University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

Scene I.

—A Hall in the same Palace, from whence the secret Passage leads.
Enter Werner and Gabor.
Gab.
Sir, I have told my tale: if it so please you
To give me refuge for a few hours, well—
If not, I'll try my fortune elsewhere.

Wer.
How
Can I, so wretched, give to Misery
A shelter?—wanting such myself as much
As e'er the hunted deer a covert—

Gab.
Or
The wounded lion his cool cave. Methinks
You rather look like one would turn at bay,
And rip the hunter's entrails.

Wer.
Ah!

Gab.
I care not
If it be so, being much disposed to do
The same myself. But will you shelter me?
I am oppressed like you—and poor like you—
Disgraced—

Wer.
(abruptly).
Who told you that I was disgraced?

Gab.
No one; nor did I say you were so: with
Your poverty my likeness ended; but
I said I was so—and would add, with truth,
As undeservedly as you.

Wer.
Again!
As I?

Gab.
Or any other honest man.
What the devil would you have? You don't believe me
Guilty of this base theft?

Wer.
No, no—I cannot.

Gab.
Why that's my heart of honour! yon young gallant—
Your miserly Intendant and dense noble—
All—all suspected me; and why? because
I am the worst clothed, and least named amongst them;
Although, were Momus' lattice in your breasts,
My soul might brook to open it more widely
Than theirs: but thus it is—you poor and helpless—
Both still more than myself.

Wer.
How know you that?

Gab.
You're right: I ask for shelter at the hand
Which I call helpless; if you now deny it,
I were well paid. But you, who seem to have proved
The wholesome bitterness of life, know well,
By sympathy, that all the outspread gold
Of the New World the Spaniard boasts about
Could never tempt the man who knows its worth,
Weighed at its proper value in the balance,
Save in such guise (and there I grant its power,
Because I feel it,) as may leave no nightmare
Upon his heart o' nights.

Wer.
What do you mean?

Gab.
Just what I say; I thought my speech was plain:
You are no thief—nor I—and, as true men,
Should aid each other.

Wer.
It is a damned world, sir.

Gab.
So is the nearest of the two next, as
The priests say (and no doubt they should know best),
Therefore I'll stick by this—as being loth
To suffer martyrdom, at least with such
An epitaph as larceny upon my tomb.
It is but a night's lodging which I crave;
To-morrow I will try the waters, as
The dove did—trusting that they have abated.

Wer.
Abated? Is there hope of that?

Gab.
There was
At noontide.

Wer.
Then we may be safe.

Gab.
Are you
In peril?

Wer.
Poverty is ever so.

Gab.
That I know by long practice. Will you not
Promise to make mine less?

Wer.
Your poverty?

Gab.
No—you don't look a leech for that disorder;
I meant my peril only: you've a roof,
And I have none; I merely seek a covert.

Wer.
Rightly; for how should such a wretch as I
Have gold?

Gab.
Scarce honestly, to say the truth on't,
Although I almost wish you had the Baron's.

Wer.
Dare you insinuate?

Gab.
What?

Wer.
Are you aware
To whom you speak?

Gab.
No; and I am not used
Greatly to care. (A noise heard without.)
But hark! they come!

Wer.
Who come?

Gab.
The Intendant and his man-hounds after me:
I'd face them—but it were in vain to expect
Justice at hands like theirs. Where shall I go?
But show me any place. I do assure you,
If there be faith in man, I am most guiltless:
Think if it were your own case!

Wer.
(aside).
Oh, just God!
Thy hell is not hereafter! Am I dust still?

Gab.
I see you're moved; and it shows well in you:
I may live to requite it.

Wer.
Are you not
A spy of Stralenheim's?

Gab.
Not I! and if
I were, what is there to espy in you?
Although, I recollect, his frequent question
About you and your spouse might lead to some
Suspicion; but you best know—what—and why.
I am his deadliest foe.

Wer.
You?

Gab.
After such
A treatment for the service which in part
I rendered him, I am his enemy:
If you are not his friend you will assist me.

Wer.
I will.

Gab.
But how?

Wer.
(showing the panel).
There is a secret spring:
Remember, I discovered it by chance,
And used it but for safety.

Gab.
Open it,
And I will use it for the same.

