University of Virginia Library

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?

Guard.
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?

Tam.
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
Loved only sneaking cowards, and made man
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,
Who, having in his hand the world's high prize,
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.
Ernstein and Otho.
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.

Otho.
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.

Ern.
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,
And then I've serious work that must be done.

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?

Fritz.
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,

Ern.
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
Flee'st thou perverse, to weigh the eyelids down
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.

Enter Ernstein with a light.
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.

Ern.
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?
Ah! what a king. No, Ernstein, the monk's serge,
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.

Otho.
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.