University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Chamber in the Castle.
Rudestein and Screitch.
SCREITCH.
He is unhappy, and we should forbear;
I pray be patient with him.

RUDESTEIN.
Am I not?
Though patience chafe me like a seal-skin boot,
I groan and do endure the need of it.
Lend thou thine oil to lubricate content.
Thou hast thy purse and spurs, thy chain and baton—
What dost thou lack, unless it be a wife?
My having is but blood, as old as his
Who lords it o'er his kinsman thus. A wife!
What need of that?

SCREITCH.
Who gibes me for my purse,
Should render back the gold that made its glory.
My spurs dost envy? hast thou not my horse?

RUDESTEIN.
I had thy horse.

SCREITCH.
The prodigal finds a home,
Though neither son nor servant. Thou dost eat,
Thankless, as well as chargeless.

RUDESTEIN.
Grant me patience!
We never meet, but some such canticle;
A starling might be taught it in a week:
Repay my lendings!—give me back my horse!—
I do abhor to hear thee.

SCREITCH.
Then disburse.

RUDESTEIN.
Ten times I offered to redeem him for thee.
Whose injury was it that I lacked the means?
I prayed thee but for sixty crowns.

SCREITCH.
Thou hadst
Six score already, and my horse was borrowed
To go in search of payment.

RUDESTEIN.
Well, he went.

SCREITCH.
He did, long since; nor is he yet come back.

RUDESTEIN.
Why should we fast our youth with Seneca,
And barefoot visit learning in her schools,
If this be all age profits? Did he teach
To mount thy soul's contentment on a horse?
I brought another in his place—go to.

SCREITCH.
Of thrice his age; in stature, strength, and bulk,
At most one third: goat-faced he was, dim-sighted,
Hide-bound, and stridulous in his breath: his chine
Had weals from end to end: being scant behind,
His huge head found no equal balance there,
But hung its slumbers on the horseman's arm.
Reined up too much, he stopped; and back too little,
He either stumbled, or did worse.

RUDESTEIN.
In flesh
Thine did exceed, and mine as much in years.
Is it wise to chafe at differences like these?
Have I no grievances, no injuries?
Who thrusts his knees for ever in my flank?—
Who whispers prophesies for base advantage—
Extols his substance with comparisons—
His wisdom, grace, and scholarship?

SCREITCH.
Ay, who?

RUDESTEIN.
Thou, seneschal! I say it of thyself;
Before this simple wretch—this Barbara!
Wouldst tempt her love away by craft, and shake
Thine ears at spendthrifts—rise, by humbling others!

SCREITCH.
Thou didst disparage learning in her sight,
Provoke the child to ignorant jests, and weigh
My birth with thine and hers. Ah, ah! I have thee,
Thy back 'twixt ditch and wall! Unlawful arms
Against unlawful, in defence, are lawful.
The jurists rule it so.

RUDESTEIN.
Her age I spake of.
The maid is young and noble—we match better.

SCREITCH.
How old dost count thyself? I grant thee younger,
Some six or eight years younger, perhaps.

RUDESTEIN.
No more?

SCREITCH.
Be it more or less, who cares? Well, ten then is it?
Say peradventure twelve.

RUDESTEIN.
The same it is,
As 'twixt our horses—no great odds in either.
Not old, yet art thou studious, seneschal,
And one so wise might awe a child like her.
I could yield much to him I loved indeed:
But friends are kind, forbearing one another;
They lend, divide, nor seek their own again.
Is it not Tully writes so? Friendship, truly!
Exacting crown for crown, and steed for steed!
Nay, spurning peace with just equivalents!
That niggard waywardness enthrals a spirit
Which else were eagle-winged.

SCREITCH.
Thou thinkest to please me.

RUDESTEIN.
For what? for thwarting all I do? Henceforth
Strive which may woo the best. Thou shalt not have her.
I please thee?—I defy thee!

SCREITCH.
Hush! the Baron!
Speak not in haste again.

(Exit Screitch. Enter Weilenberg.)
RUDESTEIN.
Your lordship seeks me?
Screitch told me of your lordship's haste.

WEILENBERG.
What else?

RUDESTEIN.
Of happy changes since last night—sound sleep,
And sweet refreshment. If my cousin may rest,
She will gain strength.

WEILENBERG.
She woke refreshed to-day,
And asked for Philip. Did he tell thee so?

RUDESTEIN.
He chose me for the messenger to find him.

WEILENBERG.
Well, shall we see this father?

RUDESTEIN.
If we wait.

WEILENBERG.
While others breathe with interrupted breath,
Thou ever hast some straw to stop and stoop for—
A spaniel lost last night, the boats returning,
Or cooler weather with the change of wind!—
Hast found him, man?

RUDESTEIN.
An hour, or more, ago.

WEILENBERG.
Where?

RUDESTEIN.
Penned in his confessional at church;
With ear inclining to the contrite sighs
Of guilt exhaled 'midst garlic. 'Twas the wife
Of Schwaile the ferryman who wept so much.
I would have filled his place and sent him hither.

