 | The Fawn |  |
29
Leopold.
Lie there, dark murderous weapon! I renounce thee!
Farewell, ye barbarous sports! Alas, poor fawn!
Enter Bertha.
Bertha.
Did I not hear a gun? The poor, poor fawn
Licking its bleeding mother! This is cruel.
Leopold.
Oh cruel! cowardly! Never again—
I hate my treacherous skill; I hate myself.
Bertha.
Look how the poor fawn with his nudging nose
And pretty stamping feet, dabbled in blood,
30
He moans, poor spotted thing! Art thou quite sure
The doe is dead? I thought I saw her move.
Leopold.
Too sure. 'Twas not her motion; that fond thing
Striving—I cannot bear to look on them!
She is too surely dead; when I came up
I found her dying; her fine delicate limbs
Trembling with the death-shiver. She scarce breathed;
But the pure instinct of maternal love
Struggled to keep in life. She fixed her sad
Affectionate eyes upon her young one's face,
Then moaning over her as now he moans,
Stretched out her feet, and died. Oh, lady Bertha,
Man is the wilder brute!
Bertha.
But thou art grieved
And knew'st not—No, I'm sure thou ne'er didst dream
Of this poor fawn?
Leopold.
No; it lay sleeping there
Behind the bushes. But a savage heart
31
There is not in the forest such a spot
As this. Look how the wood-walks hither tend,
As to a centre: some in vistas green,
Pillared and overarched, as the long aisles
Of an old proud cathedral; others wandering
In lovelier mazes through a various scene
Holly or copse-wood; scarce the eye can trace
Their coy meanders, but all meeting here
Beneath this monarch oak, through whose thick boughs
The sun comes flickering. How the indented leaves
Of brightest green cut clearly the blue sky
And the small clouds! And how this tiny spring
Bubbles and sparkles round the moss-grown roots,
Winding its silver thread along the short
Elastic turf, so thickly set with flowers,
And mixed with fragrant herbs, till it is lost
Amongst the bowery thickets! Not a spot
In all the forest can compare with this,
Nature's own temple! And that delicate thing
32
And trembling happiness, most beautiful
Of all this beauty, she, who stood enjoying,
With a sweet peaceful spirit, drinking in
This flood of bliss,—that I—I hate myself!
And thou must hate me, lady.
Bertha.
Oh! no; no;
Thou art so sorry!
Leopold.
'Tis my father's fault:
He keeps me here, waging unequal war
With these poor harmless deer, when I should be
Armed in the desperate strife, stemming the tide
Of glorious battle, winning death or fame.
Bertha.
That were a strange place to learn gentleness!
Leopold.
The only place for me. Oh, I must forth
Into the stirring world! I have wild dreams
Which I would fain make real; daring thoughts
Which must be turned to action; hopes which soar
High as the eagle's wing; all madness now—
But—Lady Bertha, I have basked too long
33
Unseen, unknown as our poor forest cot
Looks upward on thy castle. I must gain
A name, or die. A glorious name!
Bertha.
Nay, Leopold—
Leopold.
She knows me!
Bertha.
Leopold—
Leopold.
Oh now that name
Is precious to my heart! Thou know'st me lady?
Bertha.
Think'st thou I thus had spoken with a stranger?
I've often seen thee at our early mass,
And sometimes from the ramparts; and besides
My own dear mother oftimes talks of thine—
Her faithful favourite maid.
Leopold.
She was her maid;
Her favourite maid. Oh I had not forgotten.
Bertha.
And of thy father, her kind faithful friend
That old and reverend man, whose shining hairs,
Whiter than ermine, so become his bright
34
How much I wish to know him! My dear mother
Talks oftentimes of him. Aye, and of thee—
Oftenest I think of all. Dost thou not know
That I'm thy foster-sister? That one breast—
Alas, that breast is cold!—nourished us both?
And that we should be friends? Oh I have longed,
Even in the holy chapel, to say this;
But my stern uncle—
Leopold.
Kindest, loveliest maid!
How well that heart is mated to that face!
And does the gentle Countess speak of me—
That beautiful grief? Yes, I have often seen,
Have often felt those dewy eyes where love
Mixes with pity as in angel's looks,
Fixed upon mine, as she would read my soul.
