperial Palace in Rome.Ernstein
alone, arranging papers.
'Tis very late. How slow Time drags along
To one who waits. Hark! There's the Convent bell.
So, it is ten, and full three hours ago
They should have been here. Can it be that aught
Disastrous has occurrred. How rash, how mad,
To dare the bleak Campagna's chill at night!
On such a night, too. Where were Tammo's brains
To let the Emperor thus expose his life?
But what expect of Tammo? feather-light,
Gay, reckless, quick to every wind of whim.
Had I been there—
Hark! There they are. The clink
Of ringing hoofs comes clattering up the street,
And now the iron gate swings jarring back.
One rider only! Yes—there is but one.
Can aught have happened?
[Rings the bell violently.
Enter Guard.
Who is there? For whom
Are the gates opened?
21
I believe, my lord,
'Tis the Count Tammo.
Ern.
Count Tammo! and alone?
Guard.
Alone, my lord, I think.
Ern.
What can this mean?
Say that I wish to see him here at once.
[Exit Guard, and enter Tammo.
Ah, Tammo! Well, what news? Nought wrong, I hope.
Where is the Emperor?
Tam.
He's on the road.
Ern.
All's well with him?
Tam.
Of course all's well with him.
He sent me on to say that he was coming.
All's ready, I suppose. You knew of course
That we were coming.
Ern.
Ay—all is prepared;
But tell me, is he well and strong again?
Tam.
Well? Strong? How can a man be well and strong
With such a life as he has led of late
Among those cursed priests,—starving himself,
Lashing his back to blood for penitence,
Crawling upon his knees on the cold stones,
And wailing prayers to expiate his crime,
For so he calls it. On my faith, these priests,
With mumbling masses, penances, and prayers,
Have crushed his spirit so, you scarce would know
'Twas the same man.
Ern.
What madness led you then
To tempt disease by such a ride at night
O'er the Campagna's fever-stricken plains,
Where foul miasma like a white snake crawls
Along the water-beds?
22
He chose to come.
Who could prevent him?
Ern.
Still—'twas ill advised.
Hordes of banditti, too, prowl everywhere,
And bands that follow in these nobles' train,
Reckless of everything, and glad to swoop
On such a quarry.
Tam.
Bah! who cares for them?
Nothing would please me better than to reap
One hour of bloody harvest with our swords
Among such rabble.
Ern.
Ah! I know too well
How rashly bold you are. Wer't for yourself,
I naught would say; though 'tis not well to scorn
Too much one's enemy in pride of strength.
But think what ruin one chance blow had brought
To him—to all.
Tam.
He would have liked it well;
The cry of battle might have stirred his blood,
So slow and stagnate now, to the fierce rush
Of passionate strength that Nature gave to him.
Curse them again! I say; those drivelling priests,
Foul hypocrites, with paunches fat and round,
And greasy maws that mumble pious prayers,
And preach of penitence,—yet none the less
Swill their red wine, and roll their drunken eyes,
Hiccupping Pax Vobiscum.
Ern.
Nay, not all of them;
You go too far, good Tammo.
Tam.
Well—the rest,
The over-good, I like them none the more.
Those lean, dry tallow-dips, that fold their hands
In constant prayer before them, fast and starve,
And whip their backs, and cringe, as if our God
23
Only to tempt him with His treacherous gifts.
God's blood! it makes my bile rise in my gorge!
But no more talk of them. Give me to drink.
My mouth is parched, and talking of these beasts
Makes a Sahara desert of my throat.
Ern.
You were not made to be a priest, that's plain.
Tam.
A priest! No, by the Lord! not I.
Ern.
How long
Were you among them there?
Tam.
How long? God knows.
A month, a year—it almost seems a year.
Oh! we lived well; had wine and beef enough—
No fear of that: but life, what I call life,
Was a dull blank. We simply rotted there.
What irked me ever was his dreary face,
His sad lamenting, his abasement dire,
That naught could cheer. I tried my best at it;
But all in vain. Hark! there they are at last;
There is the trumpet sounding their approach,
And there's the answering peal.
Ern.
Go, Tammo! go.
See that the guards are drawn before the gate,
And all in order. Let the welcome be
Right royal. Go; I will await him here.
[Exit Tammo.
Ernstein alone.
This is sad news. In manhood's prime to feel
The dark pall of remorse obscure the light,
The joy that even the humblest life may own.
Is sad to any one—most sad to him,
24
Fortune's great gift, the crown of royal power,
And all that should ensure him happiness,
In one mad moment's passion threw away
The jewel that upon the highest crown
Shines brightest, honour. That once lost, is lost
For ever. But a truce to this—he comes,
And ours the task to cheer him as we may.
Enter Otho and suite.
Ern.
Welcome, your Majesty, again to Rome.
Otho.
Thanks, Ernstein. I am glad to see your face,
Glad to be back again in Rome.
Ern.
I hope
Your Majesty is well.
Otho.
Not very well,
And very, very tired. On my life
I know not that I ever was more tired.
Ern.
We had expected you long hours ago.
Otho.
The way was long, much longer than I thought.
Ern.
And dangerous too, I fear. 'Twas ill advised
To cross those fever-stricken plains at night.
Otho.
Perhaps! And yet I longed to be in Rome.
Mine was the fault alone, and after all,
What matters it? I could not well be worse
Than where and what I was. I am but tired,
That's all. So, gentlemen, you all must be.
(To his suite)
I'll not detain you longer. Fare you well.
[Courtiers bow and go out.
25
Otho.
Well, Ernstein, all is quiet, is it not?
Or is there menace of rebellion still?
Ern.
All's quiet sire. The rebellious head is crushed,
And shows but feeble quiverings in its limbs.
The populace is ever turbulent;
But if not quite content, is tranquil now.
Naught threatens.
Otho.
That is well. And you, good friend,
You are quite well?
Ern.
Quite well, I thank you, sire.
Otho.
So, I am back again in Rome at last,
And I am glad to be here, and most glad
To see your face again. You I can trust,
My noble friend—nay, fully, firmly trust;
And in this world how very few there are
That one can trust, and fearless lean upon.
Ern.
My liege, my service, poor although it be,
At least is honest.
Otho.
Honesty, my friend,
Is man's best gift; but you have more than that—
A great, brave heart, not swayed by passion's gusts,
As mine, alas! too oft is wont to be;
And more, a clear strong head, a judgment wise,
As well I know—and I have cause to know.
Ern.
You overwhelm me with such praises, sire.
Otho.
They are deserved. Thus much to ease my heart
And pay my debt of gratitude—no more.
I will not shock your modesty. And now,
How is the Holy Father? well, I hope.
Ern.
Ay! very well.
26
He knew not, I suppose,
I should arrive to-night?
Ern.
He did, my liege,
And but for his infirmities of age
Had been here to receive you. As it is,
He sent his blessing.
Otho.
I had need of it;
I thank him from my heart, excellent man.
[He was my master, Ernstein, as you know,
And one more sound of heart and clear of head,
More large in knowledge, more beyond his time,
One could not find, though one should search the world.
You smile—I know the wild talk of the world,
That deem his great accomplishment in arts
He owes to Satan—science such as his
Could only come from Satan, as they deem.
Well, I have news for him; I have prevailed
To induce the Beneventans to give up
The holy corpse of St Bartholemew;
Even now 'tis on its way for our new church.
Will not this gladden him?]
Ern.
Excuse me, sire,
But you are pale and ill—nay, very pale,
'Tis time you seek repose.
Otho.
You find me changed.
Yes; I am changed. My penance has been hard,
But naught is hard if grace I have attained.
Ern.
Be sure it is attained.
Otho.
You think it is?
O Ernstein! I have suffered terribly.
Ern.
You have out-tasked your strength, and need repose.
Otho.
Yes; I am tired, Ernstein.
27
Lean on me,
I pray you, sire; I'll help you to your room.
Otho.
There is no need; all's ready, is it not?
I knew it was. Not too much luxury,
Or not so soon, at least. 'Tis weeks, you know,
Since I have slept upon a bed at all.
Ern.
Sleep will come all the better then, to-night.
Otho.
Well, let us hope so.
Ern.
Sleep and happy dreams.
[Exit Otho.
Ernstein alone.
How ill he looks. How changed from what he was.
'Tis worse than I imagined. Sore, indeed.
Has been the penance; and the fever's fangs,
I fear, are on him, fixed to pull him down.
Now to arrange these papers; first of all,
Those that his Majesty must see at once.
Enter Count Tammo.
Tam.
Alone! Ah, then the Emperor has retired.
Come with us, Ernstein; leave your papers there,
And come with us. We'll have an old-time rouse
Till cock-crow, and a merry welcome home.
Ern.
I cannot, Tammo,—I have work to do
That must be done to-night.
Tam.
No; let it go
Until to-morrow! Never do to-day
What you can do to-morrow—that's my rule.
Come, Ernstein, come, or we shall scarcely think
You're glad to see us back.
Ern.
No! on my faith,
I am right glad to see you back again.
I should but spoil your sport with my dull face,
28
Tam.
You won't?
Ern.
It is not that I won't—I can't.
I ought not. No, dear Tammo, leave me here,
And joy be with you. Have a good carouse,
Laugh and be merry. Faith! it seems an age
Since I have heard a truly hearty laugh.
Tam.
Well, you shall hear one if you come to us.
Ern.
You must excuse me, Tammo.
Tam.
Must is must,
Old German bear; so if you won't, you won't.
You don't relent. No! Well, good night to you.
Ern.
Be merry; but don't drink too deep, or else
You'll be the bear to-morrow.
Tam.
Never fear,
Man only owns the present. Past is lost;
The future's but a promise and a cheat.
I mean to use the present while 'tis mine.
[Exit Tammo.
Ernstein
alone.
I would my spirits were as light as his.
Nothing oppresses him. The ills of life
Fall on him light as snow-flakes on the tree,
That with an easy shudder it shakes off
From its free branches.
Enter Fritz.
Ah, Fritz, is that you?
Fritz.
Have you commands, my lord?
Ern.
Nothing. I think
All's quiet, is it not?
Fritz.
It is, my lord.
Ern.
You come now from the ramparts?
29
Ay, my lord.
Ern.
[Is the night clear?
Fritz.
Ay—clear and calm and bright.
The moon is at its full; the air is mild;
The city is asleep. Look out, my lord.
What could be fairer? I have scarce the will
To go to rest, and leave so fair a sight.
Ernstein goes to the window and looks out.
Ern.
Ay, 'tis a peaceful night. There's scarce a breeze
To wave the banners on the battlements.
How still it is! No noise of life disturbs
The dreaming world, no voices in the streets,
No glimmering lights, save those that gleam above:
The very houses in the moonlight sleep.
Fritz.
My lord, I have been gazing on this scene
A good half-hour. 'Tis time, I know, for bed;
And yet I could not leave it. It half seems
A sin to close one's eyes on such a night.
Ern.
Ah, Fritz, how Nature, as with lavish waste,
Squanders its beauty on a heedless world!
Fritz.
Ay, very true,—and how man spoils it all!
See now what peace is here—one scarce would think
What storm of blood and tumult, rage and war,
Seethed round this place so short a time ago.