WEILENBERG.
Our haste must wait confessions.

RUDESTEIN.
Mine could not.
He had his choice to come with me on foot,
Or carried in his cage.

WEILENBERG.
Who gave such licence?

RUDESTEIN.
Your lordship blamed my tardiness—I his.

WEILENBERG.
So—will he come, then?

RUDESTEIN.
He is come already:
Is gone—and if we tarry where we are,
He may be looked for back again. Pray, patience!

WEILENBERG.
Gone whither?

RUDESTEIN.
To the baroness, no doubt.
My younger cousin—the fairy-footed Ellen,
Found out and led him by the gallery stairs.
But first apprised us of this change last night;
Free breath and peaceful slumbers: we will hope
That health comes with, or after them.

WEILENBERG.
She may,
I would not if I could.

RUDESTEIN.
My playfellow
Basks freely in the sunshine of her faith;
And so do I in mine. Wisdom meanwhile—
If this blear-eyed and sickly slut be she—
Creeps ever on the shady side of truth;
Preferring owls to cuckoos. Providence!
I humbly crave forbearance as a fool—
But how does foresight profit us? The best
That best philosophy can teach is this—
To make the wise man such by argument,
As fools are made by instinct—easy, careless.
Our snail-horned ignorance scarce forefeels an inch:
Yet are we happier than my politic lord
Who borrows daily from to-morrow's news.
Were I as he at such a time as this,
I could find peace with little looking for.

WEILENBERG.
If nature keep her mysteries for the blind,
And can indeed purge from them grief, or dread,
Or both in one—remorse; to be her scholar,
And read, as ignorance points, the lore of fools—
Extorting peace from all repugnances—
Were worth a hundred-fold the names thou givest me,
Whether miscalled or not. Now what wouldst teach?

RUDESTEIN.
To hold the present hard, if good—to think,
If good or not, the future will be better.
The baroness slept last night—she is refreshed,
And will be well again.

WEILENBERG.
But hope is bridled:
She cannot slip the bit to range at will,
O'erleaping sense and probability.
Three times, despite of hope, I lost a son.

RUDESTEIN.
Still the chase cheers us while the game is up:
When missed, we seek some other sport. If Heaven
Have called my little cousins to himself,
All is not carried with them. Should he ask
One saintly spirit more—abides there not
Of this world's wealth sufficient for content?
Two spacious baronies, the public awe,
A name observed by kings, and such a daughter
As kings might sue for?

WEILENBERG.
What we have repays not
For what we lose, being part of what we had.

RUDESTEIN.
We should build up the breach mischance has battered,
O'ermastering casualty. The swallow ceases
Reproachful chattering on the chimney's top
Against the last night's tempest, to repair
Her broken tenement with better heed,
Or hang a new one closer to the eaves.
The bee flies fiercely round his rifled hive,
Threat'ning awhile the spoiler—then resumes
His labor 'midst the yet untasted flowers
New-blown since yesterday. Why should we men
Strive to put out the stars when night is longest,
And mount despair behind calamity?

WEILENBERG.
How point these ancient maxims?

RUDESTEIN.
Such as I—
Supposing what we fear—I would address me
To mend misfortune.

WEILENBERG.
How?

RUDESTEIN.
By raising up
Three other sons, at least, as comforters—
Providing first another baroness.
My lord has time enough.

WEILENBERG.
We have not all
These bestial privileges. Men must take
What nature portions to humanity,
Be it good or ill—and heirs of life's estate
Discharge life's debts. They feel as brutes do not:
They have affections, passions, faculties,
Oft to their own unhappiness.

RUDESTEIN.
The wise!
These are the wise, heaven help them! Such as I—
In life's dull lane an ass—have shade and sunshine,
With mossy banks to browse upon: the spring
Feasts me with violets: when the briar-rose fades,
The thistle seems digestible enough.
So nature wears her old simplicity,
Unlaced, unfringed, unliveried.

WEILENBERG.
I used to find
Such singleness of heart betokening mischief,
Or else an empty purse. Simplicity!
Is it kin to innocence—or how?

RUDESTEIN.
In part—
To bestial innocence it is. Yet look,
Your ass, in this, will differ from your kid.
Wayward he is, and spiteful if misused—
Inclined to sensuality—but still
A faithful servant little praised or cared for—
The better brute, at last, for being so brutish.
Spring's sunshine will awake her flowers—the wind
Again blow southerly. At present, my lord
Shoulders the blast which bites him to the bone,
And winter's frost seems endless: but I look
For happier nuptials, male posterity,
And hospitable usages. Of late
This house feels chill.

WEILENBERG.
Then seek a happier one!
Another mistress shall not mock the first.
Wouldst have me kill a second?

RUDESTEIN.
Kill! who kills?

WEILENBERG.
Ay, kill, sir—One is dying—I have killed her—
And by the hardest kind of death—by sorrow!
Lived here so long, and never heard of that?
The grooms and scullions know it.

RUDESTEIN.
What, my lord?

