 | Faith's Fraud |  |
SCENE I.
Hall of the Castle.Count Albert and Rudestein.
COUNT.
The lamps are burning; 'tis not midnight yet.
RUDESTEIN.
Whether or no, we are the last awake.
COUNT.
Thy chamber is too sultry, thou too choleric:
Walk here awhile and cool.
RUDESTEIN.
I care not where.
With larger room the devil may ease our elbows.
We packed too close before.
COUNT.
His hap was hardest:
It scarce could be his choice.
RUDESTEIN.
This is not skill,
Nor luck, nor drink!
COUNT.
May he account for it?
RUDESTEIN.
He hath his partialities, no doubt;
Nor fails to help his favorites—still the preference
Were gross between your highness and myself.
A hundred crowns!
COUNT.
'Twere better ponder first
The time to pay these debts, than how we made them.
Nor I nor he can rightly guess at that.
RUDESTEIN.
I do abhor all mysteries!
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Nevertheless
This payment is a great one.—So then ignorance
Has marred thy better fortune?
RUDESTEIN.
I did not gain
My learning from the conjuror, great or small;
Nor how to shift the dice. A hundred crowns
Escape me every night!
COUNT.
Canst tell me whither?
Not one of them has passed this way—the first
Should come to me.
RUDESTEIN.
Two thousand crowns in debt!
What needs this everlasting prate of payment?
Hast not mine obligation for so much?
Let that suffice.
COUNT.
'Tis lean sufficiency;
And yet, I fear it must.
RUDESTEIN.
Vouchers, what not!
Indentures clerkly penned! on front and back
Both seal and signature!
COUNT.
Wouldst spare thy wax?
Then bring the crowns instead. I should be pleased
With liquidation better than the bonds.
RUDESTEIN.
Dost doubt mine honor, Count?
COUNT.
No whit beyond
Thy means and will—they all are much alike.
RUDESTEIN.
Speak out! no mysteries!—ay or no, at once?
COUNT.
I do not doubt if thou be drunk or sober.
But first this honor singly:—let us say
Some creditor should seem incredulous—
How then?
RUDESTEIN.
He might receive of neither kind—
Nor gold nor pledge—and yet not lack his payment.
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Why thou preposterous puttoc! what dost blink at?
Canst not distinguish me from Screitch?—thine honor!
With left hand gently tapped against its hilt—
That ancient household scowl, and eye askance,
Grinning like Roland in the needlework!
Hast lost both wits and money?—nay, not money—
Not gold, but obligations!
RUDESTEIN.
Ay.
COUNT.
Wouldst hear
How is it that I win them?
RUDESTEIN.
Prithee say.
The secret had been better worth my care
A month ago; but still—this sleight—how is it?
How dost thou change the balls?
COUNT.
Dost doubt my honor?
'Twere better make this devil thy better friend,
Or spare to tell me so.
RUDESTEIN.
He has his choice.
I fear no mysteries! plucked and trussed by one,
Then roasted by the other!
COUNT.
We should find
The bird at last but little worth our pains:
A sort of bastard hawk—half owl, half cuckoo.
Get hence to roost! I will not lose my time
Preparing scarecrows for some garden's gallows.
Go, sleep this bravery off!
RUDESTEIN.
Were the dice honest?
First tell me what was promised me.
COUNT.
To-morrow:
Let us not quarrel here. Thou wilt sleep sounder
Without a bloody napkin at thy flank.
What mountebank has missed his fool—that risks
More than he ever had, in hopes to win
More than he ever will have—so is angry?
Bah! get to bed.
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Give me this secret first.
COUNT.
Lose all thou hast, the reckoning is but short:
Thy two alternate suits, one on, one off—
A borrowed horse at pawn—a serving man,
Paid, fed, and liveried at the Baron's charge—
Three bows, some shafts, an ill-spliced fishing-rod—
And that hereditary sword to tap at!
Thus armed against misfortune, why shouldst fear her?
RUDESTEIN.
I fear no fortune, Count, but trust elsewhere!
The sword is mine at least—wouldst see it naked? (Draws.)
No shifts, no mysteries—daylight suits me best,
But pull its fellow from thy side—out with it!
Try which is pointed sharpest.
COUNT.
Thou wouldst swear
The devil was on my part again—seeing double—
Two swords for one.
RUDESTEIN.
I care not if I do,
Unless the second were the abler soldier.
