University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

A garden with trees, and shrubs, &c. Orra, Theobald, and Hartman, are discovered in a shaded walk at the bottom of the stage, speaking in dumb show, which they cross, disappearing behind the trees; and are presently followed by Cathrina and Alice, who continue walking there. Orra, Theo., and Hart. then appear again, entering near the front of the stage.
Orra
(talking to Hart. as she enters).
And so, since fate has made me, woe the day!
That poor and good-for-nothing, helpless being.
Woman yclept, I must consign myself
With all my lands and rights into the hands
Of some proud man, and say, “Take all, I pray,
And do me in return the grace and favour
To be my master.”

Hart.
Nay, gentle lady, you constrain my words.
And load them with a meaning harsh and foreign
To what they truly bear.—A master! No;
A valiant gentle mate, who in the field
Or in the council will maintain your right:
A noble, equal partner.

Orra
(shaking her head).
Well I know,
In such a partnership, the share of power
Allotted to the wife. See, noble Falkenstein
Hath silent been the while, nor spoke one word
In aid of all your specious arguments.
(To Theo.)
What's your advice, my lord?

Theo.
Ah, noble Orra,
'Twere like self-murder to give honest counsel;
Then urge me not. I frankly do confess
I should be more heroic than I am.

Orra.
Right well I see thy head approves my plan,
And by-and-bye so will thy gen'rous heart.
In short, I would, without another's leave,
Improve the low condition of my peasants,
And cherish them in peace. E'en now, methinks,
Each little cottage of my native vale
Swells out its earthen sides, up-heaves its roof,
Like to a hillock mov'd by lab'ring mole,
And with green trail-weeds clamb'ring up its walls,
Roses and ev'ry gay and fragrant plant,
Before my fancy stands, a fairy bower:
Ay, and within it too do fairies dwell.
[Looking playfully through her fingers like a show-glass.
Peep through its wreathed window, if indeed
The flowers grow not too close, and there within
Thou'lt see some half a dozen rosy brats
Eating from wooden bowls their dainty milk;—
Those are my mountain elves. Seest thou not
Their very forms distinctly?

Theo.
Distinctly; and most beautiful the sight!
A sight which sweetly stirreth in the heart
Feelings that gladden and ennoble it,
Dancing like sun-beams on the rippled sea;
A blessed picture! Foul befall the man
Whose narrow, selfish soul would shade or mar it!

Hart.
To this right heartily I say Amen!
But if there be a man whose gen'rous soul
[Turning to Orra.
Like ardour fills; who would with thee pursue
Thy gen'rous plan; who would his harness don—

Orra
(putting her hand on him in gentle interruption).
Nay, valiant banneret, who would, an't please you,
His harness doff: all feuds, all strife forbear,
All military rivalship, all lust
Of added power, and live in steady quietness,
A mild and fost'ring lord. Know you of one
That would so share my task?—You answer not;
And your brave friend, methinks, casts on the ground
A thoughtful look: wots he of such a lord?

[To Theo.
Theo.
Wot I of such a lord? No, noble Orra,
I do not; nor does Hartman, though perhaps
His friendship may betray his judgment. No;
None such exist: we are all fierce, contentious,
Restless and proud, and prone to vengeful feuds;
The very distant sound of war excites us,
Like the curb'd courser list'ning to the chase,
Who paws, and frets, and bites the rein. Trust none
To cross thy gentle, but most princely purpose,
Who hath on head a circling helmet worn,
Or ever grasp'd a glave.—But ne'ertheless
There is—I know a man.— Might I be bold?

Orra.
Being so honest, boldness is your right.

Theo.
Permitted then, I'll say, I know a man,
Though most unworthy Orra's lord to be,
Who, as her champion, friend, devoted soldier,
Might yet commend himself; and, so received,
Who would at her command, for her defence
His sword right proudly draw. An honour'd sword,
Like that which at the gate of Paradise
From steps profane the blessed region guarded.

Orra.
Thanks to the gen'rous knight! I also know
The man thou wouldst commend; and when my state
Such service needeth, to no sword but his
Will I that service owe.

Theo.
Most noble Orra! greatly is he honour'd;
And will not murmur that a higher wish,
Too high, and too presumptuous, is repress'd.

[Kissing her hand with great respect.
Orra.
Nay, Rudolph Hartman, clear that cloudy brow,
And look on Falkenstein and on myself
As two co-burghers of thy native city
(For such I mean ere long to be), and claiming
From thee, as cadets from an elder born,
Thy cheering equal kindness.