WEILENBERG.
Why that her heart is breaking, man. They love
The meek and gracious—all but thou and I.
We two are kin indeed—brutes, as thou saidst.
I have not spared thy frailties—so speak out—
They would, but dare not, call me murderer.

RUDESTEIN.
Good sooth, these starts are pitiful!

WEILENBERG.
Begone!
Leave off, I say.

RUDESTEIN.
Authority may edge
The spirit too sharply for those silken bands
Which love enchains his idlers with. Ah me!
Such beings imperious should not wed the meek.

WEILENBERG.
They should not wed at all.

RUDESTEIN.
Perhaps not—for love
Suits simple natures less sublime, like mine.
We kiss and quarrel fiercely while it lasts;
And when it ends, we are but where we were:
Heart-breaking there is none. Give me my choice,
'Twere better be the goat Silenus rides on,
Than claw Jove's thunder backed by Ganymede.
Men live on those who follow them. My lord
Will choose a husband for his child, and thus
Secure what nature grants not one in ten—
The son that pleases him.

WEILENBERG.
What son?

RUDESTEIN.
Count Albert.

WEILENBERG.
He does not please me.

RUDESTEIN.
No!—I grieve at that!

WEILENBERG.
Why shouldst thou grieve?

RUDESTEIN.
Because my cousin is pleased.
Methinks she shows discernment. He is not
Some ringlet-pated page, the thirteenth darling
Of some poor gentlewoman—fortune's feather
Blown from her wing when midway in the skies,
To light, at last, and navigate a sewer:
But loftier in his place than all of us—
In means, and name, and ancestry as great.
The list of princely names holds his the highest:
My lord will some time read it there.

WEILENBERG.
Till then,
Spare thou to aid his suit against my will.
Strain less a kinsman's privilege: bethink thee
That both are guests, and one, at least, unwelcome.

RUDESTEIN.
Hear me a word—bear with me! Is it just
That here—that in my kinsman's house—not mine—
I should apportion hospitality?
That I should judge between his guests? dispense
My grace as his—greet one—frown off another?
The count, a stranger, seemed to claim my service
The more because his host had graver cares
Than forest sports and table cheer.

WEILENBERG.
He did so.
I would not seem neglectful—he should not
Stay loitering here till jostled out by death.
His welcome was a forced one—this he knows—
Besought by great and zealous friends of both—
And, like our peace, reluctant. Honest it was,
At least on my part, but disclaiming love.
Why linger here at Rolandseck?

RUDESTEIN.
To gain
My little cousin's gentler love instead.

WEILENBERG.
It would avail as nothing by itself.

RUDESTEIN.
Then all those friends, with all their charity,
And mighty arbitration—backed by honor,
High lineage, princely means—though both sides meet
In years and blood—

WEILENBERG.
Will his mix well with thine?
Our blood lies on the ground.

RUDESTEIN.
And let it lie!

WEILENBERG.
We may, and will, pass by it unrevenged,
But not step on, or over it. Whence come
These charities which live so far from home?
His father slew thine uncle.

RUDESTEIN.
I forgive.

WEILENBERG.
And so do I—must we adopt him too?

RUDESTEIN.
Alas, my little cousin, then!

WEILENBERG.
She proves
Her wisdom by obedience. Fancy's fever—
Which fools call love—is less with her than duty;
It does not spoil her for a nurse.

RUDESTEIN.
Why no:
At seven years old her heart could scarce beat easier,
Till this Count's courtship, and her mother's sickness
Taught it sometimes a sigh or two. With such
Grief bides not long. Her little wisdom is
So far like mine still less—bestial the one,
The other bird-like—high in air it hovers,
On dewy wing midway 'twixt this green earth
And that blue sky, as if uncertain which
Should be its resting place, whether to go on,
Or flutter down again. Here comes the father.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A terrace running along the foundation of the Castle, high above the Rhine. Baroness Weilenberg, supported by Ellen and Ursula.
BARONESS.
Now we may spare thee, Ursula; wait within,
And bring us Barbara when we call. She is
A careless nurse, halving her task unfairly.
[Exit Ursula.
Thou, child, canst prop me to the nearest bench.
Stay, let us rest us here awhile.

ELLEN.
Take breath—
The air is yet too sultry.

BARONESS.
Some stray breeze
Will soon be here, if any where.

ELLEN.
The boats
Have dropped their sails for want of one—look down!

BARONESS.
The depth would make me giddy, child. I feel,
Or fancy that I feel the river's freshness,
Even here so high.

ELLEN.
My mother scarce had strength
For such a journey, with so little help,
A month, or more ago.

BARONESS.
It is her last.
She will not stray so far as this again.
Fie, babe! what, tears! We must be resolute,
Or else be gone.

ELLEN.
That seat is still your favorite.

