 | De Monfort |  |
91
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
A hall or antechamber, with the folding doors of an inner apartment open, which discovers the guests rising from a banquet. They enter and pass over the stage, and exeunt; and after them enter Rezenvelt and Freberg.Freb.
Alas, my Rezenvelt!
I vainly hop'd the hand of gentle peace,
From this day's reconciliation sprung,
These rude unseemly jarrings had subdu'd;
But I have mark'd, e'en at the social board,
Such looks, such words, such tones, such untold things,
Too plainly told, 'twixt you and Monfort pass,
That I must now despair.
Yet who could think, two minds so much refin'd,
So near in excellence, should be remov'd,
So far remov'd, in gen'rous sympathy?
Rez.
Ay, far remov'd indeed!
Freb.
And yet, methought, he made a noble effort,
And with a manly plainness bravely told
The galling debt he owes to your forbearance.
Rez.
'Faith! so he did, and so did I receive it;
When, with spread arms, and heart e'en mov'd to tears,
I frankly proffer'd him a friend's embrace:
And, I declare, had he as such receiv'd it,
I from that very moment had forborne
All opposition, pride-provoking jest,
Contemning carelessness, and all offence;
And had caress'd him as a worthy heart,
From native weakness such indulgence claiming.
But since he proudly thinks that cold respect,
The formal tokens of his lordly favour,
So precious are, that I would sue for them
As fair distinction in the public eye,
Forgetting former wrongs, I spurn it all.
And but that I do bear that noble woman,
His worthy, his incomparable sister,
Such fix'd, profound regard, I would expose him;
And, as a mighty bull, in senseless rage,
Rous'd at the baiter's will, with wretched rags
Of ire-provoking scarlet, chafes and bellows,
I'd make him at small cost of paltry wit,
With all his deep and manly faculties,
The scorn and laugh of fools.
Freb.
For heaven's sake, my friend, restrain your wrath!
For what has Monfort done of wrong to you,
Or you to him, bating one foolish quarrel,
Which you confess from slight occasion rose,
That in your breasts such dark resentment dwells,
So fix'd, so hopeless?
Rez.
O! from our youth he has distinguish'd me
With ev'ry mark of hatred and disgust.
For e'en in boyish sports I still oppos'd
His proud pretensions to pre-eminence;
Nor would I to his ripen'd greatness give
That fulsome adulation of applause
A senseless crowd bestow'd. Though poor in fortune,
I still would smile at vain assuming wealth:
But when unlook'd-for fate on me bestow'd
Riches and splendour equal to his own,
Though I, in truth, despise such poor distinction,
Feeling inclin'd to be at peace with him,
And with all men beside, I curb'd my spirit,
And sought to soothe him. Then, with spiteful rage,
From small offence he rear'd a quarrel with me,
And dar'd me to the field. The rest you know.
In short, I still have been th' opposing rock,
O'er which the stream of his o'erflowing pride
Hath foam'd and fretted. Seest thou how it is?
Freb.
Too well I see, and warn thee to beware.
Such streams have oft, by swelling floods surcharg'd,
Borne down, with sudden and impetuous force,
The yet unshaken stone of opposition,
Which had for ages stopp'd their flowing course.
I pray thee, friend, beware.
Rez.
Thou canst not mean—he will not murder me?
Freb.
What a proud heart, with such dark passion toss'd,
May, in the anguish of its thoughts, conceive,
I will not dare to say.
Rez.
Ha, ha! thou knowst him not.
Full often have I mark'd it in his youth,
And could have almost lov'd him for the weakness:
He's form'd with such antipathy, by nature,
To all infliction of corporeal pain,
To wounding life, e'en to the sight of blood,
He cannot if he would.
Freb.
Then fie upon thee!
It is not gen'rous to provoke him thus.
But let us part: we'll talk of this again.
Something approaches.—We are here too long.
Rez.
Well, then, to-morrow I'll attend your call.
Here lies my way. Good night.
[Exit.
Enter Conrad.
Con.
Forgive, I pray, my lord, a stranger's boldness.
I have presum'd to wait your leisure here,
Though at so late an hour.
Freb.
But who art thou?
Con.
My name is Conrad, sir,
A humble suitor to your honour's goodness,
Who is the more embolden'd to presume,
In that De Monfort's brave and noble marquis
Is so much fam'd for good and gen'rous deeds.
Freb.
You are mistaken, I am not the man.
Con.
Then, pardon me: I thought I could not err;
That mien so dignified, that piercing eye
Assur'd me it was he.
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My name is not De Monfort, courteous stranger;
But, if you have a favour to request,
I may, with him, perhaps, befriend your suit.
Con.
