Faith's Fraud A Tragedy in Five Acts |
 | 1. |
| 1. | SCENE I. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 2. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 3. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 4. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 1. |
 | Faith's Fraud |  |
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;
90
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?
91
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!
92
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.
93
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—
94
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.
95
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.
96
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.
97
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?
98
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.
| Faith's Fraud | |