University of Virginia Library

Chapter XIV.

Scene—Gardens and ornamental grounds adjoining the castle; statues of the Classic Deities grace the many beautiful walks and vistas. Enter Lady Bertha and Annette.
LADY BERTHA.
Most sweetly sang you; but though music be
Almost a passion of my being, still
The verse, like to a silver swan, should float
Upon the stream of melody, and clear
Its graceful presence should be borne along,
Defined and perfect in its loveliness:
Note following note, like wave succeeding wave,
Should lift its theme still higher than itself,
Not drown it in the tide of harmony,
Lose it in billows of ambitious sounds,
As thou didst now. 'Twas passing sweet, I own;
But there were words as sweet, the which I lost,
And should be glad to hear. Let's have them; come,
And that without the music.

ANNETTE,
repeats the song.

BERTHA.

ANNETTE.
I will remember, madam; but in this
I followed out the method I was taught;
To give the note, nor heed, they said, the words,
Which were to music but subordinate.

BERTHA.

ANNETTE.
Look, dear lady, what marble god is this,
Whose noble head bears such resemblance to . . .

BERTHA,
interrupting her.
To Falkner, thou wouldst say. Apollo, girl:
It is, indeed, most like that lofty front,
Where intellect doth sit as on a throne;
The mouth instinct with gracious eloquence,
The grandeur of that all imperial air,
The majesty of manhood and of grace!
And yet unlike; for he, my love, seems sad,
Though all things smile as happy in his presence:
This god wore joy upon his conquering brow,
Yet sorrow dwelt where'er his footsteps trod;
No, 'tis not like, it is not like my Falkner!

ANNETTE.
The very children of the village love him,
Hold out their little hands with gifts of flowers,
Or aught to win a word, a look, a smile.

BERTHA.
Would they were here with flowers to win him now,
For all the world is dark without his smile:
My Falkner; no; he hath no paragon:
His voice is as the music of his looks—
Mournful, yet sorrowful as not of earth,
But as an angel thought of others' woes!
Oh, he is all that Love may idolize,
Exalted by its own idolatry!

ANNETTE.
Yes; Love is still its own interpreter,
None but itself should be its advocate.

BERTHA.
Oh, there's but one sweet word in all the world,
And that is Love: to love this beauteous earth,
This brilliant heaven, and Him that holds them thus,
In glory and perfection absolute,
Lasting as Truth, in His almighty hand!
To gaze upon the Earth's majestic face,
And say, Here breathes the genius of a God!
To love the world, yet single from its breast
One being to be loved beyond the world,
Oh, then it is we live; then, then we live!
Affection is a child of Love, but wayward;
The mortal child of an immortal mother!
But Love itself! Seek from the centre, first,
To shake the sun ere shake true stedfast Love!
Harshness and cruelty, hate, coldness, scorn,
May make Love weep, but never make Love change.
Rob every flower from earth, and Love will find
Some way to bid it bloom! Cover Love's path
With sharpest flint; and though her life ebbed forth
At every step, unmurmuring would she tread:
For in her breast—deep in her holy breast—
One flower still grows, root of celestial soil,
And angels' tears have watered its blest bloom,
Angels have wreathed its leaves around their heads,
So beautiful it is, and called its name,
That sweet flower's sweeter name, Forgiveness!

ANNETTE.
My dear, dear lady, God in mercy grant
Such love may find abundant recompense;
Yet thou'rt so sanguine, ardent, confident,
I tremble, lady, for thy happiness!
What wouldst thou do should accident befall him?

BERTHA,
alarmed.
Accident? Falkner? he's been gone full long:
Know'st thou aught of it? Hath some evil chanced?
What is it? Speak! quick—quick, whilst I can bear it!

ANNETTE.
Nothing, dear lady; no, I but surmised . . .

BERTHA.
[Exit Annette.]

Enter Falkner, who starts, as though wishful to have avoided her.
BERTHA.
Thou com'st at last!
Falkner, dear Falkner, thou hast lingered long!