I thank your honour, but I have a friend
Who will commend me to De Monfort's favour:
The Marquis Rezenvelt has known me long,
Who, says report, will soon become his brother.
Freb.
If thou wouldst seek thy ruin from De Monfort,
The name of Rezenvelt employ, and prosper;
But, if aught good, use any name but his.
Con.
How may this be?
Freb.
I cannot now explain.
Early to-morrow call upon Count Freberg;
So am I call'd, each burgher knows my house,
And there instruct me how to do you service.
Good night.
[Exit.
Con.
(alone).
Well, this mistake may be of service to me:
And yet my bus'ness I will not unfold
To this mild, ready, promise-making courtier;
I've been by such too oft deceiv'd already.
But if such violent enmity exist
Between De Monfort and this Rezenvelt,
He'll prove my advocate by opposition.
For if De Monfort would reject my suit,
Being the man whom Rezenvelt esteems,
Being the man he hates, a cord as strong,
Will he not favour me? I'll think of this.
[Exit.
SCENE II.
A lower apartment in Jerome's house, with a wide folding glass door, looking into a garden, where the trees and shrubs are brown and leafless. Enter De Monfort with a thoughtful frowning aspect, and paces slowly across the stage, Jerome following behind him, with a timid step. De Monfort hearing him, turns suddenly about.De Mon.
(angrily).
Who follows me to this sequester'd room?
Jer.
I have presum'd, my lord. 'Tis somewhat late:
I am inform'd you eat at home to-night;
Here is a list of all the dainty fare
My busy search has found; please to peruse it.
De Mon.
Leave me: begone! Put hemlock in thy soup,
Or deadly night-shade, or rank hellebore,
And I will mess upon it.
Jer.
Heaven forbid!
Your honour's life is all too precious, sure.
De Mon.
(sternly).
Did I not say begone?
Jer.
Pardon, my lord, I'm old, and oft forget.
[Exit.
De Mon.
(looking after him, as if his heart smote him).
Why will they thus mistime their foolish zeal,
That I must be so stern?
O, that I were upon some desert coast!
Where howling tempests and the lashing tide
Would stun me into deep and senseless quiet;
As the storm-beaten trav'ller droops his head,
In heavy, dull, lethargic weariness,
And, 'mid the roar of jarring elements,
Sleeps to awake no more.
What am I grown? all things are hateful to me.
Enter Manuel.
(Stamping with his foot.)
Who bids thee break upon my privacy?
Man.
Nay, good my lord! I heard you speak aloud,
And dreamt not surely that you were alone.
De Mon.
What, dost thou watch, and pin thine ears to holes,
To catch those exclamations of the soul,
Which heaven alone should hear? Who hir'd thee, pray?
Who basely hir'd thee for a task like this?
Man.
My lord, I cannot hold. For fifteen years,
Long-troubled years, I have your servant been,
Nor hath the proudest lord in all the realm,
With firmer, with more honourable faith
His sov'reign serv'd, than I have served you;
But if my honesty be doubted now,
Let him who is more faithful take my place,
And serve you better.
De Mon.
Well, be it as thou wilt. Away with thee!
Thy loud-mouth'd boasting is no rule for me
To judge thy merit by.
Enter Jerome hastily, and pulls Manuel away.
Jer.
Come, Manuel, come away; thou art not wise.
The stranger must depart and come again,
For now his honour will not be disturb'd.
[Exit Manuel sulkily.
De Mon.
A stranger, saidst thou?
[Drops his handkerchief.
Jer.
I did, good sir, but he shall go away;
You shall not be disturb'd.
[Stooping to lift the handkerchief.
You have dropp'd somewhat.
De Mon.
(preventing him).
Nay, do not stoop, my friend, I pray thee not!
Thou art too old to stoop.
I'm much indebted to thee.—Take this ring—
I love thee better than I seem to do.
I pray thee do it—thank me not.—What stranger?
Jer.
A man who does most earnestly intreat
To see your honour; but I know him not.
De Mon.
Then let him enter.
[Exit Jerome.
A pause. Enter Conrad.
De Mon.
You are the stranger who would speak with me?
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I am so far unfortunate, my lord.
That, though my fortune on your favour hangs,
I am to you a stranger.
De Mon.
How may this be? what can I do for you?,
Con.
Since thus your lordship does so frankly ask
The tiresome preface of apology
I will forbear, and tell my tale at once,
In plodding drudgery I've spent my youth,
A careful penman in another's office;
And now, my master and employer dead,
They seek to set a stripling o'er my head,
And leave me on to drudge, e'en to old age,
Because I have no friend to take my part.
It is an office in your native town,
For I am come from thence, and I am told
You can procure it for me. Thus, my lord,
From the repute of goodness which you bear,
I have presum'd to beg.
