 | Stephania |  |
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.
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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?
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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.
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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?
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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,
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[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.
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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!
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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.
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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?
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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.
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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!
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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—
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[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?
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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.
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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.
| Stephania | |