University of Virginia Library

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.)