Enter a Servant.
Serv.
The count is now at leisure to receive
The lord of Falkenstein, and Rudolph Hartman.

Hart.
We shall attend him shortly. [Exit servant.
(Aside to Theo.)

Must we now
Our purpos'd suit to some pretended matter
Of slighter import change?

Theo.
(to Hart. aside).
Assuredly.—
Madam, I take my leave with all devotion.

Hart.
I with all friendly wishes.

[Exeunt Theo. and Hart. Cathrina and Alice now advance through the shrubs, &c. at the bottom of the stage, while Orra remains, wrapped in thought, on the front.
Cath.
Madam, you're thoughtful; something occupies
Your busy mind.

Orra.
What was't we talk'd of, when the worthy banneret
With Falkenstein upon our converse broke?

Cath.
How we should spend our time, when in your castle
You shall maintain your state in ancient splendour,
With all your vassals round you.

Orra.
Ay, so it was.

Al.
And you did say, my lady,
It should not be a cold unsocial grandeur:
That you would keep, the while, a merry house.

Orra.
O doubt it not! I'll gather round my board
All that heav'n sends to me of way-worn folks,
And noble travellers, and neighb'ring friends,
Both young and old. Within my ample hall,
The worn-out man of arms (of whom too many,
Nobly descended, rove like reckless vagrants
From one proud chieftain's castle to another,
Half chid, half honour'd) shall o' tiptoe tread,
Tossing his grey locks from his wrinkled brow
With cheerful freedom, as he boasts his feats
Of days gone by.—Music we'll have; and oft
The bick'ring dance upon our oaken floors
Shall, thund'ring loud, strike on the distant ear
Of'nighted trav'llers, who shall gladly bend
Their doubtful footsteps tow'rds the cheering din.
Solemn, and grave, and cloister'd, and demure
We shall not be. Will this content ye, damsels?

Al.
O passing well! 'twill be a pleasant life;
Free from all stern subjection; blithe and fanciful;
We'll do whate'er we list.

Cath.
That right and prudent is, I hope thou meanest.

Al.
Why ever so suspicious and so strict?
How couldst thou think I had another meaning?
(To Orra.)
And shall we ramble in the woods full oft
With hound and horn?—that is my dearest joy.

Orra.
Thou runn'st me fast, good Alice. Do not doubt
This shall be wanting to us. Ev'ry season
Shall have its suited pastime: even Winter
In its deep noon, when mountains piled with snow,
And chok'd up valleys from our mansion bar
All entrance, and nor guest, nor traveller
Sounds at our gate; the empty hall forsaking,
In some warm chamber, by the crackling fire
We'll hold our little, snug, domestic court,
Plying our work with song and tale between.

Cath.
And stories too, I ween, of ghosts and spirits,
And things unearthly, that on Michael's eve
Rise from the yawning tombs.

Orra.
Thou thinkest then one night o'th' year is truly
More horrid than the rest.

Cath.
Perhaps 'tis only silly superstition:
But yet it is well known the count's brave father
Would rather on a glacier's point have lain,
By angry tempests rock'd, than on that night
Sunk in a downy couch in Brunier's castle.

Orra.
How, pray? What fearful thing did scare him so?

Cath.
Hast thou ne'er heard the story of Count Hugo,
His ancestor, who slew the hunter-knight?

Orra
(eagerly).
Tell it, I pray thee.

Al.
Cathrina, tell it not; it is not right:
Such stories ever change her cheerful spirits
To gloomy pensiveness; her rosy bloom
To the wan colour of a shrouded corse.
(To Orra.)
What pleasure is there, lady, when thy hand,
Cold as the valley's ice, with hasty grasp
Seizes on her who speaks, while thy shrunk form
Cow'ring and shiv'ring stands with keen turn'd ear
To catch what follows of the pausing tale?

Orra.
And let me cow'ring stand, and be my touch
The valley's ice: there is a pleasure in it.

Al.
Sayst thou indeed there is a pleasure in it?

Orra.
Yea, when the cold blood shoots through every vein:
When every pore upon my shrunken skin
A knotted knoll becomes, and to mine ears
Strange inward sounds awake, and to mine eyes
Rush stranger tears, there is a joy in fear.
[Catching hold of Cathrina.
Tell it, Cathrina, for the life within me
Beats thick, and stirs to hear
He slew the hunter-knight?