Ern.
'Tis sad to think on. You were in the fray—
Were you not, Fritz?—when they the castle stormed?
Fritz.
I was, my lord,
30
Saw you Crescentius, then?
Fritz.
My lord, I saw the whole of that black day.
Ern.
And when the castle was surrendered?
Fritz.
Ay.
Ern.
Would I had been there!
Fritz.
Would that I had not!
Ern.
I mean, I might perchance have then prevailed
To stay the Emperor's hand.
Fritz.
No; no one could.
'Twould but have been a grief the more for you.
Ern.
Perhaps—perhaps.
Fritz.
It was a fearful sight.
Ern.
I know—I know; let us not think of it.]
You've nothing to report?
Fritz.
Nothing, my lord.
Ern.
I'll not detain you, then. What is the hour?
Fritz.
'Tis long past midnight, near upon an hour.
[Exit Fritz.
Ernstein
alone.
So late!—too late for work. So I must steal
An hour from sleep to-morrow to make good
What I have lost to-night.
[Exit Ernstein, after putting away his papers.
Enter Otho, in bedgown—goes to the window and looks out.
How peaceful 'tis—how calm! All Nature sleeps;
Yet sleep is not for me. The happy sleep—
Only the happy. Why, capricious sleep,
Why from the wretched, racked, tormented soul
31
Of youth and love, whose bliss is waking? Why
Scorn'st thou the prayers of kings and luxury's couch,
To stoop above the beggar's vermined bed,
Who for a paltry coin thy blessed boon
Would gladly barter? Ay, and if you come,
What bring you but wild dreams, and torturing thoughts,
And nightmare tangles of distress that snare
The helpless spirit? Ah! I fear even sleep;
I fear its dreams, through whose abysses lost,
Bereft of will, the furies whip us on
Relentless. From himself, ah! who can flee?
Nothing can free us from the unpardoning past—
Nor prayer, nor fast, nor penance, nor remorse—
Nothing but death. That is our only friend.
[Takes up his poignard.
This is the one sure remedy, the way
To end life's torrents. One sharp blow, and then
Death, night, peace; were't not better then to take
This swift sharp medicine and end it all,
Than thus for ever fight an endless fight,
For ever vanquished? Ah! but is death peace?
Will not these fiery thoughts pursue me still,
When driven forth out of this house of flesh
Into the void, no place, no body left
Wherein the soul may screen and hide itself?
Lost, lost, for ever seeking rest, yet rest
Ever denied, since consciousness itself
Is horrible unrest. No! the mere thought
Is madness. Better in the body dwell,
Sheltered at least, than fling the naked soul
Into the blank abyss of the unknown.
32
Ern.
You here! alone? ah, sire, this is not well.
'Tis past the stroke of two, and you are ill?
Otho.
Ay, that I am—most ill—most ill—most ill.
Ern.
I pray you go to rest.
Otho.
To rest! what rest?
There is no rest for me, not even sleep.
Go, Ernstein, leave me; sleep itself denies
The boon forgetfulness. You see me here
The unhappiest man that lives.
Ern.
Oh, my good liege,
Your face is haggard, fevered is your pulse;
'Tis sleep you need.
Otho.
Ah, yes! eternal sleep.
Ern.
'Tis the excitement of returning here
To these sad scenes that overstrains your nerves,
Reviving wretched thoughts and memories sad.
We did not well to bring you to this place.
Otho.
Place! what is place? all places are alike.
I am the place from which I cannot flee.
Remorse, remorse, eats like a fire in me,
And kills me, kills me, Ernstein, do you hear?
[Ern.
Brood not so darkly on the deed that's done;
What's done is done, nothing can take it back.
Otho.
Ah! there's the sting, nothing can take it back.
Ern.
Then think of it no more; 'tis more than vain
To waste one's life repenting what is past.
Otho.
Ah! yes, how well we bear another's pain.
33
Could we change places, you to me would say
As I to you, forget it all.
Otho.
Forget!
But how forget? that lies not in our will.
By heavens! how helpless man is to help man;
How all alone in all our griefs we stand
Beyond all help, each in his inmost self
An island, sundered, lonely, out of reach.]
Ern.
Have you not done what mortal man may do
To expiate your offence, crawled on bare knees
To Galgano, lashed your bare back with stripes,
Prayed, fasted, humbled in the dust your head?
Is penitence like this to count for naught?
Otho.
Too late, too late! The crime, the stain, remains;
Remorse nor penance can undo the past.
Ern.
Yet you are young. Time wipes out everything;
All cares, all pains, all sorrows.
Otho.
Time is long.
Ern.
Deep griefs all seem eternal at the first;
But all things die, even griefs.
Otho.
I know, I know.
Ah! well, well, do not heed my words too much;
I am oppressed and ill. When morning comes
I shall be better, Ernstein; now farewell.
[Ern.
Nay, speak all you feel,
Unburden from your heart its heavy load.
The sharpest sorrow uttered is half cured.
Otho.
Fool that I was—worse—worse, still not less fool;
Life spread before me bright and fair, and prone
On its first steps I fell. I—I, a king?
34
The hair-cloth, and the scourge befit me more
Than royal robes. No! let me rather seek
Some cloistered convent, there to give my life
To penitence and prayer.
Ern.
That were to blench
From duty's call.
Otho.
But, oh! the shame of it.
Shame is life's worst defeat. My soul is stained.
Ern.
Well! and what life is all without a stain?
We are not angels here, but men who fall;
And he who wastes his thoughts on what is past,
In vain regret piles up a second fault
Upon the former. Look around and up,—
Life has its duties, brace your thoughts to them.
'Tis hard I know, and yet what soldier shrinks
To dare the dangerous breach where couches death
Because his wound is bleeding?—all the more
He wooes the danger, scorning past defeat
For victory's promise. The great future holds
The prize of compensation for the past.
The future is alive, the past is dead.
Otho.
Ah! Ernstein, these are brave, brave words for one
Who but defeat has known, not shame like mine.
For shame there is no remedy but death,
And that lies in the hand of every one.
Ern.
Death bravely dared, and for a noble cause,
Is crowned with triumph. Death by stroke of fate
Or Nature's law hath no appeal,—it comes
Of sheer necessity, and oft is blessed.
Death that we give ourselves by our own hand
Is but a coward's mean device to evade
The ills of life, and has the brand of shame.
35
It has, it has; and yet to win one's peace,
And cut at once the knot by cruel life
Inextricably tangled, will at times
Tempt even the bravest. But no more of this.
I thank you, Ernstein; you have eased my heart
Somewhat of its great burden. Now, farewell.]
Ern.
Nay, I will help you to your room.
Otho.
No, no.
ACT II.
Hall in the Imperial Palace.Atto and Hugo.
Hugo.
Well, here we kick our heels in idleness,
And wait, and wait, and wait, as if the world
Had gone to sleep. Where's Tammo?
Atto.
Sleeping off
His last night's deep potations, I suppose.
Drinking is drinking, so I say, and I
Will drink with almost any man alive;
But let there be some bounds, that's what I say.
Now Tammo's like the sand, he's still athirst
After he's had his fill. He made me drink
Till my head's racking.
Hugo.
That's no fault of his;
He's got a head, if you have not. Well, then,
Stint for yourself, not him.
Atto.
I wish your head
Snapped just as mine does. But it's not my head;
36
Has somehow spoilt my stomach, that is all.
My head, as head, is good as any man's.
Hugo.
Well, then, your stomach's weak. The wine was good,
No fault in that.
Atto.
My stomach is as good
As any man's alive. But what I say
Is this—a man's not always in the mood,
That's what I say. Something went wrong with me.
Hugo.
Ah! so I see.
Atto.
You don't. You think my head
Is weak, or else my stomach bad. You think,—
Well, God knows what you think, but you're all wrong.
Hugo.
Oh, have it as you will, I give it up.
Atto.
Hugo, you're out of sorts, that's plain enough;
You need not talk of my head, how is yours?
Hugo.
My head is well enough.
Atto.
Why then so cross?
Hugo.
Well, I am cross. I must confess I drank
Too much last night, and you must pay for it,—
You and all others that I see to-day;
But that's not all. There's nothing on this earth
I hate like loitering here, first on one leg,
Then on the other, in this empty blank
Of antechamber waiting. Have we come
Only to listen to the buzzing flies
Beating their stupid heads against the panes,
Or whizzing in our faces, daring us
To catch them while they crawl and sting? By Jove!
37
Be off with you, and pester me no more!
Ah! there comes Tammo.
Enter Tammo.
Tam.
Good morning, gentlemen. I hope you both
Slept soundly after our last night's carouse.
Atto.
Well, as for me, I say—
Hugo.
Oh, as for him—
Just look at him—his face will answer you.
'Tis white as veal, and both his bloodshot eyes
Are two burnt holes where once a fire has been.
Tam.
Are you not well?
Atto.
My head aches, that is all.
Tam.
That's quite enough; and, Hugo, how are you?
Atto.
His head is right, he says. But vinegar
Is sweet to what his temper is to-day.
Hugo.
Leave me alone. I'll answer for myself;
Where is the Emperor? He is late to-day,
Beyond his wont, and here for two long hours
We've kicked our heels, and grumbled, and fought flies.
Tam.
I have heard nothing from his Majesty.
But there comes Ernstein. He will bring us news.
Hugo.
Then we're delivered. He and you are two,
And that's enough. Come, Atto, we'll be off,
And rinse our thirst again. One nail, you know,
Will drive another out.
Atto.
No more for me;
But we'll throw dice together, if you like.
38
Agreed. You'll let us know if we are wanted?
Tam.
Of course.
Enter Ernstein.
Tam.
How is the Emperor?
Ern.
Ill—unstrung.
Long after midnight he was wandering here,
His nerves ajar, and troubled in his mind.
Tam.
Troubled! at what? Has anything occurred
Again to vex him.
Ern.
No; the same old theme,
Crescentius' death, still rankles in his mind.
Tam.
This is the work of those accursed priests.
Why should that old affair still trouble him?
The Romans are all quiet—that one act
Quelled them, and taught the turbulent populace
To own their master, and submit. Why, then,
If they're contented, should he vex his soul?
Ern.
I wonder not his mad and cruel act
Still troubles him.
Tam.
Mad 'twas, and cruel too.
I grant it; but whate'er it was—'tis done.
[He broke his faith—that's true—but crying now
Won't mend the matter. Something too depends
With whom one breaks one's faith, and how, and why.
His pledge was a device to seize and crush
A traitor and a rebel, who had stirred
The populace to arms, taken lives, shed blood;
Who would again have roused the world to war.]
And though I will not justify the act,
Still he did best for all to hang him up;
39
He well deserved his death.
Ern.
You do him wrong.
Crescentius was a man of noble birth,
Brave and true-hearted, though some wrong he did
In his excess of zeal for liberty.
Tam.
I have no patience with your liberty:
'Tis the excuse of bold ambitious men,
Who with this cry inflame the senseless mob,
And on its shoulders strive to mount to power.
The people! ah, the cowards! they cry out
And storm and rage; but at the first reverse
Slink back and leave their leader to his fate.