COUNT.
Wait till to-morrow come.
RUDESTEIN.
I thought so! wait!
To-morrow's reservations may discern
'Twixt Counts and gentlemen. I would at once
Discharge these bonds, and set my vouchers free:
But no—'twere better wait, and fight to-morrow!
Come, try a fairer game, and look about thee!
COUNT.
My luck is quite as good as this—at least
It used to be.
(They fight. Rudestein is disarmed as Weilenberg and Servants enter.)
WEILENBERG.
Rudestein, stand off—get back!—
What drunken brawls are these?—begone I say!
Give me his sword, Count Albert.
COUNT.
Willingly.
It is a drunkard's brawl—but I, being sober,
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And mine, preventing mischief, took it from him.
RUDESTEIN.
Lend it an hour to-morrow?
COUNT.
Ay, a month.
RUDESTEIN.
His father slew mine uncle!
WEILENBERG.
What of that?
COUNT.
Who told thee so?
RUDESTEIN.
It was my kinsman here.
Our blood lies on the ground—but what of that?
Why, faith, not much—nor less to him than me.
I had forgotten it—he remembers better.
But what of that? It is a mystery!
We will make plain to-morrow what it is.
WEILENBERG.
The clearance must begin with me.
RUDESTEIN.
With both—
The devil to boot! Let me stand steadily—
Daylight and eyesight! What care I for uncles?
'Twas he reminded me.
WEILENBERG.
Get hence to bed!
Take him away.
RUDESTEIN.
Our blood lies on the ground!
But what of that?
(Servants force Rudestein out.)
WEILENBERG.
Such pastimes, Count, are perilous,
And ill adjusted to the hour.
COUNT.
They are so:
But he, not I, preferred them—nor had either
Much space for choice.
WEILENBERG.
This is, in part, my fault—
And yet I scarce know it how is. Forgive
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Your highness sees our strait.
COUNT.
I do, and blush
To find my present haste my best excuse
That, needing one so long, the time is lost
In which to choose a better.
WEILENBERG.
Let us wait
Till happier hours shall make my shame the less,
For grace so ill requited and deserved—
When grief and dread have left us all.
COUNT.
To-night?
Will the gates let me out?
WEILENBERG.
To-morrow they will.
COUNT.
Forgetful as I was, and wished to be,
There scarce required so hot a summoner
As this contentious kinsman with his sword.
WEILENBERG.
By him I sent no summons.
COUNT.
Then he was
Precipitate as studious how to please;
Gleaning the sheaf of sense from straws dispersed;
Made apt by hints—Something he said just now
Of blood between our houses.
WEILENBERG.
Well—what then?
COUNT.
Ay, truly; what of that?—words dropped by chance—
No matter what! Being drunk, the babbler spilt
This new suggestion of his uncle's death.
He let good counsel leak.
WEILENBERG.
He did not drink
With me to-day, nor will I halve his quarrel.
COUNT.
You watched its issue near at hand, my lord:
You and your servants might have interposed
A step too late, had I been a loser in it.
But what of that?
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You credit what you speak?
Or is it said in haste, Count?
COUNT.
I believe
That such close watchers watched expectingly.
What did they hide for else?
WEILENBERG.
I have been rash:
Shame on mine age, I may be so again.
But now my blood is cool enough. You have
No present power to quicken it.
COUNT.
He lied—
This kinsman lied, then? If he did, it was
Before your face. He spoke of blood between us:
The morning's lesson was not taught for mirth.
Who chid his ill remembrance?
WEILENBERG.
I did, sir.
He is my kinsman—often to my hurt:
Most men have one, at least, for whom they blush.
He talked to-day in honour of your grace—
Would make us kin—supposed alliances.
I spurned at trash like this; but not that peace
Resumes its trust.
COUNT.
As shame is young and bashful,
It should have blushed to hide amongst these knaves,
And harken how a drunkard's task might speed.
WEILENBERG.
Count, for myself, at all times else but this,
I shall not lack an answer when I need one.
COUNT.
Take time to find a better—this is naught.
WEILENBERG.
My servants love their mistress, nor would break
The sleep which wakes, at most, but once again.
Their silence was not taught them: what they feared,
Was what they harkened for. Nor they nor I
Expected brawls to-night.—Who waits? bring lights:
Ulrick; tread softly! bear them with his highness.
[Exeunt.
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