Cath.
Since I must tell it, then, the story goes
That grim Count Aldenberg, the ancestor
Of Hughobert, and also of yourself,
From hatred or from envy, to his castle
A noble knight, who hunted in the forest,
Well the Black Forest named, basely decoy'd,
And there, within his chamber, murder'd him—

Orra.
Merciful Heaven! and in my veins there runs
A murderer's blood. Saidst thou not, murder'd him?

Cath.
Ay; as he lay asleep, at dead of night.

Orra.
A deed most horrible!

Cath.
It was on Michael's eve; and since that time,
The neighb'ring hinds oft hear the midnight yell
Of spectre-hounds, and see the spectre shapes
Of huntsmen on their sable steeds, with still
A noble hunter riding in their van
To cheer the chase, shown by the moon's pale beams,
When wanes its horn in long October nights.

Orra.
This hath been often seen?

Cath.
Ay, so they say.
But, as the story goes, on Michael's eve,
And on that night alone of all the year,
The hunter-knight himself, having a horn
Thrice sounded at the gate, the castle enters;
And, in the very chamber where he died,
Calls on his murd'rer, or in his default
Some true descendant of his house, to loose
His spirit from its torment; for his body
Is laid i' the earth unbless'd, and none can tell
The spot of its interment.

Orra.
Call on some true descendant of his race!
It were to such a fearful interview.
But in that chamber, on that night alone—
Hath he elsewhere to any of the race
Appeared? or hath he power—

Al.
Nay, nay, forbear:
See how she looks. (To Orra.)
I fear thou art not well.

Orra.
There is a sickly faintness come upon me.

Al.
And didst thou say there is a joy in fear?

Orra.
My mind of late has strange impressionsg ta'en.
I know not how it is.

Al.
A few nights since,
Stealing o' tiptoe, softly through your chamber,
Towards my own—

Orra.
O heaven defend us! didst thou see aught there?

Al.
Only your sleeping self. But you appear'd
Distress'd and troubled in your dreams; and once
I thought to wake you ere I left the chamber,
But I forbore.

Orra.
And glad I am thou didst.
It is not dreams I fear; for still with me
There is an indistinctness o'er them cast,
Like the dull gloom of misty twilight, where
Before mine eyes pass all incongruous things,
Huge, horrible, and strange, on which I stare
As idiots do upon this changeful world,
With nor surprise nor speculation. No;
Dreams I fear not: it is the dreadful waking,
When, in deep midnight stillness, the roused fancy
Takes up th' imperfect shadows of its sleep,
Like a marr'd speech snatch'd from a bungler's mouth,
Shaping their forms distinctively and vivid
To visions horrible:—this is my bane;—
It is the dreadful waking that I fear.

Al.
Well, speak of other things. There in good time
Your ghostly father comes with quicken'd steps,
Like one who bears some tidings good or ill.
Heaven grant they may be good!

Enter Urston.
Orra.
Father, you seem disturb'd.

Urst.
Daughter, I am in truth disturb'd. The count
All o' the sudden, being much enraged
That Falkenstein still lingers near these walls,
Resolves to send thee hence, to be awhile
In banishment detain'd, till on his son
Thou lookst with better favour.

Orra.
Ay, indeed!
That is to say perpetual banishment:
A sentence light or heavy, as the place
Is sweet or irksome he would send me to.

Urst.
He will contrive to make it, doubt him not,
Irksome enough. Therefore I would advise thee
To feign at least, but for a little time,
A disposition to obey his wishes.
He's stern, but not relentless; and his dame,
The gentle Eleanor, will still befriend you,
When fit occasion serves.

Orra.
What saidst thou, father?
To feign a disposition to obey!
I did mistake thy words.

Urst.
No, gentle daughter;
So press'd, thou mayest feign and yet be blameless.
A trusty guardian's faith with thee he holds not,
And therefore thou art free to meet his wrongs
With what defence thou hast.

Orra
(proudly).
Nay, pardon me; I, with an unshorn crown,
Must hold the truth in plain simplicity,
And am in nice distinctions most unskilful.

Urst.
Lady, have I deserv'd this sharpness? oft
Thine infant hand has strok'd this shaven crown:
Thou'st ne'er till now reproach'd it.

Orra
(bursting into tears).
Pardon, O pardon me, my gentle Urston!
Pardon a wayward child, whose eager temper
Doth sometimes mar the kindness of her heart.
Father, am I forgiven?

(Hanging on him.)
Urst.
Thou art, thou art:
Thou art forgiven; more than forgiven, my child.

Orra.
Then lead me to the count, I will myself
Learn his stern purpose.

Urst.
In the hall he is,
Seated in state, and waiting to receive you.

[Exeunt.