Oh! she would find it full of deep respect
For her—and for her daughter.
Bertha.
Leopold,
Look! the poor fawn hath moaned himself to sleep!
35
Or little better in those frowning walls,
Yet have I there a lone deserted nook
Which long neglect hath made a sort of garden;
All clothed with moss, and grass, and trailing plants
And decked with gorgeous weeds. The wild vine there,
And white veined ivy form a natural arbour;
And I have mingled odorous shrubs, and sprinkled
Bright showers of garden blossoms. It is now
A bower fit for the fairies; and unclaimed
Of any other I still call it mine;
And there my pretty fawn shall dwell with me
And feed on roses;—my poor dappled fawn!
No; not in thine arms. Give him into mine.
Leopold.
Nay, let me carry him!
Bertha.
Oh! no, no, no;
I must not; dare not.
Leopold.
Only to the gate.
Bertha.
The gate! Then I must tell my truant tale,
Must own my wanderings. First put down the fawn.
36
As if I had done wrong—as if—and yet
I'm sure I meant no harm. Let us sit here
On these soft mossy roots. It is, indeed,
A chosen spot! Well, Leopold, thou know'st
That my good father died ere I was born,
A luckless girl! and that his castle, lands,
Titles and vassals, to his brother fell,
And I, amongst the rest, his infant ward.
With my dear mother I have lived with him
In a most strict seclusion—prisoners
In every thing but name! For eighteen years,
All my short life, we ne'er have passed the gate.
Leopold.
Villain! base cowardly villain! Soon a time
Shall come—Go on sweet lady!
Bertha.
She still mourning
Her lord's untimely death; and I—
Leopold.
Oh villain
That drink'st the orphan's tears! A time shall come—
37
Nay, peace; I prythee, peace; I still content—
Content is not enough!—I still as happy
As a young bird.
Leopold.
Happy! with that fierce tyrant,
That stern oppressor!
Bertha.
He was sometimes kind
And my dear mother always. All the house
Was good and kind to me—too good! too kind!
Oh! there is in man's heart a fathomless well
Of goodness! I had nought but gratitude,
And yet how kind they were! Content and happy
Was I; yet sometimes an unbidden thought
Sprang up—a hope—a wish—an earnest wish!
A powerful passionate hope! We had a maid
Bred in the forest,—a young innocent girl,
Who pined for trees, and air, and liberty,
Even till she sickened, and her round red cheeks
Grew thin and pale; and books, dear books! they all
Of freedom spake and nature; and the birds
38
Called me to lovely nature; till I longed
Intensely, as the schoolboy yearns for home,
To cast aside only for once the walls
Of our old castle, and to feel green leaves
About me, and to breathe the pleasant air,
Freshened with wilding flowers and dewy grass
And warmed by the bright sun.
Leopold.
And did the Count
Refuse thee, lady?
Bertha.
Yes.
Leopold.
But they, his vassals?
Surely one only man of all the world
Could utter no to thee?
Bertha.
I asked them not.
Have I not said that they were good and kind,—
Kindest to me? And could I tempt them on
To possible punishment.
Leopold.
Punished for thee!
Oh! what a bliss!—But thou art here?
39
I found
The lone deserted court I called my garden,
And dressed my bower, and tried to trifle thus
My bootless wish away:—But still it clung!
And one day following, with my eye, my heart,
A ring-dove hastening to her woodland nest,
Wishing I too had wings, I marked how low
In that dark angle was the ruined wall,
Covered with clustering ivy and o'erhung
By an old ash. And almost with the thought,
The ivy boughs my ladder, and the ash
My friendly veil, I climbed the wall and came
Down on the other side, a safe descent,
Propped by the uneven trunk;—and there I stood
Panting with fear and joy at liberty!
Yet was I so o'ermastered by my fear,
That for that day I could not move a step
Into the forest; but crept trembling back—
And wept as if for grief. Often since then,
When the Count Lindorf is abroad, as now
40
As fearless as a dove.
Leopold.
And still unmarked?
Bertha.