BARONESS.
I longed to visit it again. The sick
Feed petty wishes till grown great. Nay, some
Not sick have dainty spirits which loathe the hard
But wholesome aliment of daily life.
Here have I nursed thee, Ellen—have played with thee,
And taught the little that I knew. There needs
No promise to return when I am gone.
The places that we love have tongues and voices
Which speak of those loved in them. Look—I grieve thee!
But yet it is to warn and do thee good.
Trouble disperses as my time grows less:
One thought alone disturbs me.

ELLEN.
Tell it me.

BARONESS.
Beshrew my blushes—for I scarce know how!
They have been shameful hindrances too long.

ELLEN.
A secret, is it?

BARONESS.
Ay, child, yours—not mine.
Both need not feel thus maidenly. This guest—
This princely guest of ours—treads hard on sufferance.
I would make duty easier, if I could.
Thou and thy father do not judge alike:
His thoughts and mine agree. We both dare trust thee:
Yet fancy young as thine may wreath its flowers
To crown a tyrant with them unawares.
Such airy gallantries, with love to help,
May task obedience heavily, not vainly.

ELLEN.
I have no judgment to contend with either:
Nor shall I have.

BARONESS.
None else can love so much,
Nor half so holily, as he and I.
Stern as this Father seems, and is, indeed,
Thou hast been sometimes blessed beyond thy knowledge,
His pride and plaything—nay, I do thee wrong—
A gracious ministress to both of us,
Thy steps were on the rainbow bringing peace.
But now a child no more, the task is harder:
Beware reproachful tears, and looks like dread!
They hint at tyranny. The loftier spirits
Range not with ours: pride stirred by self-reproach
Augments injustice: consciousness of wrong,
Revenging what it suffers, strikes again
The wronged, whose silence plagues it. Even in love
'Tis easier to forgive than be forgiven.
Because we loved, we both have been unhappy.

ELLEN.
Pray God forbear me if I sometimes lost
Such reverence for him when I saw your tears!
Nor thought how much he suffered too.

BARONESS.
He most!
The impatient fret at their own fretfulness.
In just proportion as he bruised its peace,
He grew distrustful of my love.

ELLEN.
If so,
What will become of me?

BARONESS.
As God shall please!
It is to Him I give and leave thee, babe.

ELLEN.
My mother must be happy.

BARONESS.
I am so now.
There may be promises we know not of,
Till life has almost left us; and a time
When sickliest breathings may suffice to turn
The everlasting gate upon its hinge,
And show those mansions which we seek within.

ELLEN.
Do you believe in this?

BARONESS.
Now, faithfully.

ELLEN.
And did not always? But we speak too much.

BARONESS.
Then peace a moment! Look beneath the sun.

ELLEN.
How steadily your sight endures his rays,
While mine, though strong, is dazzled!

BARONESS.
Canst discern
A tree stand singly?

ELLEN.
With a tower beyond it?
I never noticed either there before.

BARONESS.
Nor I but once.

ELLEN.
It has been sport to count
The towers and mountains which we see from hence:
Few ever found their number twice the same.
That which we mark is small, and far away.
My mother, are those tears again?

BARONESS.
Mouse, mouse—
She is a child again, so bear with her!
When thou hadst yet scarce words enough for comfort,
Thy mother came to kneel where we rest now,
And pray for patience with an end like this.
She asked to see thee what thou art. The Rhine
Ran down between his purple hills as red—
There was the same light over them. The sun
Descended as I ceased: the tower and tree
Before his radiance stood as they stand now.
Why should I care for this? Though undiscerned,
They and the mountains do not change their place!
They have been always there:—but welcome folly,
Which makes remembrance thankful!

ELLEN.
There is more—
Ask Ursula why I say so. Neither yet
Has ever seen my mother's eye so clear:
The voice is what it used to be: she woke
With smiles, and has been happy all day long.

BARONESS.
I have been—both judged rightly—now I am
Even happier still. To tell thee why I was so
I brought thee here. Joy gave me strength: there is
Enough beside this sunset. If I see
His rays no more, he leaves the best farewell.
My wealth has made me prodigal—and the tongue
Tires ere its tale begins—remind me of it.
I shall sleep well again through weariness.
Come, let us try to walk without these girls.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Chamber in the Castle.
Rudestein, Screitch, and Barbara.
BARBARA.
They should make haste who wait upon her hence.
My lady's thread runs fine almost to breaking:
She cannot tarry past a week.

SCREITCH.
Who says so?

BARBARA.
I, and the doctors too.

SCREITCH.
She slept last night?

BARBARA.
Ay, and is brisk upon her feet to day—
But may not bide. Now for the blacker sort:
Your bread-and-butter sprites are all set down.
Canst reckon me the adverse part as truly?
Such as do love combustion, vexing peace—
Rudestein—hobgoblins, mischief-machinists,
Who twist unstable things, like me, awry?
Or must these pass unnumbered to the priests?
Was Pythius such?

SCREITCH.
And Merazin, and Circe:
Some count their several nations up to nine.
Psellus makes six alone beneath the moon;
But leaves the Manes out, and doubts the Lamiæ:
Gazæus says they swarm.

BARBARA.
Has any seen them?