FALKNER,
after several ineffectual efforts, in a broken voice,
They linger long who bring unhappy news;
Slow are the steps which bear a heavy heart;
Tardy the tongue that utters words like mine—
I come to say, farewell.

BERTHA.
Farewell?

FALKNER.
But for a time.

BERTHA.
Farewell? Impossible! thou mean'st it not!

FALKNER.
Farewell; 'tis but a word that startles thee;
Were it “Good night,” 'twould breathe of earlier meeting:
But many say “good night” who meet no more!
Death finds them at the turning of an hour,
And from their hopeful pillow to their grave
Is but one step.
Why, say 'tis not “farewell?” and let us part
As though to-morrow bound our lot again.
To-morrow comes—
A new to-morrow dawns for time to leap,
And our farewell is but a sleep, a dream,
To find that morn where parting weeps no more.

BERTHA.
Parting? Farewell? Am I alive? Falkner?
Thou lov'st me? I have not offended thee?
I have said nothing to have wrought this change?
Or have I loved thee so devotedly
My very truth is turned into offence?
What have I done that I should see thee thus,
With looks that do avoid, and love me not?

FALKNER.
That love thee not?
When all within my soul grew desolate
'Twas Bertha grasped the thorn to save me pain;
'Twas Bertha's love, like sunlight, o'er me fell;
Bertha, whose pity gave me back the world,
Robed in the brightness her own beauty flung,
And earth once more resembled Paradise!
That love thee not? With looks that love thee not?

BERTHA.
Oh, be thou merciful, and kill me, Falkner! [Walks in violent agitation.]

Oh, it was most unkind, unfeeling, rash:
I saw thee not—I knew thee not—had been
Most happy in my quiet orphanage,
Hadst thou not come to shew my day, like night,
With all the magic of thine intellect,
Thy thrilling tenderness of look and voice,
To win the love of mine enchanted heart!
Oh, Heaven can witness how intensely dear
The sound but of a passing word became;
And thou—for pastime, for mere vanity—
Hast nursed this flower to cut it from my heart,
No matter how it bleed beneath thy knife!

FALKNER.
Bertha?

BERTHA.
Oh, was it right—or kind—or generous—
To woo—yet wound: to sue—yet sting the heart?
Whose only weakness was in too much faith!
Honour is love's vicegerent upon earth—
Was—was it honourable?

FALKNER.
Bertha?

BERTHA.
You spoke of wealth:
But what was wealth to me who had thy love,
Or, oh, too fond—too weak—deem'd that I had:
Love far surpassing wealth! Of title spoke;
But, weighed 'gainst nobler natures, titles seemed
The trinkets of a throne. Higher than kings
Is He who true pre-eminence creates:
Greater is He who stamps upon man's brow
Nature's high patent of nobility.
Wealth, title, all, were penury compared
To that best wealth, best title to be thine:
“Thine own!” “thine own!” I asked no other name,
No other rank, no dearer dignity;
To be “thy wife,” in its sufficient love,
Comprised all riches, honours, and degrees.

FALKNER.
Yet hear me, Bertha. . . .

BERTHA,
passionately.
Hear me!
And pause; yea, pause awhile, my Falkner;
I am not one to bear this agony,
Nor wait the gradual breaking of a heart;
And should we meet, indeed, no more on earth,
Then tremble, Falkner, lest we meet hereafter!

FALKNER.
Thou'rt not so rash? Let time bring time's account,
And let us meet it!
Heap fire upon me—torture me with words
Which, if thou think'st I merit, speak, nor spare,
Though every syllable's a poisoned thorn:
Yet is my heart so full of direst pains
It scarce can writhe much more!
Oh, misery of memory, to be
What I have been; to hear what I now hear;
Whichever way I turn, is wretchedness.
Not love thee? no, not love thee? Witness all
Ye blesséd powers whose element is love;
Be witness heaven, which, like a shrine of love,
Sends light, and life, and union to the world;
Witness all holy and all beautiful
How dear, how passionately dear, I love!
And witness, too, this dreaded destiny,
That ever and for ever dogs my steps
Like the foul shadow of some spirit doomed,
Alone constrains my tongue to say . . . .

