University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—Jaromir. Bertha.
BERTHA.
It is in this we differ; I would seek
To blend my very being into thine—
I'm even jealous of thy memory:
I wish our childhood had been pass'd together.

JAROMIR.
Bertha, sweet Bertha! would to heav'n it had!
What would'st thou with a past that knew thee not?

BERTHA.
To make that past my own by confidence,
By mingled recollections, I would fain
Our childish sorrows had been wept together;
Our childish joys had been indulged together;
Our childish hopes had been believed together:
But as this cannot be, I speak of them—
The very speaking does associate us—
I speak of them, that, in those coming years,
When youthful hours rise up within the mind,
Like lovely dreams some sudden chance has brought,
To fill the eyes with long-forgotten tears,
My image may be with them as of one
Who held such sympathy with aught of thine.

JAROMIR.
Sweetest, no more of this: my youth hath pass'd
In harsh and rugged warfare, not the scenes
Of young knights with white plumes, and gallant steeds,
With lady's favour on each burnish'd crest,
Whose tournaments, in honour of fair dames,
May furnish tales to suit the maiden's ear.
I've had no part in such; I only know
Of war the terrible reality:—
The long night-watch beneath the driving snow:—
The unsoothed pillow, where the strong man lay
Like a weak child, by weary sickness worn
Even to weeping:—or the ghastly dead,
By the more ghastly dying, whose last breath
Pass'd in a prayer for water—but in vain,—
O'er them their eager comrades hurry on
To slaughter others. How thy cheek is blanch'd!
I truly said these were no tales for thee.
Come, take thy lute, and sing just one sweet song
To fill my sleep with music.

BERTHA.
Then good night.
I have so much to say to my old nurse,—
This is her annual visit, and she waits
Within my chamber,—so one only song.
My lute is tuneless with this damp night air.
Like to our own glad spirits, its fine chords
Are soon relax'd.

JAROMIR.
Then sing, love, with the wind,
The plaining wind, and let that be thy lute.

BERTHA.

JAROMIR.
And you will listen like a frighted child.
I think I see you;—when the turret clock
Has toll'd the night hour heavily; the hearth
Has only flickering embers, which send forth
Gleams of distorting light; the untrimm'd lamp
Exaggerates the shadows, till they seem
Flung by no human shape; the hollow voice
Of that old crone, the only living sound;
Her face, on which mortality has writ
Its closing, with the wan and bony hand,
Raised like a spectre's—and yourself the while,
Cold from the midnight chill, and white with fear,
Your large blue eyes darker and larger grown
With terror's chain'd attention, and your breath
Suppress'd for very earnestness. Well, love,
Good night; and if our haunted air be fill'd
With Spirits, may they watch o'er thee like Love!

BERTHA.
Good night, good night!—the kind Madonna shed
Her blessings o'er thee! [Exit Jaromir.

'Tis his last footfall,—I can catch no more.
Methinks he pass'd too quickly. Had I left
This room, I should have counted every step,—
Have linger'd on the threshold; but he went
Rapidly, carelessly. Now out on this,
The very folly of a loving heart!
O Jaromir! it is a fearful thing
To love as I love thee; to feel the world—
The bright, the beautiful, joy-giving world—
A blank without thee. Never more to me
Can hope, joy, fear wear different seemings. Now
I have no hope that does not dream for thee;
I have no joy that is not shared by thee;
I have no fear that does not dread for thee.
All that I once took pleasure in,—my lute
Is only sweet when it repeats thy name;
My flowers, I only gather them for thee;
The book drops listless down, I cannot read,
Unless it is to thee; my lonely hours
Are spent in shaping forth our future lives
After my own romantic fantasies.
He is the star round which my thoughts revolve
Like satellites. My father, can it be
That thine, the unceasing love of many years,
Doth not so fill my heart as this strange guest?
I loved thee once so wholly,—now methinks
I love thee for that thou lovest Jaromir.
—It is the lamp gone out,—that dreams like these
Should be by darkness broken! I am grown
So superstitious in my fears and hopes,
As if I thought that all things must take part
In my great love.—Alas, my poor old nurse,
How she has waited!

[Exit Bertha.