SCREITCH.
By his confession, Paracelsus oft.
Agrippa's dog had one of them. All these
Are ill to know, and worse the Succubæ.
Most water-devils bear a foul report.
Wood-nymphs are milder natured, Folliotts, Trulli,
And some think Pan—but I judge otherwise.
There needs no priest to deal with these.

BARBARA.
Who else?
Couldst thou suffice?

SCREITCH.
I might.

BARBARA.
They yield to words?

SCREITCH.
Ay, so we speak with potency, they do.

BARBARA.
What thinkest thou, Rudestein?

RUDESTEIN.
Partly like Gazæus—
That earth, at least, is one great hive of fools.
Hog's eyes I lack, and cannot view the wind—
The swarms I see I credit.

BARBARA.
Nothing more?

RUDESTEIN.
Scarcely so much at all times, simple one!

BARBARA.
Thou shalt be burnt!

RUDESTEIN.
For what?

BARBARA.
For heresy.

RUDESTEIN.
My faith is pure and steadfast, Bab, to thee.

BARBARA.
Dost not believe the privilege of thine house?

RUDESTEIN.
One half I do.

BARBARA.
Which half?

RUDESTEIN.
That we shall die.
It ever has been so at Rolandseck—
The privilege is no narrow one:—being called,
That we shall die—not called, shall cease to live.

BARBARA.
How then?

RUDESTEIN.
Ask Screitch.

SCREITCH.
All wiser men believe it.

BARBARA.
Believe they what?—that whoso dies the last
Returns for him that is to die—is it so?

RUDESTEIN.
I wave the privilege of mine house! The last
May let me live forgotten.

SCREITCH.
So he will;
Or pretermit. The good are visited,
And by the good—none else.

RUDESTEIN.
Why wait for guides,
Whose road runs straight enough?

SCREITCH.
They need them not:
But pass the happier to their place of rest,
Being welcomed on the threshold. Such as thou
Are outlaws from the charter of their blood;
And grope their downward passage in the dark,
Jostled by fear.

BARBARA.
There is a prophesy;
Three called, and one called thrice, shall be the last?

SCREITCH.
Three called—the last before the first is buried—
Shall leave the roofs of Rolandseck in ashes.

RUDESTEIN.
This ends our line! We must provide against it
Both sons and daughters, Barbara—thou and I.

SCREITCH.
Thy father died unblessed.

BARBARA.
Peace! What be these
My lady looks so long for?—sensible sprites,
Or airy substances?

RUDESTEIN.
How dost thou name them?
The souls of our progenitors, or shades
That ape their likenesses?

BARBARA.
Canst answer him?
How teach the books?

RUDESTEIN.
Mark, Bab!

BARBARA.
What, not know that!

RUDESTEIN.
His well of learning is drawn dry!

BARBARA.
Fie, Screitch!

SCREITCH.
Each is a Soul's Eidolon—now art answered?

RUDESTEIN.
Ay verily! Thou dost exceed thy teachers;
Thyself being what thou teachest.
(Exit Rudestein.)

BARBARA.
Get thee gone!
How near a fool he seemed, and yet escapes!

SCREITCH.
I fain would kiss thee, Bab, for speaking that.

BARBARA.
A Soul's Eidolon! foh! the saints forbid!
Good sooth not I—first clear thyself.

SCREITCH.
Of what?

BARBARA.
How should a man have grown so free with marvels?
A christian man with Succubæ and Fawns?
I doubt this learning, if it all came straight.
There was a maid, they say, who lived near Treves,
Till married with some doctor from abroad,
Whose eldest son had horns!

SCREITCH.
And not the doctor?

BARBARA.
These might have been inherited, past doubt:
But strange in such a child!

(Exeunt.)

SCENE IV.

Chamber in the Castle.
Count Albert and Rudestein.
RUDESTEIN.
This love should sun itself abroad. Your Grace
Has lost a salutary sight to-day.

COUNT.
What sight?

RUDESTEIN.
The Father Philip first—behind,
Two of Saint Margaret's virgins from the isle,
Veiled to the knee. He bare the altar-rood—
They looked nor right, nor left, nor straight before them;
But bowed their tearful eyes upon the ground.

COUNT.
This seems extremity, indeed—good lady!—
What dost thou know about their eyes and tears,
If veiled so closely as thou sayest?

RUDESTEIN.
Not much
Touching the eyes of one of them. She hath
A spacious foot, goes near above the ground—
Is scanty in the hams, long-flanked, and feeble:
Wall-eyed, no doubt, or one-eyed. When I spoke
She stumbled and stopped short.

COUNT.
What didst thou say?

RUDESTEIN.
“Fair Lady! gentle sister!” with obeisance.
The other stepped as lightly as a fawn—
From her, I begged a blessing—knelt before her,
And called her “gracious mother.” Learn this, sir:
In naming women ever misapply—
Confound the epithet. Your fair one knows
That she is fair—your wise that she is wise:
But each desires the other's attribute;
And he who gives earns praise. This younger nun
Was pleased with seeming gravity: the elder
Discerned a right discerning gentleman.