Wer.
I found it,
As I have said: it leads through winding walls,
(So thick as to bear paths within their ribs,
Yet lose no jot of strength or stateliness,)
And hollow cells, and obscure niches, to
I know not whither; you must not advance:
Give me your word.

Gab.
It is unecessary:
How should I make my way in darkness through
A Gothic labyrinth of unknown windings?

Wer.
Yes, but who knows to what place it may lead?
I know not—(mark you!)—but who knows it might not
Lead even into the chamber of your foe?
So strangely were contrived these galleries
By our Teutonic fathers in old days,
When man built less against the elements
Than his next neighbour. You must not advance
Beyond the two first windings; if you do
(Albeit I never passed them,) I'll not answer
For what you may be led to.

Gab.
But I will.
A thousand thanks!

Wer.
You'll find the spring more obvious
On the other side; and, when you would return,
It yields to the least touch.

Gab.
I'll in—farewell!

[Gabor goes in by the secret panel.
Wer.
(solus).
What have I done? Alas! what had I done
Before to make this fearful? Let it be
Still some atonement that I save the man,
Those sacrifice had saved perhaps my own—
They come! to seek elsewhere what is before them!

Enter Idenstein and Others.
Iden.
Is he not here? He must have vanished then
Through the dim Gothic glass by pious aid
Of pictured saints upon the red and yellow
Casements, through which the sunset streams like sunrise
On long pearl-coloured beards and crimson crosses.
And gilded crosiers, and crossed arms, and cowls,
And helms, and twisted armour, and long swords,
All the fantastic furniture of windows
Dim with brave knights and holy hermits, whose
Likeness and fame alike rest in some panes
Of crystal, which each rattling wind proclaims
As frail as any other life or glory.
He's gone, however.

Wer.
Whom do you seek?

Iden.
A villain.

Wer.
Why need you come so far, then?

Iden.
In the search
Of him who robbed the Baron.

Wer.
Are you sure
You have divined the man?

Iden.
As sure as you
Stand there: but where 's he gone?

Wer.
Who?

Iden.
He we sought.

Wer.
You see he is not here.

Iden.
And yet we traced him
Up to this hall. Are you accomplices?
Or deal you in the black art?

Wer.
I deal plainly,
To many men the blackest.

Iden.
It may be
I have a question or two for yourself
Hereafter; but we must continue now
Our search for t'other.

Wer.
You had best begin
Your inquisition now: I may not be
So patient always.

Iden.
I should like to know,
In good sooth, if you really are the man
That Stralenheim 's in quest of.

Wer.
Insolent!
Said you not that he was not here?

Iden.
Yes, one;
But there 's another whom he tracks more keenly,
And soon, it may be, with authority
Both paramount to his and mine. But come!
Bustle, my boys! we are at fault.

[Exit Idenstein and Attendants.
Wer.
In what
A maze hath my dim destiny involved me!
And one base sin hath done me less ill than
The leaving undone one far greater. Down,
Thou busy devil, rising in my heart!
Thou art too late! I'll nought to do with blood.

Enter Ulric.
Ulr.
I sought you, father.

Wer.
Is't not dangerous?

Ulr.
No; Stralenheim is ignorant of all
Or any of the ties between us: more—
He sends me here a spy upon your actions,
Deeming me wholly his.

Wer.
I cannot think it:
'Tis but a snare he winds about us both,
To swoop the sire and son at once.

Ulr.
I cannot
Pause in each petty fear, and stumble at
The doubts that rise like briers in our path,
But must break through them, as an unarmed carle
Would, though with naked limbs, were the wolf rustling
In the same thicket where he hewed for bread.
Nets are for thrushes, eagles are not caught so:
We'll overfly or rend them.

Wer.
Show me how?

Ulr.
Can you not guess?

Wer.
I cannot.

Ulr.
That is strange.
Came the thought ne'er into your mind last night?

Wer.
I understand you not.

Ulr.
Then we shall never
More understand each other. But to change
The topic—

Wer.
You mean to pursue it, as
Tis of our safety.