What do they care for their Crescentius now?
Ern.
Ay, they are quiet now; but wait awhile,—
Again they'll stir and buzz about our ears.
[His death is not forgiven, and this crime—
For crime it was—will breed more tumult yet.]
Tam.
Well, let them stir and buzz,—our iron hands
Will crush them like a swarm of angry wasps
Ere they can sting. The rabble! I've no words
To speak my scorn for them; but as for him,
To mope for months over that rebel's death
Is sheer rank folly. [He had no such qualms
When John the Pope he slew with such swift hand.
The scarlet did not save him,—no, he dyed
His robes still deeper with his blood. Why, then,
If God's anointed he could sweep away
Like stubble, with no pang, no after-thought,
Why o'er Crescentius grieve?
Ern.
The Pope he seized
In open warfare, plucked him from a throne
40
Of royal faith, and so was justified.
Crescentius he betrayed.
Tam.
Yes, yes; I know.
But war is not a girl's game, played with flowers,
A pretty pastime. War means blood, not milk.
When the wasp stings, you crush him as you can,
And this Crescentius knew ere he rebelled.
He dared the danger and deserved his death.
When the blood's up it sings so in the ears,
That Pity's little timorous voice is drowned.
Ern.
Justice and Mercy in themselves are best,
And are best policy.
Tam.
But both are slow.
Passion is swift, and ere they are aroused
Its deed is done. Then, waking, all too late,
They call in Pity and begin to wail
And bother you with preaching—just too late.
I strove to stay his passion,—urged on him
To hold his hand, to spare Crescentius' life;
That honour, duty, and his royal word
Pledged him to this, and to do less than this
Was shame, dishonour. What did it avail?
Nothing—he had his will. But if I failed
'Twas not my fault; and after all I say,
Bad as it was, there was some good in it,
For only through his death could peace be gained.
Ern.
Ay; had it come in any other way.
The end was well, the means alone were bad.
Tam.
So be it; he paid penance for his act.
That wipes out all.
Ern.
And yet he thinks not so.
Tam.
Ah! there's the pity.] 'Tis this gloomy place
41
Back in our native land, where nought recalls
The wretched past. See, Ernstein, we must seek
Some way to stir this stagnant pool of life—
Jousts, banquets, hunting, something gay and bright—
Then we should hear no more of restless nights
And weak remorse, and penances and priests.
Once he was joyous, full of fire and strength,
Now he goes moping round like a sick boy.
Better put on the cowl at once than crawl
And snivel thus. [And, by the way, 'tis said
He'd half made up his mind to be a monk,
Throw off the crown, and take the cowl for life.
Ern.
'Tis said.
Tam.
And is it true?
Ern.
I fear it is,
But 'twas a sickly fancy,—that is past.]
Tam.
Life, action, that is what he needs to cure
Such sickly fancies.
Ern.
True! could we but move
His spirit to some enterprise, 'twould drain
This stagnant pool of introspective thought,
And free its currents. But where find the spur
To rouse his sick and jaded spirit?
Tam.
Love,
Love is the spur he needs,—nothing like that.
Ern.
Ah! that is hopeless; where's the woman rare
That could enthrall him?
Tam.
Where's the woman fair
That might not? He is young, and in his veins
Age has not cooled the current of hot blood.
Fiery and rash he is, as well we know,
42
Freed from the pressure that now weighs on it,
Will upward leap with strong recoil of youth.
At his age any woman, with a charm
Of beauty, spirit, youth, has potent power.
Let such an one, if we can find her, place
Her hand upon our sickly lion's mane,
And we shall see him bound and lash his sides
And roar triumphant.
Ern.
Ay, 'tis not his wont
To pine and wail; but he's in body ill
As well as in his mind. These fever fits
Once conquered, youth would reassert its rights.
Tam.
Stop! let me think. Among those Romans here
Who is there that our lion could ensnare?
None that I think of. Donna Ida? No,—
She's handsome, but so stupid. Then again,
The Princess Rocca? She has wit enough,
But lacks for beauty. No; she will not do.
That Spanish princess with the great black eyes?
She's something new, at least, but cold as snow.
No; what we want is one with fire and soul
And beauty all in one, and then besides
With something special, striking, out of line
Of all that's common. One, for instance, like
(By Jupiter! what put her in my mind?)
The Consul's wife, Stephania. There, indeed,
Was one who might have taken as by storm
The heart of Otho,—one that from dead coals
Could fan a passion to a fierce wild blaze.
Jove! were it not for this abyss of crime
That yawns between them, hers of all the world
Is just the face, form, life, soul, that we seek.
43
Was she so beautiful?
Tam.
By heavens! a face,
A shape was hers to stir one's very soul.
Proud like a statue at his side she stood
When first I saw her, stately in her grace.
Then, in the wild explosion of her grief,
When from Crescentius' neck her arms they tore,
And she, with dress disordered, shoulders bare,
Her loosened hair all streaming down her back,
Her arms outstretched to grasp at Otho's knee.
Or after, when she rose and flung her curse
Like lightning at him;—in each varying mood
Of that wild scene she seemed to me like one
A man could die for—or could live for—that
Were better far.
Ern.
So very beautiful!
What was she like?
Tam.
Like? like some tempting fruit
With a wild foreign flavour. As we paint
The temptress Eve,—fair, young, but not too young,
Slender and lithe, with brazen sunburnt hair,
Eyes long and shadowed, tawny in their hue,
Quick in her movements, with long slender hands,
And that strange subtle grace the tiger owns.
Ern.
Tammo, you grow poetical, in faith.
Tam.
Well, so might any one who saw her then.
She was not of that blank and neutral hue
You coldly look at, and you calmly praise.
Ern.
How was it, then, Otho withstood her charms?
Tam.
He did not see her. Passion made him blind.
Ern.
He is not wont to be as blind as this.
44
Ah! he was like the bull that shuts his eyes,
And plunges madly on in his blind rage.
Reason went reeling, like a fragile boat
Caught in the fury of a fierce typhoon.
[Ern.
You saw her after this?
Tam.
Once—only once,
As from the Castle's portal she passed out,
Her lips set close, her pale face fixed and lorn.
The jeering crowd she heard not, heeded not,
But walked as in a dream, her inner world
Alone beholding. Both her arms hung down
Lifeless; but ever through the falling folds,
Restless her quivering fingers twitched, as when
Through the long grass an adder slips and stops,
And from his lifted head darts his forked tongue.
A trivial thing, you'll say, but it meant much,
At least to me; and once a fierce strong smile
Convulsed her face, then faded to a blank.
I wondered what it meant—it was so strange.
Then I was called. I never saw her more.]
Ern.
What has her life been since? Where is she now?
Tam.
Retired, 'tis said, into a convent cell,
And there surrounded by the nuns she lives,
Giving her life to prayer. Yet, by my soul!
That woman will not spend her life in prayer.
Ern.
Know you the convent where she hides herself?
Tam.
No! If I knew it I would seek her out.
Ern.
Why? to what end?
Tam.
To win her, if I could.
If I have read her right, she'll weary soon
Of dull seclusion, and desire again
45
Like a caged tiger there she'll fret and chafe,—
Natures like hers starve on such Lenten fare—
They must have love, ambition, or revenge.
Inaction kills them: their pent-up desires
Flame forth the fiercer that they are repressed,
And priestly precepts, formulas, and rules
Have only power to irritate—not tame.
Had I a prize to offer for that wealth
Of self-consuming passion, on my soul
I'd try for it! In this sweet world of ours
All things are saleable, and have their price.
Had I a throne, I'd venture this right hand
I'd place her on it, with her own good will.
But then I've not—that makes the difference.
Ern.
Yet Otho, with his throne, his wealth, his youth,
Cannot so much as buy one happy day.
Content yourself, and do not ask for more.
He is the real king who rules himself;
He is the richest man whose wants are least.
Tam.
Why, Ernstein, what a preacher's lost in you!
The very Pope himself might envy you.
Ern.
Ay, Tammo, I was forced to pull you back.
You strained so at your leash, I feared you'd break
Beyond my call.
Tam.
Well! to come back again
To simple prose and facts—what's to be done?
Ern.
My brain is empty. You must think it out.
Enter Chamberlain.
Cham.
My lords, there are two women wait below,
46
Tam.
Two? twice too many. We're in search of one.
Ern.
What wish they? For what purpose have they come?
Cham.
My lord, I know not.
Tam.
Are they young or old?
Cham.
I cannot say, my lord, as both are veiled.
Tam.
What sort of women are they?
Cham.
From their dress
I judge them to be sisters that belong
To some conventual house.
Tam.
Oh! oh! indeed.
Then I suppose they've come to pray with him.
Not just the women, Ernstein, whom we seek.
Send them away.
Ern.
No! show them in to us.
[Exit Chamberlain.
Tam.
Why, what the deuce possesses you to see
These nuns? We've had enough of such, I think.
Keep them away from Otho. On my word,
This is a pretty sequel to our schemes.
Nuns! Jupiter! I wonder what they want?
Enter Stephania, veiled and in a conventual dress.
Ern.
Madame, approach. You are alone. I thought
You were accompanied?
Ste.
I am, my lord,
But my companion waits below.
Ern.
You seek
An audience of his Majesty?
47
I do.
Ern.
And with what purpose, may I ask?
Ste.
My lord,
His Majesty is ill, I understand—
Racked by the fever, whose alternate moods
Of ice and fire make ravage here in Rome.
And being practised much in this disease,
Which, as I learn, to you is little known,
I come to offer all my skill and care,
To tend him, and to cure him, if I may.
Ern.
He does not need for aid and skill, I hope,
Being surrounded by his court and friends.
Ste.
Your skill and best goodwill I do not doubt.
If they could cure him, he were well. But still
You are strangers here, and every place is versed
Best in its own diseases. Ignorance oft,
Taught by experience, may by simples cure,
When science, lacking such experience,
Baffled might fail.
Ern.
You have experience, then,
And knowledge in such cases.
Ste.
Yes, my lord.
Experience certainly, and as I think
The means of cure. These letters will avouch
My good intent. This, from his Holiness,
Writ by his own hand; and this also, writ
By the lady abbess of our Convent here,
Named “The Good Sisters.” They will clearly show
If I o'errate my skill.
Ern.
I doubt it not;
But both are sealed, and for his Majesty.
Ste.
Therefore it is I crave an audience.
48
Doubtless! of course. I pray you, pardon me,
But would you lift your veil? These troublous times
Force us to caution, and disguise breeds doubt.
May we not see your face?
Ste.
Pardon, my lord,
Most willingly; but that my vows forbid.
These letters will avouch my character.
They will suffice unto his Majesty.
Ern.
(aside to Tammo)
What shall we do?
Tam.
Carry the letters in;
The Emperor will decide.
Ern.
That will be best.
Madame, these letters I will take at once
Unto his Majesty. Will't please you wait?
[Exit Ernstein.
Tam.
I pray you sit.
Ste.
Thanks for your courtesy.
Tam.
(aside)
Who can she be? Her voice, at least, is soft;
Her hand is small and fair; and for her shape,
As well as one beneath these robes may guess,
Is slight; her movements have the spring of youth.
