University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A Room in the Castle.
Countess,
alone.
Our weaknesses are like neglected debts,
Wherewith Time heaps up loads that press us most
When we are most in need. Now would I have
The mother's strength which I've so fondly wasted.
Only on this I count; Rudolf knows not
To th' full, how feeble is the parent's sway,
When blind affection leads authority.

(Enter Rudolf.)
Rudolf.
Mother, I'm come upon your bidding.

Countess.
Rudolf,
I'm glad you're come; and yet, so full of fears
Are mother's thoughts, that reason-prov'd desires
Shrink from their aim, and wisest wishes falter,
When in the treacherous bosom of the future
Sleeps their fulfilment. Rudolf, you and Ada
Are now of age.

Rudolf.
And our majority
We just now solemniz'd. We have agreed,
That to be cousins is a tie as strong
As we desire to have us bound withal.

Countess.
I err'd then when I said, both are of age.
She is a woman: thou art still a boy.

Rudolf.
How so?

Countess.
'Tis the child's office to be rul'd.

Rudolf.
Mother, you speak in riddles.

Countess.
Thou hast seen her
Tire of a doll and fondle a new toy?
'Twas the girl's lesson for the woman's practice.

Rudolf.
You do not think—

Countess.
Where was your new companion?
His skill perhaps had serv'd you also here.
Or was it Ada he deem'd most in straights,—
Whom he would rescue from Count Rudolf's fangs?

Rudolf.
(aside.)
By Heav'n, I saw him leave her as I enter'd.

Countess.
Belike he is some knight itinerant
Bent on high exploits of benevolence.

Rudolf.
If I believ'd—

Countess.
Believe yourself a boy,
Rupert a man, and Ada a shrewd woman,
Who knows the difference.

Rudolf.
He would not dare,—

Countess.
Not dare?—Rudolf, I am asham'd of thee
That in thy veins my blood does course so tamely?
Not dare! What will a man not dare for beauty?
Who feels his manly destiny, will brave
Earth, Heav'n,—aye Hell itself although it gape
Against the consummation of his love,
For the rich joy that woman lavishes.
Not dare! He has a soul for proud achievement
This youth, whoe'er he be. To such a one,
Tough opposition is the lion's hunger,
Stinging his mettle to o'erbearing fierceness.

Rudolf.
Mother, I have been weak. I would forget
I have been, but that of the shame thereof
I'd make a rude remembrancer.

Countess.
My son,
You have not known yourself. Does the suggestion
Of a love-stirr'd aberance from her duty
Cast such alarm into your flagging thoughts?
What had you heard she were another's? Think—
But that you cannot. Loss must weigh itself.
Imagination dives into the future;
But only pictures thence can she bring up,
Which of the treasures or the horrors there
Give no more knowledge, than the storm-cloud's shadow
Gives of the coming desolation. We
Can only know what we have felt.—Rudolf,
You recollect your sportful jealousy
(Sportful as you believ'd, but I saw deeper)
When Count Von Alten, but a month gone by,
Proffer'd to Ada his fame-blazon'd son,
Or choice 'mongst all the prime nobility,
If she would with him to th' Imperial court,
To maze it with her beauty. You were stung
With jealous fear ev'n at the distant danger,—
For such I noted well you felt it was.
'Tis now afront of you. The thing itself,
Whose far-off image frighted you, is here,
Dogging your heels and hideous with dishonour.
A churl beards the Count Rudolf in his hall,
A nameless rustic—.

Rudolf.
Mother, say no more.
To-morrow he shall hence.

Countess.
I'll leave you now:
You are yourself again.

Rudolf.
(Alone.)
Ada is trustful.
This fellow's bearing captivates the eye.
He is so open and so calm; and then,
His modesty is so with frankness blent;
It has no taint of low humility.
Women are all capricious, and they have
Such quenchless appetites for what is hidden,
They'll love a man to know his mystery.

(Exit.)

SCENE II.

Park, near the Castle; Evening.
Count Julian,
alone.
For me there is no greeting on God's earth.
They know me, and their lustral beauties veil
At my approach, the bounteous shows that make
Man's home a Paradise to th' innocent.
The sweetening changes dance their endless round;
But from their choral ring they banish me,
Doom'd to behold all things, loos'd by time's touch,
Sweep on in ceaseless motion, moveless I,
By my own act enfetter'd to one thought.
Ye stars, from your immeasurable fields,
Where orderly ye now enrank yourselves
To work your heavenly tasks, do ye espy me?
Ye look as ye were whispering of my shame.
Or have ye 'mongst yourselves unwholesome mates,
Whose shining fronts are soil'd by noisome breath,
That, swelling in their bosoms, shatters them,
Hurling them forth, self-wrench'd from their high seats,
To grope in irrecoverable gloom,
Disorb'd, as I am.—Thou art exorable,
O! thou, who fram'dst our brains so fearfully.
Thou would'st not give man vigour for a crime
For which were no atonement. O! thy ban
Take from my tortur'd soul. Darkness and light
Sway equally in thy sun-furnish'd world.
Night leagu'd with tempest cannot crush the day.
There is no day in me. O! my pent soul,
It is a mouthless den, where swarms a brood
Of murk-engender'd thoughts, that sting and howl
About their prison-walls. Command thy law
To do its mighty hests; that not forever
The sea of light break baffled on my heart.
Let in thy mercy.—I can bear no more.—
My brain will burst.