COUNT.
What matters if it pleased or no, being nuns,
And one being old?

RUDESTEIN.
Good catechist, take heed,
Take special heed to please the old and homely!
The fair are easily pleased—their fairness pleases.
Opinion rules the world—both love, and hate,
And reason too, are all subordinate:
Imagination leads them all. Thinkest thou
These sisters whisper but to one another?
Wouldst have the covey?—strive to catch the hen.

COUNT.
Here comes a small and solitary chick—
One tamed without such method—by the force
Of simple fascination, was it not?

RUDESTEIN.
Mine own domestic sparrow, Barbara.

Enter Barbara.
BARBARA.
What did he say of sparrows?

COUNT.
He called thee such,
Thou bird of Venus, when her doves are chaste.
But first about these sisters from the isle—
What brings them here so high? They would not make
Mine Ellen a nun?

BARBARA.
They may make one of me.
I tire of this ill world, its Counts and cousins!

COUNT.
But wherefore, good young maiden?

BARBARA.
Because if good,
I have been better, and if young, been younger.

RUDESTEIN.
And if a maid?—go on.

COUNT.
What cousins and Counts?

BARBARA.
One is a scornful mischief-making idler
About mid-age, who whispered love most falsely:
The other, sir, is mighty—for he helps
At times to make the mightiest—count! elector!
Prince Palatine! what not! his grace! his highness!
And younger he, but worse. The first beguiled
A simple heart to folly—he has taught it
How to betray the simple.

COUNT.
Whom?

BARBARA.
My lady:
The lamb my mistress. Both together, teach me
To drink, tell tales, and aid the impudent.

RUDESTEIN.
Hush now! be still!

BARBARA.
What dost thou harken at?

RUDESTEIN.
The father Philip—as I am a Christian!

BARBARA.
It will be ruin if he find me here!

RUDESTEIN.
Peace, child!

BARBARA.
I hear his sandal on the stairs:
Where shall I hide me?

RUDESTEIN.
Lift thine apron up—
And stand before us trembling—choke thyself—
Weep, Bab! weep bitterly!—It is his work:
(Enter Father Philip.)
We have no power to pardon thee. Hush! peace!
Father, we need thee much, and yet must grieve thee.
Seest thou this maid?

PHILIP.
Ay—what do maidens here?
Your highness sent to find me?

COUNT.
Thanks, good Philip.
I would beseech a word or two apart.

RUDESTEIN.
'Tis charitable seeking in his grace:
She how she weeps!—but let her weep!

PHILIP.
For what?

RUDESTEIN.
The maid has erred from truth, and should repent.

PHILIP.
What ails thee, child? I heard thy mistress call thee:
What hast thou done?

RUDESTEIN.
My cousin! Did Ellen call her?
The wretch is shamed, then!

PHILIP.
How?

RUDESTEIN.
She hath untied
An ordinance of the Church to-day, and reached
Her hand in theft!

PHILIP.
Alas!—how knowest thou this?
How happens it that trespasses like these
Were found of thee so early?

RUDESTEIN.
I surprised her!
The child does not deny it.

PHILIP.
What! in theft?

RUDESTEIN.
It being a vigil, and Saint Martin's eve,
She ate of remnants which her mistress left—
The boiled white of an egg!

COUNT.
And did excuse it!
The day was not remembered—and the egg
In part was hers—her perquisite!

RUDESTEIN.
Behold
She comes to crave of us her sin's remission!
But do thou teach that theft is damnable;
And all forgetfulness augments the sin!

PHILIP.
Go, get thee gone, child. Shun these scorners, Barbara.
They practise on thine ignorance. It is not
The vigil of Saint Martin—and the egg
Was harmless, part or whole.

RUDESTEIN.
Then go thy way.
Thy mistress calls thee: look, thou art forgiven!

COUNT.
Sweet Barbara, run, and bear my services.

BARBARA.
Needs tell my lady what I did amiss?

RUDESTEIN.
Being done unwittingly, it is not needed.

(Exit Barbara.)
PHILIP.
Fie! fie! what silly pastime is this tyranny!
O'er one so innocent too!

RUDESTEIN.
The Count in love
Is meditative, melancholy, moody,
Unsocial past companionship. Beseech thee
Give countenance to a cup of wine?

PHILIP.
I drink
No wine to-day. My counsel for his love,
Is temperance, till it leave him. There will be
No shorter remedies than sleep and patience.

RUDESTEIN.
His love will end in charity. What else
Could make thyself the gracious man thou art?
These nuns are near to lose their patroness:
Yet may they find a better comforter.

PHILIP.
Not in this world.

RUDESTEIN.
If that which good men pray—
Unchristian enmities be all forgot—
The Count may join his substance with my cousin's,
And so their means wax two-fold.

PHILIP.
They suffice.

RUDESTEIN.
He may augment their number—make more of them.

COUNT.
How are they called?