Ulr.
Right; I stand corrected.
I see the subject now more clearly, and
Our general situation in its bearings.
The waters are abating; a few hours
Will bring his summoned myrmidons from Frankfort,
When you will be a prisoner, perhaps worse,
And I an outcast, bastardised by practice
Of this same Baron to make way for him.

Wer.
And now your remedy! I thought to escape
By means of this accurséd gold; but now
I dare not use it, show it, scarce look on it.
Methinks it wears upon its face my guilt
For motto, not the mintage of the state;
And, for the sovereign's head, my own begirt
With hissing snakes, which curl around my temples,
And cry to all beholders, Lo! a villain!

Ulr.
You must not use it, at least now; but take
This ring.

[He gives Werner a jewel.
Wer.
A gem! It was my father's!

Ulr.
And
As such is now your own. With this you must
Bribe the Intendant for his old caleche
And horses to pursue your route at sunrise,
Together with my mother.

Wer.
And leave you,
So lately found, in peril too?

Ulr.
Fear nothing!
The only fear were if we fled together,
For that would make our ties beyond all doubt.
The waters only lie in flood between
This burgh and Frankfort; so far 's in our favour
The route on to Bohemia, though encumbered,
Is not impassable; and when you gain
A few hours' start, the difficulties will be
The same to your pursuers. Once beyond
The frontier, and you're safe.

Wer.
My noble boy!

Ulr.
Hush! hush! no transports: we'll indulge in them
In Castle Siegendorf! Display no gold:
Show Idenstein the gem (I know the man,
And have looked through him): it will answer thus
A double purpose. Stralenheim lost gold—
No jewel: therefore it could not be his;
And then the man who was possest of this
Can hardly be suspected of abstracting
The Baron's coin, when he could thus convert
This ring to more than Stralenheim has lost
By his last night's slumber. Be not over timid
In your address, nor yet too arrogant,
And Idenstein will serve you.

Wer.
I will follow
In all things your direction.

Ulr.
I would have
Spared you the trouble; but had I appeared
To take an interest in you, and still more
By dabbling with a jewel in your favour,
All had been known at once.

Wer.
My guardian angel!
This overpays the past. But how wilt thou
Fare in our absence?

Ulr.
Stralenheim knows nothing
Of me as aught of kindred with yourself.
I will but wait a day or two with him
To lull all doubts, and then rejoin my father.

Wer.
To part no more!

Ulr.
I know not that; but at
The least we'll meet again once more.

Wer.
My boy!
My friend! my only child, and sole preserver!
Oh, do not hate me!

Ulr.
Hate my father!

Wer.
Aye,
My father hated me. Why not my son?

Ulr.
Your father knew you not as I do.

Wer.
Scorpions
Are in thy words! Thou know me? in this guise
Thou canst not know me, I am not myself;
Yet (hate me not) I will be soon.

Ulr.
I'll wait!
In the mean time be sure that all a son
Can do for parents shall be done for mine.

Wer.
I see it, and I feel it; yet I feel
Further—that you despise me.

Ulr.
Wherefore should I?

Wer.
Must I repeat my humiliation?

Ulr.
No!
I have fathomed it and you. But let us talk
Of this no more. Or, if it must be ever,
Not now. Your error has redoubled all
The present difficulties of our house
At secret war with that of Stralenheim:
All we have now to think of is to baffle
Him. I have shown one way.

Wer.
The only one,
And I embrace it, as I did my son,
Who showed himself and father's safety in
One day.

Ulr.
You shall be safe; let that suffice.
Would Stralenheim's appearance in Bohemia
Disturb your right, or mine, if once we were
Admitted to our lands?

Wer.
Assuredly,
Situate as we are now; although the first
Possessor might, as usual, prove the strongest—
Especially the next in blood.

Ulr.
Blood! 'tis
A word of many meanings; in the veins,
And out of them, it is a different thing—
And so it should be, when the same in blood
(As it is called) are aliens to each other,
Like Theban brethren: when a part is bad,
A few spilt ounces purify the rest.

Wer.
I do not apprehend you.

Ulr.
That may be—
And should, perhaps—and yet—but get ye ready;
You and my mother must away to-night.
Here comes the Intendant: sound him with the gem;
'Twill sink into his venal soul like lead
Into the deep, and bring up slime and mud,
And ooze, too, from the bottom, as the lead doth
With its greased understratum; but no less
Will serve to warn our vessels through these shoals.
The freight is rich, so heave the line in time!
Farewell! I scarce have time, but yet your hand,
My father!—

Wer.
Let me embrace thee!