(During the latter part of this soliloquy Ada and Rupert have entered.)
Ada.
My heart will break with his. O! let's away.
'Twere cruelty to add our little griefs
To the great sum of his. O! but for pity,
My blood at this dread sight would chill and stop.
Some other time we'll speak to him; not now.

Rupert.
For his sake stir not. 'Twere worst cruelty
To leave him thus. See how he struggles.

Count Julian.
Down,
Down: lower, lower: on,—no pause, no pause.
I'm heavy enough; I'm made to sink: down, down.
I'll thank you too.—'Tis very dark,—O! O!

Rupert.
I am a man made of the clay that he is.—
O! Ada, speak to him. His soul will smother
In its own hell.

Ada.
Uncle!

Count Julian.
That voice,—sweet voice?

Ada.
Uncle—Uncle!

Count.
(Staring at Rupert.)
Ha!—Brother—Brother—

Ada.
Uncle, 'tis I, your Ada.

Count.
Ada!
Where are we?

Ada.
In the park, sir: this is Rupert.

Count.
Aye—yes—I know him now.

Ada.
You were asleep,
Here on the bench.

Count.
Asleep!—and you have wak'd me?

Ada.
Yes, sir: I've come to ask a favour of you.

Count.
Of me? Can I do any one a service?

Ada.
One that will make me love you even more
Than now I do. Count Rudolf and myself
Have long been in my aunt's desires contracted;
And now that we are both of age;—you frown:—

Count.
It must not be: it must not be: no, no.
Not you to son of mine.

Ada.
O! my dear uncle;
'Twas this I came to ask of you, that you
Will not consent to what the Countess orders.

Count.
Against your wish? Ha! violence again!
Summon them hither both.I am Count Julian.
This castle is not theirs, nor this domain.
'Tis Hell's;—but I'm the tenant,—that I am.
You know it not:—there's one that knows it: two, two.
Ada, beware that woman.

Rupert.
Pray you, sir,
Let us go in: the night is damp.

Count.
Ah! Rupert!
My noble boy: 'twas you sav'd Rudolf's life.
I cannot thank you for it: yet, 'tis well.
You did your best. 'Twas a great deed.—
How was it? Have you more such? Give me one.
O! could I save a life, I'd laugh again.
What joy you made that day in Heaven.
I cannot give: God will not let me give:
He has forbid it, long ago. But could I,
I'd give to thee my blessing.—When you wed,
Your wife be poor in wishes, that from you
Her longings she may learn; and rich in love,
That elsewhere than in you she may not seek
To mend her wishes' poverty. Be she
Of bounded dispositions, that her thoughts
Your o'er-aspiring thoughts may check; and yet,
Of liberal mind, that if at any time
Into yourself too much you turn your gifts,
Her warmth may thaw the selfish mood; her strength
Not spent to lead your will, but husbanded
To temper it.—Ada, thy husband be
One capable to know thee as thou art,
And knowing thee, loves thee for being thyself.
Such love such knowledge following, will prove
Worth equal thy deserts, if such there be.
And what a victory were such a mating!
But thou unfitly match'd! O! 'twere a discord
To grate on angels' ears, and a defeat
Of Nature's cunningest design.—
Let us go in: the night is damp. Come, come.
Let us go in.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE III.

A Room in the Castle. Night.
Enter Nurse, and Albrecht disguised.
Nurse.
What would you with me?—Who are you?—
(Albrecht throws off his disguise.)
Albrecht!

Albrecht.
Wipe that reproachful honor from your looks.
Margaret, I'm guiltless:—I'm most strangely wrong'd.

Nurse.
Are you? That night,—the child?—

Albrecht.
He lives.

Nurse.
He lives!

Albrecht.
Another was suborn'd to take his life!

Nurse.
Ha!—Klebel?

Albrecht.
Aye, the same; brought to the castle
For that most heinous crime.

Nurse.
O! my suspicions!
But you, you sav'd him?