BERTHA,
shrieking.
No, say it not!
Thou wilt not say farewell?
Oh, Falkner, shew some pity; or, if thou goest
Then fear what I may do! Fear and despair!
I am distracted, wild—'twere madness now
To leave me to myself.
I know not what I do—or what may do!
I am distraught with more than brain can bear.

FALKNER,
aside.
Be iron, nerves: be firm, my faltering heart:
Thou hast an eagle's flight, and not a dove's:
To waver now were to relinquish all.
And yet . . . .

BERTHA.
Thou canst not go—thou'st not the heart to go.
What, crush the dove which made thy breast her home?
Thou canst not do it, or looks belie the heart;
'Twere cruelty to do it—alas, thy pride—
I knew thy pride, but not thy cruelty!

FALKNER.
Of what should I be proud—of misery?
The victim at the rack shrieks not—for pride!
Such pride should even be thy Falkner's now.
And yet—and yet—I weep, my Bertha, weep;
Tell me these tears are but false witnesses—
Say that this quivering lip is still untrue—
This throbbing pulse—deceit; tell me this heart,
That with tumultuous beatings cleaves my breast
As though 'twould find a passage to thy feet,
Is hypocrite!—say still 'tis cruelty!
'Twere blissful to be aught but what I am;
Madness were mercy to this misery!
Again, that word again, 'twere what to do it?

BERTHA,
imploringly.
Yet, for all this, thou didst not say farewell?

FALKNER.
God knows I did—and must.

BERTHA.
Then, guise it as thou wilt, 'tis cruelty!
Thou dar'st not see the heart bleed thou hast broken;
Thou stabb'st and leav'st thy victim.

FALKNER.
Am I so base!
I who've sought honour's path—
As to the height of all achievement here;
Who, were death cast between my path and it,
Had clung to honour rather than to life!
To hear— [Bertha droops; he supports her.]

Bertha, my love, I will not say farewell!
Tears, tears—still tears to kiss away!
I am a boy, a child, and not a man,
An infant, that the fates dash where they will!
I'll see thee, love, again, and speedily—when,
If thoul't take this hand 'tis thine for ever!
But we must quit this spot: be patient, love,
Thou canst not hear me if thou weepest thus.

[A pause—she recovers—Falkner retiring.]
BERTHA.
Stay, Falkner, I conjure thee!
I command thee, stay! [Falkner turns, she steps before him.]

Thou goest not hence.

FALKNER.
Not hence?

BERTHA.
No!

FALKNER.
What can restrain me?

BERTHA,
sinking and exhausted with agitation.
A fragile thing—a slight and powerless thing—
Yet one thou could'st not, ingrate as thou art,
Thou would'st not tread upon! no, no, nor scorn,
Nor roughly pass; no, nor for kingdoms leave!
Though thou regard'st it little now perchance;
Yet then, my Falkner, then 'twill rivet thee,
As though an angel cried, “Thou goest not hence.”

FALKNER.
Nor earth, nor all earth holds, may stay my foot!
It is my fate; I act not of myself,
But am the very thrall of destiny!
What's that may grapple fate and bar its path?

BERTHA.
My corpse!

[Swoons at his feet.]
FALKNER,
kneeling and raising her tenderly and pityingly.
Straws—straws are we upon the stream of fate!
Oh, worse than blind not to have this foreseen!
My poor, wronged girl, thus pale and stricken down,
How in thy desolation dearer far
Than in the beaming beauty of thy hope!
How weak looks vengeance near thine angel face;
It palsies so the hoarded hate of years,
That guilt might stand within the dagger's reach,
Yet vengeance turn aside with tears—not blood!
My love, my Bertha, have I veins of stone,
Unknowing mercy—knowing scarce myself;
My very hand seems changed and strange to me!
My love, I will return! a little while!
But for a little while, I do not say farewell!

[He bears her off with great tenderness and sorrow.]