Ulr.
We may be
Observed: subdue your nature to the hour!
Keep off from me as from your foe!

Wer.
Accursed
Be he who is the stifling cause which smothers
The best and sweetest feeling of our hearts;
At such an hour too!

Ulr.
Enter Idenstein.

Iden.
No, faith!

Ulr.
Well, there are plenty more:
You may have better luck another chase.
Where is the Baron?

Iden.
Gone back to his chamber:
And now I think on't, asking after you
With nobly-born impatience.

Ulr.
Your great men
Must be answered on the instant, as the bound
Of the stung steed replies unto the spur:
Tis well they have horses, too; for if they had not,
I fear that men must draw their chariots, as
They say kings did Sesostris.

Iden.
Who was he?

Ulr.
An old Bohemian—an imperial gipsy.

Iden.
A gipsy or Bohemian, 'tis the same,
For they pass by both names. And was he one?

Ulr.
I've heard so; but I must take leave. Intendant,
Your servant!—Werner (to Werner slightly),
if that be your name,

Yours.

[Exit Ulric.
Iden.
A well-spoken, pretty-faced young man!
And prettily behaved! He knows his station,
You see, sir: how he gave to each his due
Precedence!

Wer.
I perceived it, and applaud
His just discernment and your own.

Iden.
That's well—
That's very well. You also know your place, too;
And yet I don't know that I know your place.

Wer.
(showing the ring).
Would this assist your knowledge?

Iden.
How!—What!—Eh!
A jewel!

Wer.
'Tis your own on one condition.

Iden.
Mine!—Name it!

Wer.
That hereafter you permit me
At thrice its value to redeem it: 'tis
A family ring.

Iden.
A family!—yours!—a gem!
I'm breathless!

Wer.
You must also furnish me,
An hour ere daybreak, with all means to quit
This place.

Iden.
But is it real? Let me look on it:
Diamond, by all that's glorious!

Wer.
Come, I'll trust you:
You have guessed, no doubt, that I was born above
My present seeming.

Iden.
I can't say I did,
Though this looks like it: this is the true breeding
Of gentle blood!

Wer.
I have important reasons
For wishing to continue privily
My journey hence.

Iden.
So then you are the man
Whom Stralenheim 's in quest of?

Wer.
I am not;
But being taken for him might conduct
So much embarrassment to me just now,
And to the Baron's self hereafter—'tis
To spare both that I would avoid all bustle.

Iden.
Be you the man or no, 'tis not my business;
Besides, I never could obtain the half
From this proud, niggardly noble, who would raise
The country for some missing bits of coin,
And never offer a precise reward—
But this!—another look!

Wer.
Gaze on it freely;
At day-dawn it is yours.

Iden.
Oh, thou sweet sparkler!
Thou more than stone of the philosopher!
Thou touch-stone of Philosophy herself!
Thou bright eye of the Mine! thou loadstar of
The soul! the true magnetic Pole to which
All hearts point duly north, like trembling needles!
Thou flaming Spirit of the Earth! which, sitting
High on the Monarch's Diadem, attractest
More worship than the majesty who sweats
Beneath the crown which makes his head ache, like
Millions of hearts which bleed to lend it lustre!
Shalt thou be mine? I am, methinks, already
A little king, a lucky alchymist!—
A wise magician, who has bound the devil
Without the forfeit of his soul. But come,
Werner, or what else?

Wer.
Call me Werner still;
You may yet know me by a loftier title.

Iden.
I do believe in thee! thou art the spirit
Of whom I long have dreamed in a low garb.—
But come, I'll serve thee; thou shalt be as free
As air, despite the waters; let us hence:
I'll show thee I am honest—(oh, thou jewel!)
Thou shalt be furnished, Werner, with such means
Of flight, that if thou wert a snail, not birds
Should overtake thee.—Let me gaze again!
I have a foster-brother in the mart
Of Hamburgh skilled in precious stones. How many
Carats may it weigh?—Come, Werner, I will wing thee.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

—Stralenheim's Chamber.
Stralenheim and Fritz.
Fritz.
All 's ready, my good Lord!