The sheltering forest reaches to the wall—
Look, 'tis close by!—I never have seen trace
Of man but once; then thou wast reading here:
I had resolved if ever I should meet
Thee, or thy good old father, to accost ye;
Yet when I saw thee here—I know not how—
But my heart failed me, and I fled. I wonder
At to-day's courage; but the poor, poor fawn—
I only thought of him. Well, I must hence;
My mother else may miss me.
Leopold.
Then the Countess
Knows not this path?
Bertha.
No; her sweet gentle spirit
Is cast in a too anxious mould; she fears
For all she loves. No; I have never told her.
But now that we—and she must see my fawn!
Aye—and she ought to know.
41
And when she knows—
Oh, lady, I shall never see thee more!
Bertha.
Yet I must tell her—Surely I must tell her!
She is my own most dear and loving mother:—
Ought I not, Leopold?
Leopold.
Lady thou should'st;
Though it will root from out my heart a hope
Deeper than life; thou should'st.
Bertha.
Give me the fawn!
And, Leopold, stay here. I think—I hope
That she will wish to see thee. If she should—
Come not with me. Be sure to stay just here.
Farewell!—Nay, struggle not, my pretty fawn!
Thou must along with me.—Farewell!
[Exit Bertha.
Leopold.
Farewell,
Loveliest and most beloved! Well might she wish
To tread the woodland path,—light-footed maid!
How beautiful she is, with her white arms
Wound round her innocent burthen, and her head
42
That wild and timorous creature, feels the charm,
And is no more afraid. She disappears;—
I scarce distinguish now her floating veil
And her brown waving hair. How beautiful!
How graceful! Most like one of Dian's nymphs
But full of deeper tenderness. Her voice,
Her words still linger round me like the air,
The dewy sunny air of which she spake,
Glowing and odorous. Oh! that I were—
And I will be. Yes, loveliest, most beloved,
I will deserve thee! I will make my name,
My humble lowly name, worthy to join
With thine, sweet Lady Bertha!—Hapless thing,
Thy gay compeers may bound at peace for me;
I shall seek braver fields. For thee, poor doe,
I will go bury thee deep in yon dell.
Should she return,—and will she then return?
How my heart throbs to know.
43
Conrade.
Surely I saw
Some bright and lovely maiden flitting by
Close to the castle wall. Along this path
She must have come. Or was it but the vision
That fills my dreams by night, my thoughts by day,
The bright and lovely form?—Ha, Leopold!
Hast thou seen here a woman, a fair woman?
Leopold.
She has just parted hence, the Lady Bertha.
Conrade.
Bertha! Oh I must see, must follow her!
Leopold.
Nay, 'tis too late. Ere now she's in the Castle.
She will return.
Conrade.
Oh, wondrous, wondrous chance!
The Lady Bertha!—Did she speak to thee?
What seems she, Leopold? Gay, gentle, kind,
Her mother was. Oh, tell me of her, boy!
Leopold.
Father, I must to the wars.
Conrade.
Tell me of her!
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I must go win a name.
Conrade.
Well! Well! thou shalt.
Talk to me now of Bertha!
Leopold.
This is Bertha!
Why war and fame and life they are all Bertha!
Nothing but Bertha!—Oh, I love her, father,
Madly and wildly. She is my whole world,
Rip up my heart and you will find all Bertha;
And I will wed her. I must to the wars
And earn her love. Nay, shake not thus thy head.
Though she be great and I be lowly, father,
I tell thee I will make a glorious name,
Or die.
Conrade.
This is most wondrous. But the Count—
Count Lindorf?
Leopold.
Oh! true love is strong and mighty;
Pride bends before it.
Conrade.
Were it pride alone!
Count Lindorf, as I hear, would rather see
The Lady Bertha in a convent cell
45
And full of fears. Men say—
Leopold.
Speak on, speak on.
What say they, father?
Conrade.
Dark and dangerous
A fierce and gloomy—Nay, no more of this.
Whither dost drag that doe?
Leopold.
To bury it
Far from her sight; she will be here anon.
She fain would know thee, and she speaks of thee
So reverently! In truth she is as humble
As a poor village maiden; yet as gracious
As a born princess. I shall soon return.