Confound that veil!—it hides her utterly.
(To Stephania)
Sister, I see that you have fixed your eyes
Upon that crucifix. 'Tis, I am told,
Carved with much skill, and by some master-hand.
Observe the delicate intarsia work.
I fear you cannot see it through your veil—
The work is so minute.
Ste.
Thank you, my lord,
I see it perfectly.
Tam.
I fear not so.
49
Ste.
I know it well; I do not see it now
For the first time.
Tam.
Ah! not for the first time?
Ste.
No; once I tended 'neath this crucifix
A dying man, who lifted up his eyes
And prayed before it. Then it was not here,
But in the Castle.
Tam.
Was it long ago?
Ste.
So long ago, it almost seems a life.
Tam.
The memory seems to agitate you still.
Ste.
It does; for as I see it, I recall
His very words: “I am betrayed to death,
As was my Master.” So in truth he was,—
Betrayed, and foully.
Tam.
Ah! indeed!
Ste.
That is,
He said so—that is what I meant to say.
I did not mean to—
Tam.
Pardon me, I pray,
That I have thus revived this painful scene.
Ste.
'Twas my own fault, not yours. Pray, pardon me,
'Tis past; 'twas nothing, thank you. No, my lord,
I have no need of help—I am quite well.
Re-enter Ernstein.
Ern.
Madame, his Majesty the audience grants.
He comes this way, and will receive you here.
Enter Otho, accompanied by Chamberlain, and leaning on him.
Otho.
Draw up the chair—so! Place the cushion there—
50
The sister from the convent?
Ern.
Ay, my liege.
Otho.
Let her approach me nearer. You are she
Who brought these letters?
Ste.
Ay, your Majesty.
Otho.
My lords, you may withdraw. I have to speak
With this good sister here alone.
[Exeunt all but Otho and Stephania.
Pray sit.
Ste.
I thank your Majesty; but I can stand.
Otho.
Ay, you are strong; but I am forced to sit,
For with this fever I am weak and worn.
Ste.
I am most sad to see your Majesty
So weak and ill.
Otho.
Yes; I am very weak
And very tired—tired of everything.
What a poor thing is man!
Ste.
In truth, I fear
My visit is ill-timed. Shall I withdraw
And wait a better time?
Otho.
No! no! stay now.
I shall be better presently. I pray,
Pour me a drop of cordial in that glass—
That will revive me.
[She pours out a glass and he drinks it.
Ay, that gives me strength—
That gives me life again. I was, you see,
A little faint—'tis past—I'm better now.
These letters, from his Holiness as well
As from the worthy abbess, vouch in you
A singular skill in fever such as this
Which now devours me. Is this truly so?
51
It does not much befit the leech to vaunt
His skill. Experience I have had, at least,
And with God's aid assisting my small craft,
Have oft helped Nature to restore herself.
Otho.
Ah! more, much more, I think, if I may trust
What here I read, and yet your modesty
Becomes you well.
Ste.
The little skill I own
Is following humbly with incessant watch
The doublings of disease, at every turn
Lending a hand to Nature—that is all.
Man boasts his science, and relies on that;
We women know more virtue, or as much,
Lies in the patient nurse as in the leech.
He orders and he goes; we wait and watch.
Otho.
True, true, and then again a woman's sense
Is nicer than a man's; her sympathies
More quick and living; and she sees and feels
What man's coarse sense lets slip. Fine instruments
Even to a touch respond: a breath will wake
The harp's tense strings; the dull drum must be beat.
Ste.
Woman is weaker, sire, and what she knows
She feels by virtue of her very weakness.
She trusts her instincts, as his reason, man.
Otho.
Ay, we are bold enough while we are well;
But not so strong to suffer as to do.
We fret against inaction, and disease
Robs us of half our manhood. For myself,
This fever seems to steal from me my life,
Poisons my thoughts, and spoils for me the world.
Sister Prudentia—by this name I think
52
You can renew in me the vigour lost,
And cure this utter weariness of life,
There's nothing you can ask I will not give.
Ste.
Sire, I will try. My recompense will be
That I succeed,—I ask for nothing more.
Otho.
But can you give back health unto my mind,
And free my spirit from its incubus
Of fearful thoughts?
Ste.
What thoughts, your Majesty?
Otho.
Thoughts that like fiends pursue me; memories
That sting like adders; dreams that haunt the brain—
Reviving, iterating all the past.
All its sad passionate deeds—repented long,
But not to be forgotten nor forgiven.
Ste.
These are but phantoms bred of your disease
That should not now be thought of. Give me leave
To stay with you and tend you one short week,
They will have fled,—you'll be yourself again,
And life again be bright and glad to you.
Otho.
Your promises arouse new hope in me.
No one has helped me yet. Stay you and try.
Lift that thick veil, and let me see your face:
I dare not trust you till I see your face.
Ste.
I have a vow, sire, not to lift my veil,
While to the convent's rule I am attached.
If you accept my service, I'm absolved,
And may my veil discard, as for the time
Entering the world again.
Otho.
Lift then your veil;
Your service I accept—I know not why,
53
[Stephania lifts her veil.
So fair! So young too! How is this? Indeed,
But this surprises me: I thought to see
An older, other face, in every way.
What drove such beauty to the cloister cold?
Were you compelled to take the convent vows?
Ste.
I sought them.
Otho.
Sought them? Nay, some sorrow then,
Some suffering, drove you to this refuge?
Ste.
Yes!
I too have suffered. It is woman's lot
Far more than man's.
Otho.
Ah yes! I see, I see.
'Tis the old tale. You loved and were betrayed?
Ste.
I did not say so, sire.
Otho.
But still, 'tis so?
Ste.
I pray you, sire, 'tis of your ills, not mine,
I come to speak.
Otho.
And do you curse the man
Who thus betrayed you?
Ste.
He has spoiled my life.
They only can forgive who can forget.
Otho.
Forget him and forgive him. He perchance
Was careless more than cruel; perchance
He suffers too—and bitterly repents
Too late!
Ste.
Repentance does not undo wrongs.
But, sire, no more of me and him, I pray.
Otho.
I ask your pardon, that I probed your wound
With such a careless hand. Knowing myself,
And how I need forgiveness for an act
54
No bitter deep repentance, I but thought
So it might be with him.
Ste.
I pray you, sire.
Otho.
Nay, I have done. Yes, you will stay with me,—
Something there is about you stirs my soul,
Be it for good or evil who can tell?
Ste.
I will not make professions, for the mouth
Speaks but vain words—a finer sense must read
The spirit and the purpose hid within.
Otho.
You move a memory in me, dim and far,
Akin to sorrow, but I know not why.
No! I recall you not, I never saw
That face before, and yet, I half distrust.
Ste.
Nay; if you trust me not, let me depart.
Otho.
Yes; I will trust you,—you shall stay with me.
Why did you come to me?
Ste.
Are you not ill,—
Ill not alone in body but in mind?
Why should I come unless to lend you aid?
Otho.
Give me your hand. Why, 'tis a fair firm hand;
It trembles not.
Ste.
Why should it tremble, sire?
[Otho kisses it. She withdraws it.
Sire, we are but the patient and the leech.
No more, or here my service I must end.
Otho.
'Twas but a pledge I trusted you in full.
Ste.
So far, so well. You trust yourself to me?
Otho.
I do.
Ste.
Then may it please your Majesty
To give directions for my lodgment here
55
And the first thing I order is repose;
I will at once prepare some herbs of mine,
And bring them to you. Until then I crave
Permission to withdraw.
[Otho rings for the Chamberlain, who enters.
Otho.
Call Baron Ernstein.
Bid him conduct this lady to such rooms,
Here in this place, as shall befit her needs.
In all things take her orders. She is here
My guest, my friend. See that all things are made
Subservient to her wishes. Now, farewell,
For a short space.
Ste.
Farewell, your Majesty.
[Exit Stephania.
Otho
alone.
'Tis strange. What is it in this sister's face,
Tone, manner, gesture, that hath power to spur
My jaded spirit thus? that puts new life
Into my veins? A convent sister too!
Something there is agrees not with that veil
And sombre dress. What is it in her eyes
Commands, allures me, draws me with a force
So strong, so subtle? Shall such beauty die
In convent walls? No! I will pluck it forth
To bloom where all the world may gaze on it.
Ay, my good sister, yield you must. We'll see
You shall be more than sister far to me.
56
ACT III.
Anteroom in Palace.Tammo and Ernstein.
Tam.
Baron, the wind has changed since last we met;
The clouds begin to clear and show the sky:
It scarcely seems the same world as before.
Ern.
Who is this sister works such miracles?
Since she has come Otho's another man.
Tam.
I know not who she is; but shrewdly guess
That sister's dress covers no sister's heart.
But who cares whether she be nun or not,—
She's worth to Otho half a hundred monks;
And if he sings a litany to her,
It is not of the old Peccavi sort,
For nuns are women. Youth is youth, despite
All forms, pretences, usages, and forms.
When youth meets youth, then comes the electric thrill
That bursts convention's bonds. Upon my soul!
I think our scheme without a finger's aid
Goes bravely on.
Ern.
Ay, ay, her medicine
Is potent, whatsoe'er it be. To-day,
For the first time since he's returned to Rome,
He's ordered horses. We're to gallop out
On the Campagna as we used of old.
Tam.
Ah! that sounds well. That is the tune I like.
57
For his physician? for perhaps a rose
Would be too worldly for her pious breast.
Ern.
Or rose, or rue, or anything she likes.
Sister Prudentia's wish is absolute law.
Tam.
Well, better thus; thank heaven for any one
Who cures him of his moping monkish mood.
By Jupiter! the court had grown to be
A cloister, prison, tomb, and I myself
Knew not if I were prisoner, corpse, or monk,
With all this crying out about spilt milk.
Now that the gyves are off and the cowl down,
I feel another man.
Ern.
I hope 'twill last.
The fever's gone; unless again it leap
Out of its ambush, as 'tis wont to do,
All will go well with him.
Tam.
I've little fear;
Sister Prudentia will look out for that.
But Ernstein, say, is it pure piety
That brings her here? Is she in very truth
A sister, as she claims? or is her dress
A mask for purposes beyond our ken?
Ern.
Why need inquire or who or what she is?
She does good service,—that is all I know.
Enter Atto and Hugo.
Hugo.
Ah! here you are; we've sought you everywhere.
Tam.
Except just where we were; but that's the way
With half the seekers, those who do not find.
Ern.
You had the orders?
58
For the horses? yes,
An hour ago.
Ern.
They're ready, then?
Hugo.
They are.
Atto.
When are we going? Half my life is spent
In tiresome waiting. What I say is this—
Say when you're going, and then go; or else
Say you won't go, and don't. The sort of way
We shilly-shally wastes more precious time
Than any work.
Tam.
And then your time, you know,
Is really precious.
Hugo.
No man likes to wait.
There I agree with Atto.
Atto.
What I say
Is this—if waiting is the thing, I wait;
If going, then I go.
Hugo.
We are not late,
'Tis not the appointed time.
Atto.