Albrecht.
Listen to my tale.—
I knew the Countess' hatred of the child,
A hate born of the lust of power venom'd
By baffled vengeance, good Count Herman's son
Being the inheritor of his estates,
And bar to her soul-rooted greed of wealth.
My fears for th' orphan,—in whose strengthening life
His guardians daily saw the widening grave
Of their heart-blighting hopes,—yet darker grew
When Klebel here appear'd, of whom already
I knew some ill. More closely still I watch'd.
I noted his caresses of the boy,
The Countess' jealous looks and restless bearing,
Count Julian's moody silence. On that night,
Which in this house's calendar so black
Is markt, Klebel I saw, else no one near,
Entice the child into the park, and thence,
The low clouds shrouding them in early darkness,
Snatching him in his arms, haste tow'rds the stream.
I follow'd swift.—‘Foul murderer,’ I cried,
When I had near'd him. On his guilty ear
My voice like an unearthly summons fell.
Quickly the child slid from his side, as he,
Halting, turn'd him to front me. ‘Hir'd assassin,
Give up thy victim.’ ‘Not with life,’ he answer'd,
‘And thy first motion one step nearer drives
My sword into his heart.’ I paus'd, to threat,
To beg, to stir his pity, to defy,
To tempt his avarice. All seem'd in vain.
At last, finding that now his sordid stake
More safely he could win without the murder,
He yielded. By an oath I bound myself
To twenty years of secrecy. Thus he
The bargain'd act's reward would reap,
And I its infamy.—More bounding joy
Mother ne'er had than I when round my neck
The rescu'd boy's tight-clasping arms I felt.
How through that storm I strode. For weeks I paus'd not,
Till Rumor's faintest tongue was far behind me.
Never was act so recompens'd. I'd sav'd,
Not my old master's child alone, but one
Of God's selectest creatures. As he grew,
The infant's smiles flower'd to sympathy
With truth and goodness; the quick eye of boyhood
To grasping apprehension wax'd. My task was,
Ever with nature's movement to keep pace.
For Art's high'st function is t' interpret Nature,
Potent where she is fruitful, impotent
Where barren, and in every effort subject
To her deep laws, which daily she asserts,
Giving the peasant virtue, beauty, strength,
To shame the prince's vileness. He was one
In whose unfolding was so sweetly bared
Nature's fine mystery, that 't was a lesson
Where love helpt art its subtle duty learn.
Now shone the cunning virtue is in thrift.
My little gatherings, when secretary
To 'th Count, swell'd to a teeming treasure. Where
Myself came short, I bought instruction, storing
His clean and roomy mind with choicest knowledge,
And mingling with high thoughts toil's healthful uses.
'Tis now four months,—my hoard some time being spent,
And the term near of my sworn secrecy,—
I've liv'd a few leagues distant from the castle.—

Nurse.
Is the boy with you?

Albrecht.
He's an inmate here.

Nurse.
Ha!

Albrecht.
The youth Rupert is Count Herman's son.—
How safest he may claim his rights we'll talk of,
But go you now and send him quickly hither.

Nurse.
O! my dear Ada!

(Exit.)
Albrecht.
(Alone.)
Twixt youth and manhood there's a gulf, which some
Pass over smoothly: others, tempest-rockt,
Upon the wish'd-for shore are cast young wrecks.
Rupert is amply furnish'd for the trial.
Henceforth he rules himself; for wisest words
From others' lips, upon the ear of youth
When passion's trancing music freshly sounds,
Are like the calm stream's murmur vanishing
Beneath the torrent's leap. 'Tis much, if when
The storm is past, enough of light is left
To paint its triumph on the silenc'd clouds:
But only he the sign of peace can see,
About whose head has been the angry conflict.

(Enter Rupert.)
Rupert.
My father!

Albrecht.
My dear Rupert!

Rupert.
Pardon me
My absence. O! sir, how I've long'd to see you;
And yet, I could not hence. In these few days
I have liv'd years;—or rather I have liv'd;
For all the past a shallow masking seems.
But now, in the great deep itself I move,
And life heaves round me with bewildering billows,
Where my soul shifts from awe to extacy.

Albrecht.
What hast thou, Rupert? Never have I seen
Thy eye so kindled.

Rupert.
O! 't is with a fire
Which thou canst quench forever with a word.
Yet must I hear it, though it blast me. Father,
My birth;—unveil to me that mystery.
If that the truth crouch writhing in the grasp
Of foulest sin, shrieking infectious curses,
I'll face it. Since I know how blest I may be,
My fears have put on frightful shapes, and check
With bodements my fleet hopes. Dreams, where my joys
Are multiplied in sleep's confineless realms,
By wails sounding from mouldering graves are scar'd.
But were they not, these horrent images,
Which haunt me thus, still must I know the truth.
O speak: I've school'd myself to hear the worst.

Albrecht.
Thy fears then vanish. Spotless is thy name.
Thy parents knew not what dishonour is.
Not for a blot attainting them or thee
Has thy condition been a secret kept,
But for thy safety 'gainst the arts of others.

Rupert.
Methinks I now could do a deed of greatness;
Or if beneath my lifted weapon cower'd
A treacherous foe, I could forgive and bless him.
My spirits stretch into the pliant air
To find them room for their enfranchis'd wills.—
O! my dear father, pardon those my thoughts;
They breath'd not on my love; and when my fears
Were lowest, 'twas my comfort there to have
A brightness which not foulest blasts could dim.—
O! thou hast suffer'd for my sake.

Albrecht.
As one
Who fear'd the loss of his chief good. Through thee
My daily draught of life has been so sweet,
I dread some weighty evil is in store,
To mete to me my scanted share of wo.—
But now the night is hastening to its noon.
We both need rest. Send the good Margaret to me.
She will provide me with a secret couch.
Seek me at dawn, and I'll unfold to thee,
Wherefore it must be secret, and all else
Of thy deep-hidden history.—Good night.

Rupert.
And I have much to tell to thee. Good night.

Albrecht.
Good night.

(Exit Rupert.)