Stay, dearest father, lest she come the while;
She fain would see thee.
[Exit Leopold.
Conrade.
Oh if she could know,
Could feel, could share—Be still, my beating heart!
Thou shalt not master me, be still!—She comes,
The beautiful! the kind!—Oh, that I dared—
46
Bertha.
This is the spot I'm sure; but where is he?
Conrade.
These are the first words I have heard her speak
In all my life! How mine ear drinks her voice!
The Countess too!
Countess.
Conrade, my kindest friend!
My faithfullest! my best! How many cares
Have made me old since in thy parting tears
I said Farewell to truth and honesty!
Conrade.
My gracious lady!
Countess.
Conrade, where is he?
Conrade.
In yonder dell. She hath caught sight of him.
Bertha.
Ah, there he is burying the poor, poor doe!
I must go help him.
Countess.
First come hither, Bertha.
This is my faithful friend—
Bertha.
Leopold's father,
I know him well. He is no stranger, mother:
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Those reverend hairs; and he I'm sure loves me.
Dost thou not, Conrade? See, he looks at me
With such a kindly gaze.
Conrade.
How beautiful
She is! What a bright smile lives in her eyes!
And see! her soft white hand is dimpled o'er
Like a young babe's. Oh, take it not away,
That soft and dimpled hand!
Countess.
No, rather give
Both hands, my Bertha. He's thy foster father.
Bertha.
May I not call him father? I, alas!
Have never known one.
Conrade.
Blessings on thy head,
Beloved child!
Countess.
Now, my own Bertha, go
And seek young Leopold, and bring him hither.
Nay, let her go!—
[Exit Bertha.
Yes, Conrade, she is more
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My only comfort. She is all made up
Of sweet serene content; a buoyant spirit
That is its own pure happiness. If e'er
Count Lindorf chide her—and, in sooth, even he
Can scarcely find a fault to blame in Bertha—
But should he chide her, she will meekly bend
For one short moment, then rise smiling up,
As the elastic moss when trampled on
By some rude peasant's foot. Never was heart
Stronger than her's in peaceful innocence.
Now speak of him.
Conrade.
First, Madam, he loves her.
I knew it but to-day.
Countess.
So! She loves him,
And knows it not. But tell me of his temper.
Conrade.
Kind, noble, generous, but all too hot:
Just like those bright black eyes, whose fiery flash
Kindling with living light, I've seen thee watch
With such a painful joy.
49
I have gazed on him
Till my eyes ached, till every sense was dazzled.
Yet with that fire there was a gentleness,
A softer, tenderer look. And still he knows not—
Conrade.
I dare not trust him, lady. He already
Abhors Count Lindorf; he already longs
For war, for danger, for renown, for aught
That at the risk of life or limb may win
A name, a noble name.
Countess.
A noble name!
He pants for that! And I, that with a word—
Oh, may I? dare I?
Conrade.
Noble lady, no.
The Count is dangerous, and this rash youth—
Countess.
True; true. And I expect my powerful kinsman
The Baron Zutphen; he shall hear my story,
My sad, sad story, Conrade. Oh, the strife
Of love so long pent in, so strong, so deep,
So gushing through the heart with bitter fear!
50
To give him pleasure—Oh, to think that I
Could with a word, one word—I must away;
I dare not trust myself. Good Conrade help me
Back to the Castle.
Conrade.
Rest thee here awhile,
Dear lady!—How she trembles!—Nay, sit down:
Command thyself.
Re-enter Leopold and Bertha.
Bertha.
Mother!
Countess.
Who called me mother?
Leopold.
Let me support her. Lady, lean on me.
Countess.
His very tone!
Bertha.
How art thou, deares mother?
Countess.
Better.
Bertha.
But still thou tremblest, and so pale!
Leopold.
Oh, do not rise. Thou art too weak!
Countess.
A strong
And a kind arm supports me.
51
Never, Madam,
Was it so honoured. Would that all my life
Might pass as this brief moment!
Countess.
Leopold
I think.
Leopold.
And for my father's sake, perhaps—
Countess.
Thy father! Aye indeed thy father! Leopold,
I have a boon to ask of thee.