Who said it was?
Hugo.
Why do you grumble then?
Atto.
I don't.
Hugo.
You don't?
Hear him. You bleat a little now and then,
Don't you, my patient lamb; a little bleat
Just now and then, when you are out of sorts
Or down in luck? Come, come, confess you do,
Just now and then, to keep your spirits up.
Atto.
No! what I say is this—
Ern.
Peace, gentlemen.
Here comes his Majesty.
Enter Otho.
Otho.
Ha! my good friends,
59
Tam.
Oh no, my liege; you're strict upon the hour.
Ern.
How fares it with your Majesty to-day?
Otho.
Well! well! I have not felt so strong and well
For many a week. It were, indeed, a shame
Not to be well on such a day as this.
There is a breath of fragrance in the air
That only Rome knows. 'Tis as if the spring
Had smiling fallen asleep in summer's lap.
Come, let us waste no time, 'tis now past noon;
Too soon the day will spoil, and we must have
A good long gallop ere the mists come on
To chill it. All is ready, is it not?
Atto.
All's ready, sire. The horses in the court
Are jangling at their bits the last half-hour.
Otho.
Well, we'll be off. I would that we had thought
To take our falcons. We perhaps might rouse
A heron for our sport to fly them at.
Ern.
They're ordered, sire.
Otho.
I'm glad you thought of them.
Ern.
Also the hounds are ready, if you like
To take them too.
Otho.
Right, Ernstein—right, we will.
You think of everything. Well, gentlemen,
Let us be off. We only waste time here.
[Exeunt all.
Enter Stephania.
Ste.
So, they are gone. I hear them laughing now.
60
To gather up my thoughts, think, plan, resolve.
Off with these things—I hate them. Let me be
Myself again, for one short hour at least.
[Throws off her outer convent dress.
The line is thrown, and he has snapped the bait;
Poor dupe! unconscious of the hook within.
Thus far 'tis well; but now—now what's to do?
Peace, and keep down, ye starting thoughts, nor fire
My being so. Be still, my heart, be still—
Sharp eyes are on me, and the path I tread
Is perilous and blind. I must go on—
I will go on; but when I hear his voice,
His youth, and his remorse, both stretch out hands
Against me, thrust me back, and almost wrench
My purpose from me; but apart, alone,
Vengeance knocks at my heart and fiercely cries,
Coward! weak coward!—have you all forgot,
And all forgiven? Is your strength mere snow,
That a few smiles and tears can melt? ah no!
If on my woman's heart, indeed, there be
A tender spot that weakens all my will,
Let it be burned out. What more do I need
Than the one thought, Crescentius, of thee,
Dear noble heart, so foully slain by him?
Ah, God! when I recall thy murdered face,
With its white lips, its ghastly bloodless cheeks,
Its glassy sightless eyes—dear lips whereon
I hung so fondly—sweet pathetic eyes,
That ever gave a loving light to me,—
What need I more? No! no! nor heart nor hand
Shall fail, I swear it—no! I will not flinch
To any cry of pity; he shall pay
61
Who's there? Ah, Tolomeo! is it you?
Enter Tolomeo.
Tol.
'Tis I, Stephania!
Ste.
Oh, my friend, my friend,
There's danger for you here.
Tol.
No, all are out.
For days I've watched to get one word with you,
And chance at last has helped me. I had need
To speak with you.
Ste.
How knew you I was here?
Tol.
No matter how. I knew it. You are here
And unsuspected, and so far so well.
And with what purpose, knowing you, I guess—
Ay, more than guess. You need not shake your head;
I come not to reprove you, for your cause
And ours are one, although you know it not.
But you must hold your hand awhile; as yet
We are not ready, and his death to-day
Would only bring disaster to our cause.
Ste.
Your cause! what cause?
Tol.
The cause of liberty;
The cause of Rome, for which Crescentius died.
That was the thought, the hope, that ruled his life,
And must rule yours; so when you strike, your hand
Shall not revenge him only, but free Rome.
Remember this. Your private wrongs I know
Must have redress—'tis only just—but they
Can wait, must wait. This I have come to say.
You see this, surely?
Ste.
Yes! I see it. Still,
62
Or frustrate everything, is hard.
Tol.
'Tis hard;
But still it must be so, and you will wait.
When we are ready we will give the sign.
Ste.
I'm ready now; but you are not, and so
I must wait, be it easy, be it hard.
Tol.
'Twill not be long, I hope.
Ste.
Oh, make it short.
This strain upon my life is almost more
Than I can bear. I seem, even to myself,
So despicable while this part I play,—
This horrible delay unnerves my will.
Still, I will wait. Now go, there's danger here.
Tol.
Farewell, then.
Ste.
By this door, not that. I hear
The sound of footsteps coming. Quick! farewell.
Who's there, I say?
Enter Sister Anna.
Anna.
'Tis I, Stephania.
Ste.
Stephania! what! Prudentia you mean.
Anna, one careless word like this might rouse
Death, lurking, listening here behind each door.
Anna.
I humbly crave your pardon; in my haste
I quite forgot.
Ste.
Never forget, remember.
I am Prudentia here: Prudentia, mind,
To me, to you, to all—to every one.
What do you wish?
Anna.
Vainly I sought for you
In our apartment. Knowing all were out,
I sought you here. 'Tis near our hour of prayer.
Ste.
Ah, yes; I had forgotten. So it is!
63
I am disturbed in mind; I cannot pray.
Anna.
But prayer will calm you. Come, Prudentia.
Ste.
I will not go. The devil, should I go,
Alone would hear me, knowing that there lived
Within my heart no thought of God, or peace,
Or mercy—no desire but for revenge.
Anna.
Oh, sister, calm your mind! Such thoughts as these
Will bar the way to heaven.
Ste.
So be it, then.
I cannot keep my thoughts so pent within,
But they at times must find a vent, and burst
In words at least. I must disgorge my heart
Of its rank poison, or 'twill taint my life.
Anna.
Sister, these words are wild. Learn to submit,
Humble yourself, and God will give you peace.
Ste.
Submit! Ah! you who never knew the strain
Of passion—never felt ambition's spell—
May be content with mock humility.
I cannot. All the past flames out before me;
The height from which I fell towers over me
Like a dark shadow. Think you I can lie
In life's low ditch out of the sun?—a beggar
Scorned, jeered at, while the mocking world goes by
In all its bravery of wealth and power?
Think you, with all my schooling to forgive,
I have forgotten? Never! All my thoughts
Stretch backward, wildly clinging to those days
Of pride, joy, youth, he blasted with one blow.
64
A duty charged on me by heaven. O God!
Shall bloody crime dare lift its smiling face
To triumph o'er the ruin it has made,
And the poor victim only pray and weep?
Anna.
Oh, heaven! what words are these, Stephania?
Yes; for you are Stephania now—nought else.
Were all our prayers and pity for you vain,
Were your prayers vain, your promises a lie;
That thus your heart, rebellious and in arms,
Defies the will of God?
Ste.
'Twas not God's will,
Or if it was, then my revenge is too—
Anna.
Peace, peace, Stephania! These unhallowed words
Affright me. Is it you, our sister dear,
Who vowed obedience, pledged her heart and life
To Christian charity—to heal the sick,
To help the suffering—who now cry out,
That devil's cry, Revenge? Why are you here?
What is your purpose?—say.
Ste.
God only knows.
Forgive me; I was wild. Such fits will come
When Satan, seizing us in his fierce arms,
Shakes us above abysses. Now 'tis past;
I am calmer now. Vengeance is mine, said God;
I will repay. And so He will, I trust.
If there be justice, can He let such crime
Go without punishment? And then—who knows?—
This duty He may lay on us—may make
Our hands His instruments. If so he wills,
Can we refuse?
65
Leave all to Him, I say.
[The Christian's true revenge is to forgive,
And thus pile living coals upon his head
Who does us wrong.
Ste.
But still, this is revenge,
Though in a Christian way. And so even God
Does not deny us our revenge.
Anna.
Ah, yes!
Since suffering must follow wrong; and this
God has ordained, not we.
Ste.
But we the pain
Inflict, and thus open heaven's gates to him,
Not while he lives, for death alone unbars
The doors of Paradise, and cancels all.
The devil ever tempts us while we live,
But death makes all things right for us at last.
Blessed alone are they who sleep in death.
Anna.
Sleep in the Lord. That is the sleep of peace.
Ste.
Let us, then, hope for him who does us wrong,
That sleep eternal which alone brings peace.
Anna.
Yes, yes! And yet, upon my inner sense,
Your phrases jar—I scarce know why.] But come,
Let us no longer linger. Come with me,
Dearest Prudentia. Twilight draws its veil,
The shadows lengthen, 'tis the hour of prayer.
Ave Maria; 'tis the sacred hour.
Look! the slow rooks flap toward the dusking woods,
Or, pausing, rest upon the lofty vanes
Blotted against the sky. Come, sister, come!
Lean on my arm. I know, dear, it is hard;
I feel for what you suffer. Lean on me.
66
Thanks. I am better—I am calmer now.
There is the sound of horses; they return.
We must not linger here. Come, Anna, come!
[Exeunt.
Enter Otho and suite.
Ern.
I hope you are not overtired, sire?
Our ride was long.
Otho.
No, Ernstein; not at all.
Ern.
'Twas an imprudence to be out so late.
Otho.
I have felt nothing. Thank you, gentlemen;
I will not keep you longer. Many thanks.
[Exeunt all but Otho.
Otho alone.
I know not why this coming on of night
Brings darkness to the inner world as well
As to the outer. Twilight dies away,
Night deepens down, opening its chambers vast,
And one by one the far mysterious stars
That day has buried in its lucent tomb
Steal forth, and wander through the infinite dark—
Dark far more infinite than any light,
And deeper, as our sorrow is than joy.
There restless the swift river hurries on,
O'er hidden rocks and fretting chasms below,
Towards the great sea, like my tormented life.
Rush on and break your heart; you will not find
Peace. Nor shall I. Hark! how the throbbing pulse
Of yonder bell thrills all the silvery air,
And dies away!
[Clock strikes.
Six!—is it only six?
67
[Rings, and Chamberlain enters with lights.
Sister Prudentia—know you where she is?
Cham.
She's in the chapel, sire, I think, at prayer.
Otho.
Bid her come to me, when her prayers are done.
[Exit Chamberlain.
Otho alone.
Or nun or not this woman must be mine;
I cannot live without her. Yet how move?
I must be cautious lest she start aside.
Scruples of course she'll have—so convent-bred,
With fears, restrictions, threats, to hem her in.
And yet, 'tis not the veil that makes the nun:
This barren life may but have nursed in her
Longings for freedom, covered smouldering coals
That passion into sudden flame may blow.
She pities me, and pity is one path
That leads to love. Let me keep that alive,
And feign an illness that in very truth
I feel no longer, and thus lead her on.
Enter Stephania.
Ste.
Are you not well, sire, that you sent for me?
Otho.
Not over well, and sad, depressed, alone.
Ste.
Your ride has overtasked your strength, I fear.
Stop—let me feel your pulse. 'Tis quick—too quick.
Your head is hot.