Stral.
I am not sleepy,
And yet I must to bed: I fain would say
To rest, but something heavy on my spirit,
Too dull for wakefulness, too quick for slumber,
Sits on me as a cloud along the sky,
Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yet
Descend in rain and end, but spreads itself
'Twixt earth and heaven, like envy between man
And man, an everlasting mist:—I will
Unto my pillow.

Fritz.
May you rest there well!

Stral.
I feel, and fear, I shall.

Fritz.
And wherefore fear?

Stral.
I know not why, and therefore do fear more,
Because an undescribable—but 'tis
All folly. Were the locks as I desired
Changed, to-day, of this chamber? for last night's
Adventure makes it needful.

Fritz.
Certainly,
According to your order, and beneath
The inspection of myself and the young Saxon
Who saved your life. I think they call him “Ulric.”

Stral.
You think! you supercilious slave! what right
Have you to tax your memory, which should be
Quick, proud, and happy to retain the name
Of him who saved your master, as a litany
Whose daily repetition marks your duty.—
Get hence; “You think,” indeed! you, who stood still
Howling and dripping on the bank, whilst I
Lay dying, and the stranger dashed aside
The roaring torrent, and restored me to
Thank him—and despise you. “You think!” and scarce
Can recollect his name! I will not waste
More words on you. Call me betimes.

Fritz.
Good night!
I trust to-morrow will restore your Lordship
To renovated strength and temper.

[The scene closes.

Scene III.

—The secret Passage.
Gab.
(solus).
[The scene closes.

Scene IV.

—A Garden.
Enter Werner.
Wer.
[Ulricleaps down from the terrace.

Ulr.
Stop! before
We approach, tell me—

Wer.
Why look you so?

Ulr.
Do I
Behold my father, or—

Wer.
What?

Ulr.
An assassin?

Wer.
Insane or insolent!

Ulr.
Reply, sir, as
You prize your life, or mine!

Wer.
To what must I
Answer?

Ulr.
Are you or are you not the assassin
Of Stralenheim?

Wer.
I never was as yet
The murderer of any man. What mean you?

Ulr.
Did not you this night (as the night before)
Retrace the secret passage? Did you not
Again revisit Stralenheim's chamber? and—

[Ulric pauses.
Wer.
Proceed.

Ulr.
Died he not by your hand?

Wer.
Great God!

Ulr.
You are innocent, then! my father 's innocent!
Embrace me! Yes,—your tone—your look—yes, yes,—
Yet say so.

Wer.
If I e'er, in heart or mind,
Conceived deliberately such a thought,
But rather strove to trample back to hell
Such thoughts—if e'er they glared a moment through
The irritation of my oppressed spirit—
May Heaven be shut for ever from my hopes,
As from mine eyes!

Ulr.
But Stralenheim is dead.

Wer.
'Tis horrible! 'tis hideous, as 'tis hateful!—
But what have I to do with this?

Ulr.
No bolt
Is forced; no violence can be detected,
Save on his body. Part of his own household
Have been alarmed; but as the Intendant is
Absent, I took upon myself the care
Of mustering the police. His chamber has,
Past doubt, been entered secretly. Excuse me,
If nature—

Wer.
Oh, my boy! what unknown woes
Of dark fatality, like clouds, are gathering
Above our house!

Ulr.
My father! I acquit you!
But will the world do so? will even the judge,
If—but you must away this instant.

Wer.
No!
I'll face it. Who shall dare suspect me?

Ulr.
Yet
You had no guests—no visitors—no life
Breathing around you, save my mother's?

Wer.
Ah!
The Hungarian?

Ulr.
He is gone! he disappeared
Ere sunset.

Wer.
No; I hid him in that very
Concealed and fatal gallery.

Ulr.
There I'll find him.

[Ulric is going.
Wer.
It is too late: he had left the palace ere
I quitted it. I found the secret panel
Open, and the doors which lead from that hall
Which masks it: I but thought he had snatched the silent
And favourable moment to escape
The myrmidons of Idenstein, who were
Dogging him yester-even.

Ulr.
You reclosed
The panel?