RUDESTEIN.
The nuns of Rolandswerth.
Their office is to watch before the tomb
Where Roland sleeps with all mine ancestors.
The bones of twenty generations rest
Safe in their care and sanctity. They live
As willing prisoners in the isle below.

COUNT.
How came they hither, then, to-day?

RUDESTEIN.
Our house,
Which founded, has protected and endowed;
Not humbly, like their customs, but as suits
Its own munificence. Yet they say no.
They thank us only for our rain and sunshine,
And claim priority, as planted first.
Love perched us here, they say, to overlook them:
For this we built our battlements so high.

COUNT.
How did he find them out?—he blind, and they
So thickly veiled?

RUDESTEIN.
Our Roland loved a maid—
The maid became a nun—the nun dwelt here:
And better in his eyes the roof above her,
The chimney on that roof, or from that chimney
The smoke—though watery air, and far from pure—
Than all the realms he conquered with the sword.

COUNT.
What be their vows? They may come out, it seems?

PHILIP.
They do to tend on sickness, visit want,
Or pray with misery.

RUDESTEIN.
Then send them hither.
His highness makes me miserable—he is
Sick of celibacy, and wants a wife.

COUNT.
Is it true they see not one another's faces?

RUDESTEIN.
They keep no glass in which to see their own.
Who knows what eyes may hide behind those veils,
If they themselves do not!

PHILIP.
And who need care?

RUDESTEIN.
I—as the twentieth in descent from Roland.

PHILIP.
Fie! Rudestein, fie!

RUDESTEIN.
Ay, fie! That fatherly face
May not be hid from them, if theirs from thee.
And this, at least, I do believe—

PHILIP.
Say what?

RUDESTEIN.
Why, that it is a very goodly face—
Has none of them confessed so much to thee?

PHILIP.
My lord, adieu!

RUDESTEIN.
Nay, prithee—why so brief?
The Baroness hath better health to-day:
She will not die?

PHILIP.
Dost think so?

RUDESTEIN.
Ay, I do:
And have a second hook to hitch belief on—
She is not called.

PHILIP.
Who told thee?

RUDESTEIN.
Then she is?

COUNT.
How called?

RUDESTEIN.
The good amongst us may not quit
Till sent for by the one who went before them.
The last defunct invites his follower.
I look for special heralds some day soon.

PHILIP.
Again good night, my Lord—with better health,
And wiser company!
[Exit Philip.

COUNT.
All he can tell
Is that my love must find its ease in patience!
No doubt but he can tell. Such watchers stand
Aloft, like windcocks o'er our battlements,
Surveying all beneath them and around them:
They mark which way it blows! Dull wooing here,
By snatches twice a week!

RUDESTEIN.
Then quit unmarried.
Be gone in peace, a bachelor.

COUNT.
And would—
But that the dice are comforters.

RUDESTEIN.
Not mine—
I shall be soon a beggar from the deaf!

COUNT.
You take in gold the difference when you win:
And pay your losses with the hope of Ellen.
Bring purse as well as tables.

RUDESTEIN.
But your grace
Slips not the reckoning day by day—there is
A parchment history of our debts and dues—
The bond, the declaration, hand and seal.
I am a church-porch beggar, save his dish!
Two thousand crowns in debt!

COUNT.
The bride shall free thee.
The day of payment is the wedding day.
Till then, I must have tokens if I win.
My stake is gold—thine mortgages on Roland;
Some castle with its gates of chrysolite.

RUDESTEIN.
The Baron does not love thee—and he says
His daughter shall not love thee. I endured
Rebuke to-day, meddling on thy behalf.
The father of your highness slew mine uncle!

COUNT.
Ay—so he did.

RUDESTEIN.
The Saints forgive him freely—
I do, as one of them.

COUNT.
This daughter's love
I have, and I will hold the while I may.

RUDESTEIN.
He frets against the friends who made your peace,
And me who sing your praises. He will fright
No second wife to death—but sad and single,
Live all life long in solitude. We two
Must quit his house!

COUNT.
A pestilence on his house!
At least while his. How quit it, being in love?
Pride still grows prouder, chained by benefits
Which cannot be requited nor refused.
Would I might blow the horn before his gates,
And throw the gauntlet over them!

RUDESTEIN.
Be patient!
Mine is a hateful need, repaid by hate.
Fat Cupid buys not me with Baronies!

COUNT.
Caitiff! dost mock my love?—I own it was so—
But now, by all his wronged divinity—
This Vestal's fire has caught me and consumes me!
Coy she was ever toward me—yet at first
Gay, sisterly, suspicionless, and gentle.
She blushes now and shuns me—nay, her eyes
Are filled with tears—and therefore now she loves me.

RUDESTEIN.
Bah! what care I about her tears?—This way.
The dice are locked within, and cooler wine.
My Barbara does not blush, but bite. Now Fortune!