Otho.
Your soft hand cools its heat.
You have a strange mysterious influence
That cures me with a touch. I'm better now.
68
Sire, what you need is quiet and repose.
You should retire to rest.
Otho.
Not yet—not yet!
Stay with me, talk to me: that soothes me most.
This solitude annoys me. 'Tis repose
To have you near me.
What a little while
You have been here, and yet to me you seem
Like one whom I have known a long, long time.
These days—they almost seem as many years.
Ste.
A day sometimes is longer than a year.
Has more experience and more joy—more pain.
Otho.
Ay, and may breed in us such infinite change.
Love to full stature in one day may grow.
Ste.
Perhaps it may. All passions quickly grow;
But these quick growths have oft as sudden ends.
'Tis dangerous to trust them. What abides
Takes time to strike its roots into our life.
Otho.
Not always. Friendship grows with time; but love
Is like the hidden fire within the flint
That flashes forth the instant it is struck.
Ste.
Flashes and vanishes.
Otho.
But not until
All thoughts, all passions, it has set aflame—
All life transfigured.
Ste.
Love like that is fire,
That does but ravage life and happiness.
And ah! what tears, what pains, to extinguish it.
But, sire, on themes like these I am not wise;
Our convent training teaches higher themes—
Obedience, duty, prayer, and heavenly love.
Otho.
Yet being in our natures, even there
69
To seek completion.
Ste.
We are taught to quell,
Not nurture such desires. If they break out,
We whip them back again into their cells.
Why do you speak of this to me?
Otho.
I speak
Because I feel within a quickening thrill
When you approach me, that mere gratitude
Or friendship, if you will, but half explains.
Ste.
They must explain it; nothing more at least,
If even so much, will I accept. Beyond,
All words, all thoughts, are neither fit for you
Nor fit for me.
Otho.
Why not?
May not a heart beneath a convent dress
As quickly beat as if 'twere cased in silks?
Ste.
Stop, sire; forbear!
Otho.
Call me not sire again.
I am not sire to you—but Otho.
Ste.
No!
You are the king, naught else, to me. To you
What I am now, or may hereafter be,
Time shall make clear—as yet you know me not.
Otho.
I know you better than you know yourself.
That face of yours tells secrets. That quick flush
That mantles on your cheeks, this tremulous hand,
Tell of a nature made not for a nun.
Ste.
They lie, perhaps. No, sire; you know me not.
Why seek to tempt me? Could you guess my past,
You would not, could not, dare to tempt me thus.
Otho.
I care not for the past, whate'er it is.
70
I know that like an angel you are fair;
I know what burns within my heart like fire;
I know I love you.
Ste.
This is madness, sire.
Take back those words. I will not hear them said.
Otho.
Never! Prudentia, shrink not thus from me.
I love you; from the ashes of dead hopes—
Dead as I dreamed for ever—sudden, glad,
The flaming passion-flower of love bursts forth
To waft across the desert of my soul
Its perfect fragrance. Ah! I love you! Nay!
Thrust me not back. Hide not your face from me.
Thank God that you have lifted up a heart
Out of the dust, and brimmed it full with joy.
Ste.
Oh, never, never! This is utter madness.
You know not what you say, to whom you speak;
Think you that I forget the cruel past?
Otho.
What do I care for all the past. Your vows
Are not perpetual.
Ste.
They are fixed as Fate.
Never will I renounce them, come what may.
Love between us! that were indeed a crime,
A shame, a perjury!
Otho.
Crime! perjury! to what?
Ah! to the Church. I will take heed for that.
The Pope shall grant you absolution full.
Ste.
No; that I did not mean.
Otho.
What did you mean?
Ste.
Nothing. No matter what I meant—farewell.
Otho.
You shall not go. Your very words confess
71
As you pretend.
Ste.
Indifferent! no; not that.
Hatred, not love, I owe you. Love, indeed!
No! I was weak even to pity you;
Fool that I was. Why should I strive to play
The Christian part? take on me this disguise,
And strive to cure your pain and ache of life,
Who ruined mine so utterly? Fool! fool!
Otho.
Ruined your life? This dress is a disguise.
Who are you then? Speak; say.
Ste.
I dare not say.
Enough: let all these words that we have said—
You, I—be blotted out from memory.
Let me go hence.
Otho.
No! never! while these arms
Have strength to hold you.
Ste.
Nay, I must—will go.
You know not who I am, or why I am here,
Else you would drive me hence, as once before
You drove me to the streets.
Otho.
I drove you forth!
What mean you? Are you mad? Who are you, then?
Explain this mystery.
Ste.
No; let me go.
'Twere best for you, and me, too. No, no, no!
I will not stay. I will not speak.
Otho.
You shall;
By heavens! you shall, I say. Speak, who are you?
Ste.
Since you will have it, be it so; nor dream
I am afraid to tell you who I am.
I am Stephania.
Otho.
Stephania!—what!
72
Ste.
I am she,—Stephania.
Otho.
No, it cannot be.
Ste.
'Tis monstrous, is it not? but yet 'tis true.
And I avow it, monstrous as it is.
Otho.
I'll not believe you. 'Tis a sorry jest;
But jest it must be.
[Stephania throws of her cap, veil, and nun's dress, and unlooses her hair, and stands erect before him.
Ste.
Do you know me now?
Otho.
'Tis but too true. Ah, now indeed I see
What seemed at first familiar on your face;
Though I but saw it once—that dreadful day.
Oh heaven! Stephania, pity me, forgive
That desperate act. I knew not what I did.
'Twas passion blinded me. Oh, I did wrong!
Almost beyond forgiveness. On my knees
I sue to you as I have sued to God.
Ste.
Nay; do not kneel to me. I will not have it.
Otho.
Not till you say to me that you forgive.
Ste.
If I forgive not, wherefore am I here?
Deeds are more strong than words; let them speak out.
Otho.
You came here to avenge him. For what else
Could you be here?
Ste.
If so, I have been weak,
Irresolute, and cowardly. Your life
For weeks was daily, hourly, in my hands.
One drop of poison in your drink was death
Without suspicion.
Otho.
But if not for that,
73
Ste.
Suppose that I forgive,
What then? Suppose your suffering, your remorse,
Moved my deep pity—killed the fierce desire
Of vengeance that so long within me raged,
And stung me—would this seem impossible?
Otho.
Almost, almost. Forgiveness such as this
Is Godlike. How can I dare look at you,
Nor feel abased and humbled? How indeed
Dare I to speak of love?—and yet—and yet—
I love you. Oh, my crime was vile and foul!
I never can atone it. Do with me
According to your will. Here—here; take this.
[Offers her his poignard.
Strike with it to my heart. I will not stir
To hinder you—strike! I deserve my death!
Ste.
You know I cannot.
Otho.
Yes; you can, and should,
If still you hate and scorn me as you did.
Ste.
Give me the dagger.
[She takes it, looks at it, and then throws it down.
Otho.
Still my life is yours.
Do as you will with it. Accept my love,
And let my future expiate the past,
Or give me death. Speak! tell me what to do,
And, hard howe'er it be, it shall be done.
You will not strike—bid me.
Ste.
I cannot;
Despite of all I cannot, and you know it.
Otho.
Then let us bury out of sight the past,
As some foul thing that never should have been,
And let us—ah, this fever fit again!
Let us henceforth, I say—'tis vain—my tongue
74
Give me your hand. No more! no more to-night!
To-morrow we will speak of it again.
Promise you will not leave me. Promise me.
Ste.
Since you will have it thus, I promise you.
And so whatever comes is on your head.
[She helps him out of the room.
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?
75
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.
76
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
77
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!
78
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;
79
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—
80
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
81
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,—
82
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.
83
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.
84
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;
85
Whoever knows what's in a woman's mind?
Rhymes—Tessa—always rhymes, as Gigi says.
[Sings as she arranges the room.
Flower of the broom,
My heart was a vase with wild roses in bloom,
Till you plucked them and killed them and made it a tomb.
My heart was a vase with wild roses in bloom,
Till you plucked them and killed them and made it a tomb.
No; that he never did, dear soul, not he.
They'll draft him for a soldier I suppose,
And then he'll go away so far—so far,
And quite forget me, and perhaps get killed:
Ah, me! the happy days that we have known.
[Sings.
They'll draft him for a soldier I suppose,
And then he'll go away so far—so far,
And quite forget me, and perhaps get killed:
Ah, me! the happy days that we have known.
Flower of the heath,
Our laughter and loving are only a breath,
And the end of all loving and living is death.
Our laughter and loving are only a breath,
And the end of all loving and living is death.
I wish I were where our grey olives grow
Along the hill, or sauntering through green lanes
Under the twilight, plucking the ripe grapes,—
How sweet they were! there are no grapes like those!—
With Gigi's strong arm clasped about my waist.
But he'll be marching soon—one, two, one, two,
Halt, forward, march—and think no more of me.
[Sings.
Along the hill, or sauntering through green lanes
Under the twilight, plucking the ripe grapes,—
How sweet they were! there are no grapes like those!—
With Gigi's strong arm clasped about my waist.
But he'll be marching soon—one, two, one, two,
Halt, forward, march—and think no more of me.
Flower of the rack,
Oh, the days go, and they never come back,
And there always is something, is something we lack.
Oh, the days go, and they never come back,
And there always is something, is something we lack.
I wish my lady'd give me her white cross.
She has so many things, and I so few,
She'd never miss it. 'Twould not look so ill,
Black as my skin is on my neck. There, so.
She has so many things, and I so few,
She'd never miss it. 'Twould not look so ill,
86
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
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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.
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sings.
You struck at my life with your love,
I will never forgive you;
Worn, soiled, and cast off like a glove,—
Unavenged—shall I leave you?
No; I'll cling to you closer than love,
With the grapple of hate;
In the path that you tread I will move,
Like the shadow of fate.
I will never forgive you;
Worn, soiled, and cast off like a glove,—
Unavenged—shall I leave you?
No; I'll cling to you closer than love,
With the grapple of hate;
In the path that you tread I will move,
Like the shadow of fate.
You shall live, and shall live to repent
With remorse unavailing.
You shall pray—but a bolt shall be sent
From a hand never failing.
Do you think you can tear out a heart
With a jest and a jeer?
And that God, standing cold and apart,
Will not heed, will not hear?
With remorse unavailing.
You shall pray—but a bolt shall be sent
From a hand never failing.
Do you think you can tear out a heart
With a jest and a jeer?
And that God, standing cold and apart,
Will not heed, will not hear?
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.
Some wrongs are too cruel, too curst,
To be ever forgiven;
God Himself will give hell to the worst,
To the best only heaven.
To be ever forgiven;
God Himself will give hell to the worst,
To the best only heaven.
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His justice He will not deny,
He will lend me His rod;
He hereafter—but on the earth I—
Then I leave you to God.
He will lend me His rod;
He hereafter—but on the earth I—
Then I leave you to God.
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,
90
That Justice, deeming her a sister, holds
Her strong hand out to help her. That's the world.
ACT V.
Scene I.
—Anteroom to reception-rooms. A balcony open out of the anteroom on to a garden below. Music within the inner rooms. A reception going on.Ernstein and Tammo.