Wer.
Yes; and not without reproach
(And inner trembling for the avoided peril)
At his dull heedlessness, in leaving thus
His shelterer's asylum to the risk
Of a discovery.

Ulr.
You are sure you closed it?

Wer.
Certain.

Ulr.
That 's well; but had been better, if
You ne'er had turned it to a den for—

[He pauses.
Wer.
Thieves!
Thou wouldst say: I must bear it, and deserve it;
But not—

Ulr.
No, father; do not speak of this:
This is no hour to think of petty crimes,
But to prevent the consequence of great ones.
Why would you shelter this man?

Wer.
Could I shun it?
A man pursued by my chief foe; disgraced
For my own crime: a victim to my safety,
Imploring a few hours' concealment from
The very wretch who was the cause he needed
Such refuge. Had he been a wolf, I could not
Have in such circumstances thrust him forth.

Ulr.
And like the wolf he hath repaid you. But
It is too late to ponder thus:—you must
Set out ere dawn. I will remain here to
Trace the murderer, if 'tis possible.

Wer.
But this my sudden flight will give the Moloch
Suspicion: two new victims in the lieu
Of one, if I remain. The fled Hungarian,
Who seems the culprit, and—

Ulr.
Who seems? Who else
Can be so?

Wer.
Not I, though just now you doubted—
You, my son!—doubted—

Ulr.
And do you doubt of him
The fugitive?

Wer.
Boy! since I fell into
The abyss of crime (though not of such crime), I,
Having seen the innocent oppressed for me,
May doubt even of the guilty's guilt. Your heart
Is free, and quick with virtuous wrath to accuse
Appearances; and views a criminal
In Innocence's shadow, it may be,
Because 'tis dusky.

Ulr.
And if I do so,
What will mankind, who know you not, or knew
But to oppress? You must not stand the hazard.
Away!—I'll make all easy. Idenstein
Will for his own sake and his jewel's hold
His peace—he also is a partner in
Your flight—moreover—

Wer.
Fly! and leave my name
Linked with the Hungarian's, or, preferred as poorest,
To bear the brand of bloodshed?

Ulr.
Pshaw! leave any thing
Except our fathers' sovereignty and castles,
For which you have so long panted, and in vain!
What name? You have no name, since that you bear
Is feigned.

Wer.
Most true: but still I would not have it
Engraved in crimson in men's memories,
Though in this most obscure abode of men—
Besides, the search—

Ulr.
I will provide against
Aught that can touch you. No one knows you here
As heir of Siegendorf: if Idenstein
Suspects, 'tis but suspicion, and he is
A fool: his folly shall have such employment,
Too, that the unknown Werner shall give way
To nearer thoughts of self. The laws (if e'er
Laws reached this village) are all in abeyance
With the late general war of thirty years,
Or crushed, or rising slowly from the dust,
To which the march of armies trampled them.
Stralenheim, although noble, is unheeded
Here, save as such—without lands, influence,
Save what hath perished with him. Few prolong
A week beyond their funeral rites their sway
O'er men, unless by relatives, whose interest
Is roused: such is not here the case; he died
Alone, unknown,—a solitary grave,
Obscure as his deserts, without a scutcheon,
Is all he'll have, or wants. If I discover
The assassin, 'twill be well—if not, believe me,
None else; though all the full-fed train of menials
May howl above his ashes (as they did
Around him in his danger on the Oder),
Will no more stir a finger now than then.
Hence! hence! I must not hear your answer.—Look!
The stars are almost faded, and the grey
Begins to grizzle the black hair of night.
You shall not answer:—Pardon me that I
Am peremptory: 'tis your son that speaks,
Your long-lost, late-found son.—Let 's call my mother!
Softly and swiftly step, and leave the rest
To me: I'll answer for the event as far
As regards you, and that is the chief point,
As my first duty, which shall be observed.
We'll meet in Castle Siegendorf—once more
Our banners shall be glorious! Think of that
Alone, and leave all other thoughts to me,
Whose youth may better battle with them—Hence!
And may your age be happy!—I will kiss
My mother once more, then Heaven's speed be with you!

Wer.
This counsel 's safe—but is it honourable?

Ulr.
To save a father is a child's chief honour.

[Exeunt.