Leopold.
A boon!
Say, Madam, a command.
Countess.
Well! a command.
Conrade hath told me thou wilt to the wars;
I have a powerful kinsman, young and brave,
High in the Emperor's favour; I expect him
At Lindorf in the autumn. Be content
To wait his coming, and my first request
Shall be that he will guide thee in that path
Of stainless honour which himself hath trod.
Say, wilt thou wait till then?
52
How can poor Leopold,
The humble lowborn Leopold, deserve
This wondrous bounty! Not for the wide world,
Not even for her would I deceive such goodness.
Madam, all poor and lowly as I am,
Yet I have dared to love—Oh pardon me!
Even if thou banish, pardon!—Who could see
Thy Bertha and not love her?
Countess.
And what says
My Bertha to such love?
Bertha.
My dearest mother,
What is that proud word rank? What hath it been
But the stern prison-bolt that barred me out
From air, and sunshine, and the song of birds,
And the sweet scent of flowers? And must it now
Exclude—
Enter Frederick.
Frederick.
Thank Heaven she's found! I have sought thee, Madam,
53
Which may not brook delay.
Countess.
Is the Count Lindorf
Returned?
Frederick.
My gracious lady, he is dead.
Conrade.
Dead!
Frederick.
Even so. Last night Count Lindorf died.
Countess.
No, no, he lives! the real Count Lindorf lives!
My son! my son! my own, my very son!
Thou for whose sake I have endured to live
In prison and in sorrow—thou art mine,
My Leopold! In the face of all the world
I will proclaim thee rightful Count of Lindorf.
Leopold.
Mother! I do not ask if this be real,
My heart hath always claimed thee. Yes; I am
Thy son, thy very son.
Bertha.
And the poor Bertha—
What then is she?
Countess.
My daughter, still my daughter.
54
Bertha my sister?
Countess.
No; thy wife. Will that
Please thee as well? And our dear Conrade's child.
Conrade.
My own sweet child!
Countess.
My son, thy speaking eyes
Demand my story. Briefly let me tell
A grief which eighteen years have left as fresh
As yesterday. Thy father was a man
Born to lead all hearts captive. Such he was
As thou art now. Look at the features, Frederick—
The shape, the air.
Frederick.
It is his very self.
Countess.
I loved him—we were in our bridal year—
Oh how I loved him! So did all the world
Except his envious brother. They went forth
Together, at the break of day, to hunt
Here in this very forest; and at eve
One—only one—returned. Mine—mine—O God!
The agony, the frightful agony
When he at last was brought—O God!
55
My mother!
Countess.
Some tale was told of direful accident—
Would that I could believe! But from that hour
Peace, rest, and appetite and natural smiles
Forsook the conscious fratricide—Oh guilt
Hath well avenged us! But, ere yet the flush
Of bold triumphant crime had paled to fear,
And dark remorse, did Conrade overhear—
For I was great of thee, my Leopold,
And grief and horror had brought on my pains,—
This Lindorf bribe a ruffian to secure
My infant, if a male. Thou, sweetest Bertha,
A new-born innocent babe wast in the castle;
And he, and my kind nurse, and she the kindest
And faithfullest of all, thy blessed mother,
Contrived, I scarcely conscious, to exchange
My boy for his fair girl.—A boundless debt
We owe thee, Conrade.
Conrade.
Pay it to my Bertha.
Leopold.
She is herself that debt! What was the life
56
A paltry boon, scarce worth my thanks, dear father!
She is the treasure! She—
Bertha.
Cease, flatterer, cease!
I must go tend my fawn.
Countess.
My son, I long
To see thee in thy castle.
Frederick.
Ye will find
The Baron Zutphen there to greet ye, Madam.
He came to proffer succour and protection
To thee and Lady Bertha; he will now
Welcome his brave young kinsman. Not a heart,
Vassal or servant but will feel the joy
Of this discovery.
Countess.
Leopold, my son—
How proud I am of that unwonted word!
Let us go meet the Baron. Bertha, Conrade,
Daughter and friend, come with me; this kind cousin
Must see how rich I am! Mine own dear son!
| The Fawn | |