Ern.
She leads him as she will; 'tis all in vain
To turn him from her—all we have to do
Is to keep watch.
Tam.
The world has changed indeed
Since she came here. Instead of funeral bells
They almost seem to ring for marriage now.
Ern.
What is her purpose? Think you she can dream
That he will marry her?
Tam.
Nay, on my word;
Who knows?—not I. A woman is a sphinx,
Sweet-faced, sweet-voiced, a riddle in her heart,
And claws to rend who cannot read it right.
Ern.
Ah, but he cannot marry her. You know
His Embassy already is in Greece
To ask again of the Imperial Court
The hand of its young princess.
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'Twas refused,
As well you know, once, and may be again.
Ern.
Till 'tis refused he is not free to wed.
Tam.
That's but a trifle; he would overleap
Such obstacle as that with scarce a thought.
Ern.
Would we were far away from Rome and her.
Tam.
Cheer up, good Ernstein, there is naught to fear.
See! there she goes, the fairest of them all.
Ern.
Ay; but the others shrink away from her,
As if there were contagion in her touch.
Tam.
They envy her for her great beauty first,
And then, because the Emperor smiles on her.
Ern.
And yet his smile is not so frank and fond
As once it was. His love begins to spoil,
Like fruit that's over-ripe. She knows it too.
Tam.
Look, how she watches him with anxious eye,
Fearing to see him with these courtly dames,
Lest one should steal his heart, and leave her poor.
Ern.
I do not trust her. Well she plays her part,
But 'tis a part. There's mischief in her face.
Tam.
There is, indeed. I feel it in my heart.
I am impatient for the time to come
When Otho wearies of her.
Ern.
Why? I pray.
Tam.
To leave the field to me.
Ern.
The field to you?
Tam.
Ay, Ernstein. I am more than half in love;
But who's a chance till Otho throws her off!
Ern.
You think he will?
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Of course he will, at last.
Ern.
That's what I hope and fear; but whether hope
Or fear is uppermost, I scarce can say.
Tam.
Well, I hope most. How beautiful she is!
Her face is like a bright autumnal day.
Ern.
Rather a sultry thunder-breeding day.
Tam.
I see you have, as these Italians say,
A nail fixed in your brain.
Ern.
The event will show,
Perhaps too late, who's right.
Tam.
Let us not spoil
To-day's enjoyment with to-morrow's dread.
Come, let us join the company again.
[Exeunt.
Scene II.
Enter Stephania alone.Ste.
Ah, here at least is solitude, and here
I can throw off my mask and these feigned smiles.
Have I grown weak at last? Has pity quenched
My thirst for vengeance? Oh, this long delay,
This deep remorse of his, his proffered love,
Are horrible. How can one basely strike
One's direst foe, when humbly on his knees
He craves forgiveness? No, the heart revolts
To answer love with death. But have a care,
Otho; if once your love droops, you are lost.
Vengeance, the torpid serpent, only sleeps,—
It is not dead. Well, better thus, no thought
Of pity then shall longer stay my hand;
The rampart raised to oppose my purpose, falls.
93
Why am I here to be the finger point
Of all the world, who, reading me awry,
Deem me his tool and fool, that he can use
So long as serves his whim, then throw me off?
And has my faltering purpose then
Led me at last to this vile eminence
Of scorn and shame? Wait, wait, my friends, awhile.
I—I his minion! No, by heaven! not I.
Stop, let me think, nor thus in passion's maze
Lose my true clue. Let me be calm and cold;
I would not barter my revenge for all
Ambition has to offer—not even a crown.
[Goes to the balcony and looks out.
How peaceful is the night, how it rebukes
Our angry passions and tempestuous thoughts!
I scarce dare look on it, lest I again
Falter and pause. Sweet odours from without
Steal in, intoxicating every sense.
The fountains with a soft continuous sound
Spill in their basins, and the faint night air
Stirs in the rustling tree-tops. All is peace,
Save here within. Come storm, come tempest, blast
This sickening beauty. Lash the earth with rain,
Torture these murmurous trees until they shriek;
Seize them, and twist their writhing boughs about
With my despair. Tear them as thou dost me.
Enter Tolomeo, disguised.
Tol.
Stephania!
Ste.
Sir?
94
I see you know me not
In this disguise.
Ste.
What! Tolomeo?
Tol.
Ay.
Only one word, Stephania. The time's ripe;
We are all ready, we but wait for you:
Strike when you choose, and hard.
Ste.
At last, at last!
Oh, if you knew the horror and the strain
Of all this waiting, this hypocrisy!
It has almost unnerved me for my task.
Tol.
'Tis over now, we only wait for you.
Ste.
No more! Enough. Go; leave me here alone.
[Exit Tolomeo.
So! if I strike now, 'tis not for myself
Alone I strike, but for all Rome as well,
And for Crescentius, and for liberty.
That gives me strength—that consecrates the deed.
Give me thy blessing, then, Crescentius.
Hark! there are footsteps. Let me hide myself.
Enter Otho and Ernstein.
Otho.
What is it, Ernstein?
Ern.
'Tis a missive, sire,
Has just arrived from Greece, and, as I think,
A letter from the Embassy to the East,
Relating to your marriage suit, perhaps.
Otho.
Give it to me.
[Tears it open and reads it.
Yes, Ernstein, you are right.
'Tis from the Embassy. This second suit
Is now accepted. The Princess's hand
Is freely given me at last.
95
My liege,
This is good news.
Otho.
I hope 'twill prove to be.
Since I must marry, she, of all I know,
Is fittest both for me and for the State.
Ern.
I pray it bring you every happiness.
Otho.
Well, let us hope so. Meantime, not a word
To any one of this, and most of all,
Not to Stephania. She would ne'er forgive
This second perfidy.
Ern.
What mean you, sire?
Otho.
Yes, Ernstein, perfidy. Fate wills it thus
That I again must break my oath to her.
Ern.
What oath, my liege? Surely you cannot mean
You pledged yourself to wed her?
Otho.
Even so.
To my hot love she turned so cold a face,
Denying everything, and building up
So stern a barrier to my hopes, that I,
Seeking by this to bind her to my will,
And blind with passion, pledged my solemn oath
To make her Empress. I was rash, mad, wild.
I know it, but I loved. That time is gone,
And love that then was hope, light, life, is now
The dead white ghost of blank indifference.
Ern.
Oh! this is serious—oh, beware, my liege;
Think ere you move. This woman is most fair,
Presumptuous, bold, determined. Whither tend
Her plans and her ambitions who can tell?
Thwarted in them, repulsed, she may turn round
And sate her disappointment in revenge.
Otho.
What mean you, Ernstein?
96
Oh, take heed, my liege.
Take heed, remember who she is, and what.
This tangled skein to unravel, and not break,
Needs a nice hand.
Otho.
Foolish I was, indeed;
Worse, too, than foolish, to let passion thus
O'ermaster all my reason: to her too!
Had I not done her harm enough before
By my mad passion, that I thus again
Should blast her life? I see it all too late.
What can I do? All the excuse I have
Is that I loved. [Ah love, how glorious 'tis,
With its bird's song, and heavenward soaring flight.
How sad when dumb, and maimed, and broken-winged,
It limps the earth; the meteor's flash that fires
With pencilled splendour all the startled sky,
Falls to the earth a dead and ugly stone,
Past all rekindling. So my love is now.
How then can dull indifference hope to feign
With its cold voice the living tones of love?
'Tis vain as tedious.] Now she wearies me,
And all the more because I loved her then.
How then unloose the chain I dare not break?
Ern.
Leave her, and go to Germany at once.
Here danger threatens.
Otho.
That I cannot do;
She would pursue me still. I've no excuse;
I could not blind her. Still we both must think
How I may rid myself of her; meanwhile
The mask I still must wear. But no more now.
My guests await me; come, go in with me:
To-morrow we will speak of this again,
97
[Exeunt Otho and Ernstein.
Enter Stephania, having overheard this conversation.
Ste.
Perfidious, false as hell! Well, better so;
My eyes are cleared, nothing now holds me back.
Wounded and spent, here like a deer I stand,
Hunted to bay; and hunted thus to bay,
Here I must face my fate. Fool that I was!
So, so! you weary of me—wretched boy!
I'm in your way? ay, by my soul! I am,
And so you'll find. Your words have had the power
To purge my heart of pity. 'Tis resolved!
The end has come to all this maudlin stuff,
And for what is, and shall be, thank yourself.
Ay, my Crescentius, ay, you shall have all
You lived and died for—liberty to Rome,
Justice for crime, and his reward for him,
All through this hand of mine. Down woman's heart,
Down mercy and forgiveness; your weak voice
I hear no more—a sterner duty calls.
Death dogs your footsteps, Otho—look to it!
[She retires into the shadow of the balcony.
Enter two Ladies of the Court.
First Lady.
Ay, she is handsome—that I must admit;
But what a shame to see her flaunting here.
She has forgotten everything, I think.
Second Lady.
Where is she now? I missed her from the hall.
98
Gone to repent, I hope,—the shame less thing!
Second Lady.
Yes; we must put her down. How does she dare
To brave the world so, when on every face
She sees such plain contempt?
First Lady.
She's made of brass;
She has no heart; she thinks with that fair face
To win a throne at last.
Second Lady.
You shock me, dear!
She cannot be so blind a fool as that.
First Lady.
She does; depend on it she does.
Second Lady.
Her eyes
Never left that Spanish princess: it would seem
She's jealous of her.
First Lady.
So she well may be:
She's twice her beauty, and a spotless name;
And the best blood of Spain is in her veins.
Second Lady.
The Emperor tires of this Stephania,
That's plain enough. It was a week's caprice;
And now the new face—men are ever thus.
Did you observe him?
First Lady.
Yes; he follows her
Where'er she goes. Madame Stephania's part
Was brief as bright. 'Tis now wellnigh played out.
Second Lady.
How close it is! Come out and breathe the air.
[They approach the balcony, and see Stephania.
First Lady.
'Tis she!
Second Lady.
'Tis who?
First Lady.
Stephania!
99
And you think
She heard us?
First Lady.
Who cares if she did or not?
Come, we'll return into the hall again.
[Exeunt ladies, and enter Stephania.
Ste.
And this is what they think of me. Poor fools!
What will they think to-morrow?
Enter Otho.
Otho.
You here, Stephania! and why here alone?
I've sought you everywhere. Why are you here?
Your face is pale; are you not well to-night?
Ste.
Yes! no! a little headache—that is all.
Otho.
I'm sorry, very sorry. Take my arm.
Come, let us join our company again;
I say ours, for 'tis yours as well as mine.
Ste.
Thank you; I'm better here.
Otho.
Can I do aught
To help you?
Ste.
Nothing.
Otho.
Something troubles you?
Ste.
Yes; but no matter. Do not stay for me,
Your guests will miss you.
Otho.
Are you vexed with me?
Ste.
With you? pray, why should I be vexed with you?
Otho.
I know not.
Ste.
If you know not, then, indeed,
Nothing you've done to vex me—that I know.
Otho.
You have so strange a look, so strange a tone.