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

Chamber of the Baroness.
The Baroness on a couch. Ellen and Ursula.
BARONESS.
Take the lamp farther from me, Ursula,
And set the hour-glass in its place. It is
The good old moralist, no whit the worse
For being so old. Mark when the sand is spent:
We may not hear the clock. Our safer wisdom
Is left behind in search of something strange—
Not new, but lost awhile, and so forgot.
This lesson is of both worlds, numbering time
Rather for what it ends in, than itself.
Still stands the image graven on our tombs—
And, if we trust the sculptor, it comprises
Half of death's wealth and furniture. Who placed
These pillows where I wished them?—Barbara?

ELLEN.
Are they uneasy?—it was I.

BARONESS.
No, child—
Sickness so nursed is kin to luxury.
Then Barbara did forget them?

ELLEN.
Yes.

BARONESS.
I feared so.
You two are not forgetful. Ursula,
I shall release thee soon, so stay thou near me—
Be with me at the last—but keep her hence—
Let her not see me die.

ELLEN.
Forgive her this;
She is unhappy that you love her not.
We told her that she might be spared to-night,
So far the fault is ours.

URSULA.
I told her so.

ELLEN.
Speak in the morning kindly to her.

BARONESS.
Well—
Nay, God forbid that I should speak unkindly!
Have I seemed harsh of late?

URSULA.
Even less than ever:
Yet should I feel unhappy were I Barbara.

BARONESS.
She will be easily pacified! It is
But little sign of charity to say so—
In truth I cannot love her. There appears
No right agreement 'twixt her lips and eyes.
Sickness is superstitious.

ELLEN.
We put by
Something to be reminded of.

BARONESS.
Ay, now.

ELLEN.
When speech is easier I will ask again:
Rest till to-morrow come.

BARONESS.
It never may.
We must not wait for morrows. Watch in turns.
I make the burden heavier through my scruples—
Yet send me not this Barbara. Go, and sleep:
God grant thee peace like mine, good Ursula!
[Exit Ursula.
I leave some signs of love for both these girls;
But not alike, nor do thou trust alike.
Thy mother's little wisdom still grows less:
And yet she cares not—it will last while she does:
'Twere better risk ill thoughts of it, than hide
What haply might bring comfort if believed.
Sit nearer; let me see thee while I may—
Last night I saw thy brothers, Babe.

ELLEN.
In dreams?

BARONESS.
Ay, dreams—sick fool!—a babbler of her dreams!
Yet such they were as well endured the waking.
Day's brightest certainties grow dim beside them!
Wouldst hear, to pity me?

ELLEN.
I know the less,
Since tales which others told were hushed by you.
My mother did not credit this before?

BARONESS.
At least she did not teach it thee. There is
But One to fear, yet hope for. If there hide
Aught else behind the veil which parts from death,
We must not seek it yet. What I shall tell thee
May be believed in, or may not—it bears
No sacred warrant with it—take or leave it—
It makes thy mother happier.

ELLEN.
Teach it me!

BARONESS.
What dost thou know already, Babe? Speak first.
Tell me the truth—thou hearest it every day.
It is the castle's whisper now—the text
Whence Ursula draws her homilies. When death
Is in, or near, the house, we all remember.

ELLEN.
Who dies at Rolandseck awakes the next
Who is to die?

BARONESS.
Who dies in charity.
Go on—What else hast learnt?

ELLEN.
The happiest they
To whom the vision chances more than once.

BARONESS.
More than one message, or one messenger,
Is blessed, but rare—as given in grace, not terror.
There is, beside, a prophecy—what is it?

ELLEN.
Three called, and one called thrice—shall be the last.
It ends our line.

BARONESS.
Thou hast been truly taught,
Yet pay not Ursula back with what I tell thee.

ELLEN.
You saw my brothers?

BARONESS.
Ay, methinks I did.

ELLEN.
They died too young for visions.

BARONESS.
Who knows that?
They died too young to tell us of them, child.
Didst hear the priory clock strike twelve last night?
I did, who slept.

ELLEN.
It struck, and loudly too—
The casements were unclosed.

BARONESS.
Didst ever count
So many, and so truly, in thy sleep?
These were not dreams—Bring me some water, babe.
At last this speaking wearies me. Sit near—
Look to the hour-glass ere the sand run out;
Let us both pray at midnight.

ELLEN.
It is gone!
Midnight is passed already! while we spoke
The sand is spent:—Asleep! so suddenly—
I did not mark the clock—How still she lies!
The bosom rises with the breath, or else
These slumbers would affright me! O my mother!
Patience so meek as thine and charity
Are surer guidance to the hope beyond
Than aught in dreams. This weariness overcomes me—
I will not sleep—but pray for both—not sleep—

(She leans upon the couch above her mother and sleeps. A distant clock slowly strikes twelve. The chamber becomes lighter—then soft music, as if in the air, and voices.)

The heart of grief is breaking—come to rest!
Look back no more, since leaving what thou hast,
Is not forsaking.
Come, then, twice-called! the meek are blessed
With calmer sleep when this is past—
With happier waking.
The veil is fallen—Faith's innocent fraud confessed—
All which life loves and loses lives at last—
The heart is breaking!