Something has happened; tell me what it is.
Can I not help you? Say, Stephania.
100
No one can help me. Do not think of me.
I can do all that's needed by myself.
I am not well, you see, that's all. Pray go,
Waste not your time on me; others are there
Who will expect you. Let me say good night:
I will to bed.
Otho.
Ay, that perhaps were best.
Good night. You are not vexed with me, I hope?
Ste.
No; with myself, and only with myself.
Farewell.
Otho.
Farewell.
[Stephania goes out and leaves Otho alone.
I like not that dark hardness on her face.
What can it be? Can they have taunted her
With looks and shrugs? Ah, yes, it must be that.
That explains all. How cruel women are!
[Exit Otho.
Re-enter Stephania.
Ste.
No; I'll not go, I'll stay; I'll watch him here.
How confident he seems. Little he dreams
How close upon his heels avenging Fate
Steals after him. See, how he smiles and bows,
And strews his royal compliments around,
As if this world was all his own, and all
This cringing crowd mere puppets for his sport.
Fools! let them laugh. What are his crimes to them?
To me,—ah, well, Cain's brand is on his brow,
That nought but death can ever wipe away.
Who comes? 'Tis Ferdinand. What brings him here?
101
Ste.
What! Ferdinand!
Ferd.
Stephania! So 'tis true!
Ste.
Whence do you come? What brings you here? What's true?
Ferd.
Tell me, Stephania, what does all this mean?
Ste.
All what?
Ferd.
You—here?
Ste.
You see that I am here.
Ferd.
I see you, but I scarce can trust my eyes.
Is all I hear true? No; it cannot be.
Ste.
What have you heard?
Ferd.
I heard far off in Greece
You were so fallen and so lost to shame,
So blind to all the horrors of the past,
That here you lived the minion and the toy
Of this young Emperor. But I scorned the tale,
And so I rushed to Rome to give the lie
To such foul scandal. But an hour ago
I reached the house. 'Twas told me you were here,
And here you are. So, then, it all is true.
Ste.
They lie who told you; but why say they lie,
Since you believe it?
Ferd.
Ah! some sense of shame!
That ghost of virtue still within you lives.
You dare not own the truth; but you are here—
That proves you guilty.
Ste.
So the world would say;
But scarce a brother.
102
Are you sunk so low?
Have you no memory, oh heart of stone?
Ste.
You see me where I am; all words are vain.
Ferd.
I had not dreamed that you could be so base.
What! hang upon his neck, his lips, who stabbed
With bloody treacherous hand that noble heart;
Who drove you forth in shame upon the streets;
Who makes you now the jeer of all the world.
You, to do this, you, miserable thing,
Who should have rather struck into his breast
The avenging dagger. You, to fawn on him,
To flatter him, to snap the crumbs he flings,
To lick his hand, and crouch like a whipped dog.
Ste.
Go on, go on; 'tis but one stab the more,
Though the most cruel.
Ferd.
Ay; I will go on.
I have not come these many weary leagues
To stint my speech. Would that my every word
Were as a dagger's point to make you bleed.
Ste.
Nay! they are worse than daggers, words like these.
Ferd.
So much the better. May they reach your heart,
If any heart be left. Why, look you here,
In the few minutes I was struggling through
The crowd in yonder room in search of you,
Such words I heard as set my heart on fire,
Such biting scorn, such phrases of contempt,
Uttered with nods and laugh and toss of head,
That had you heard them you had prayed the earth
To ope and swallow you.
Ste.
Oh, that it would!
103
Ferd.
Leave this place, I say.
Go! hide your head, poor fool, and scatter dust
Upon it. Go! you are not fit to live.
Ste.
Not if I were the thing you think I am.
No; here I stay, at least, one other night.
Something I've yet to do before I go.
Ferd.
What have you here to do? Wait to be stamped.
Still lower in the filth; to be cast forth,
Kicked out as one would kick a hound, and then
Slink back into your kennel with a cry.
Ste.
Not so. Look at me, Ferdinand. Your words.
Are weak—all words are weak—there must be deeds.
Ferd.
What mean you?
Ste.
Nothing. I will go with you.
Grant me but one night more; that's all I ask.
Ferd.
Come now.
Ste.
To-morrow—not to-night. No, no;
I cannot go to-night. I'm not so vile—
So weak as—but no matter. There's no time
For explanation now. Give me to-night,
Then I will clear myself.
Ferd.
I see not how;
I comprehend you not.
Ste.
Well, leave me now.
Suspend your judgment till we meet again—
You've said enough.
Ferd.
Thank heaven, at least, for that!
Farewell, then—and think over what I've said.
Ste.
I will.
[Exit Ferdinand.
My mind is fixed. It shall be done—
104
[Exit Stephania, and immediately after enter Otho, Ernstein, Tammo, Atto, and Hugo.
Otho.
I'm very, very weary. Is it late?
Tam.
'Tis on the stroke of one.
Otho.
Later, I think.
Ern.
'Tis; there's the convent bell. It strikes the quarter.
Otho.
Are they all gone?
Tam.
Not all. Within the court
I still hear horses tramping.
[Looks out of the window.
There's the last.
Now the gate swings—the harsh bolts rattle home.
'Twas a gay evening, all went merrily.
Otho.
Did it?
Tam.
It did. A gayer, brighter crowd
I have not seen for many a day.
Otho.
Ah, well,
I hope that all enjoyed it more than I.
Tam.
Donna Stephania looked not well to-night.
I have not seen her for the last two hours.
Otho.
She was not well—she has retired to rest.
Ern.
I hope your Majesty will deign to think
On what I said.
Otho.
Ay, Ernstein—never fear.
[Ernstein goes to the window, and looks across the courtyard.
Ern.
Her light burns still. She has not yet retired.
Otho.
She is not well. Perchance she cannot sleep.
Who could with all this stamping in the court?
105
The lights are out now, and at last all's still.
Otho.
Well, well, my lords, the evening's done. Good night.
Ern.
(aside to Otho)
Bolt fast your doors, I pray your Majesty.
I'll go with you—to see that all is right.
Otho.
What fear you, Ernstein?
Ern.
Nothing definite—
Everything vaguely.
Otho.
There's no cause for fear.
[Exeunt Otho and Ernstein.
Tam.
Let us be off too. Hugo, ring the bell.
[Hugo rings.
Every one's gone. How still—how desolate
These great rooms look with all their flaring lights,
Now that the crowd has gone, that dinned and buzzed
The livelong evening!
Hugo.
Dreary and dull enough.
The very flowers look tired, and droop to sleep.
Atto.
Not half so tired as I am. Let's be off.
Enter Servants.
Tam.
Extinguish all the lights. Look to the rooms,
And see that all's secure.
Serv.
We will, my lord.
[Exeunt Tammo, Hugo, and Atto. Servants begin to extinguish the lights.
First Serv.
Thank heaven, they all have gone! This last half-hour
I've almost yawned my head off, and my legs
Are stiff and sore with standing.
106
Bring some wine.
Let's have a drink before we go. They've left
Some wine, at least, to comfort us.
First Serv.
Put out
That flaring candle first. We shall find the wine
In the anteroom beyond. That's all. Come on.
[They go out.
Scene III.
—Antechamber of Otho's sleeping-room.Enter Stephania with a light.
Ste.
All's still at last—as still and dark as death.
The lights are all extinguished, and all sleep.
He is within. What is he doing now?
Can he be sleeping? Can he have forgot
To take the draught I placed beside his bed?
[She listens.
No; he is moving—pacing to and fro.
Was that a groan? Stop—yes!—another groan!
Then he has taken it. The deed is done—
Past all undoing now.
Hark! What was that?
Only an owl screeching beneath the eaves.
That portends death. 'Tis a sure augury.
[She listens.
Ah, yes! the poison now begins to work.
He summons help. No! none will hear you now.
The string is cut that you so fiercely pull.
Crescentius, hear! You are avenged at last.
I have kept my oath. Justice is done at last.
List! he is silent. Has he fainted now?
He could not die so soon. He must not die
Till I have seen him. No, no! There he moves.
Otho.
Help, help, Stephania, Ernstein, or I die!
107
Help—there's no help for you this side the grave,
Whatever there may be for you beyond.
Otho.
Help! There is some one there. I hear you move!
Unlock the door. I am bolted in, I say.
Ah, torture! Speak, Stephania!—is that you?
Ste.
Yes, it is I! What ails your Majesty?
Otho.
I am tortured—poisoned! Quick! unbolt the door.
Ste.
There's no bolt here. 'Tis you have shot it home.
Pull it yourself.
[He pulls the bolt, opens the door, and staggers in.
Otho.
Your hand, Stephania—
Give me your hand. O God! what can it be
That gnaws within my entrails as with fire,
And like a burning serpent twists and stings?
It must be poison—poison—nothing else!
Ste.
What! poison, Otho? What has poisoned you?
Otho.
I know not. Water! Oh, this burning thirst!
If you should pour the Tiber down my throat,
'Twould scarcely quench it!
Ste.
There's no water here.
Otho.
Give me some antidote. You must know some.
Quick, quick! I cannot bear this cruel pain!
Ste.
No strongest antidote could cure you now.
Death lies before you. Set your thoughts to that!
Otho.
What! death! Ah, no! 'tis not so bad as that.
108
Not all the art of man can cure you now.
Otho.
Who did this deed? Great God! it was not you?
Ste.
I? I? What cause have I to seek your death?
Otho.
I see it all. Ah, yes! this was the end
Ernstein predicted. Oh, Stephania!
You have revenged yourself too bitterly.
Ste.
Think on Crescentius.
Otho.
O God! pardon me.
And you, too! for I loved you.
Ste.
Loved? Your love
Was infamy—was treachery. Look to God
For pardon, not to me!
Otho.
I will not die.
I am better now. The pain abates. You strive
To frighten me. Oh, save me! and I swear
To wed you, make you Empress—all you will.
Ste.
No more false oaths! I tell you 'tis in vain.
The abating pain proves you are near your end;
There is no human power can help you now.
Waste not these moments. Turn your thoughts from earth.
Otho.
What's this dark shadow stealing over me?
How cold it is! Call me a priest, I say.
Call me a priest to make my peace with God;
Else—there is hell beyond!
Ste.
There is no time.
No; you must make your peace with God alone.
Life flits with every breath.
Otho.
Yes; this is death.
I die, but you will live.
Ste.
How know you that?
109
Otho.
Live, live!
I cannot wish you a worse fate than life.
Live—tortured by remorse.
[He falls back, and lies motionless.
Stephania!
Where are you gone? I cannot see now.
[A long pause.
Yes! hang him up upon the outer walls—
Him and his brood beside him. Hang him up!
[Another pause.
The scourge, I say! Give me the scourge! the scourge!
Stephania—tell Stephania.
[He dies.
Ste.
It is done.
Oh, horror! it is done. Speak, Otho, speak!
He will not speak. The pain is over now.
How still he lies! Yes, I forgive him now.
Farewell! farewell for ever! Him at least
No chance shall plague. For me, what now remains?
Speak, Fate! speak night and tell me!—life or death?
THE END.
| Stephania | |