De Mon.
They have befool'd thee with a false report.
Con.
Alas! I see it is in vain to plead,
Your mind is prepossess'd against a wretch,
Who has, unfortunately for his weal,
Offended the revengeful Rezenvelt.
De Mon.
What dost thou say?
Con.
What I, perhaps, had better leave unsaid.
Who will believe my wrongs if I complain?
I am a stranger, Rezenvelt my foe,
Who will believe my wrongs?
De Mon.
(eagerly catching him by the coat).
I will believe them!
Though they were base as basest, vilest deeds,
In ancient record told, I would believe them!
Let not the smallest atom of unworthiness
That he has put upon thee be conceal'd.
Speak boldly, tell it all; for, by the light!
I'll be thy friend, I'll be thy warmest friend,
If he has done thee wrong.
Con.
Nay, pardon me, it were not well advis'd,
If I should speak so freely of the man
Who will so soon your nearest kinsman be.
De Mon.
What canst thou mean by this?
Con.
That Marquis Rezenvelt
Has pledg'd his faith unto your noble sister,
And soon will be the husband of her choice.
So I am told, and so the world believes.
De Mon.
'Tis false! 'tis basely false!
What wretch could drop from his envenom'd tongue
A tale so damn'd?—It chokes my breath— (Stamping with his foot.)
What wretch did tell it thee?
Con.
Nay, every one with whom I have convers'd
Has held the same discourse. I judge it not.
But you, my lord, who with the lady dwell.
You best can tell what her deportment speaks;
Whether her conduct and unguarded words
Belie such rumour.
[De Monfort pauses, staggers backwards, and sinks into a chair; then starting up hastily.
De Mon.
Where am I now? 'midst all the cursed thoughts,
That on my soul like stinging scorpions prey'd,
This never came before—Oh, if it be!
The thought will drive me mad.—Was it for this
She urg'd her warm request on bended knee?
Alas! I wept, and thought of sister's love,
No damned love like this.
Fell devil! 'tis hell itself has lent thee aid
To work such sorcery! (Pauses.)
I'll not believe it.
I must have proof clear as the noon-day sun
For such foul charge as this! Who waits without?
[Paces up and down, furiously agitated.
Con.
(aside).
What have I done? I've carried this too far.
I've rous'd a fierce ungovernable madman.
Enter Jerome.
De Mon.
(in a loud angry voice).
Where did she go, at such an early hour,
And with such slight attendance?
Jer.
Of whom inquires your honour?
De Mon.
Why, of your lady. Said I not my sister?
Jer.
The Lady Jane, your sister?
De Mon.
(in a faltering voice).
Yes, I did call her so.
Jer.
In truth, I cannot tell you where she went.
E'en now, from the short beechen walk hard-by,
I saw her through the garden-gate return.
The Marquis Rezenvelt, and Freberg's countess,
Are in her company. This way they come,
As being nearer to the back apartments;
But I shall stop them, if it be your will,
And bid them enter here.
De Mon.
No, stop them not. I will remain unseen,
And mark them as they pass. Draw back a little.
[Conrad seems alarmed, and steals off unnoticed. De Monfort grasps Jerome tightly by the hand, and drawing back with him two or three steps, not to be seen from the garden, waits in silence, with his eyes fixed on the glass door.
De Mon.
I hear their footsteps on the grating sand:
How like the croaking of a carrion bird,
That hateful voice sounds to the distant ear!
And now she speaks—her voice sounds cheerly too—
Curs'd be their mirth!—
Now, now, they come; keep closer still! keep steady!
[Taking hold of Jerome with both hands.
Jer.
My lord, you tremble much.
De Mon.
What, do I shake?
Jer.
You do, in truth, and your teeth chatter too.
De Mon.
See! see they come! he strutting by her side.
[Jane, Rezenvelt, and Countess Freberg appear through the glass door, pursuing their way up a short walk leading to the other wing of the house.
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Utt'ring with confidence some nauseous jest.
And she endures it too—Oh! this looks vilely!
Ha! mark that courteous motion of his arm!—
What does he mean?—he dares not take her hand! (Pauses and looks eagerly.)
By heaven and hell he does!
[Letting go his hold of Jerome, he throws out his hands vehemently, and thereby pushes him against the scene.
Jer.
Oh! I am stunn'd! my head is crack'd in twain:
Your honour does forget how old I am.
De Mon.
Well, well, the wall is harder than I wist.
Begone, and whine within.
[Exit Jerome, with a sad rueful countenance.
[De Monfort comes forward to the front of the stage, and makes a long pause expressive of great agony of mind.
It must be so: each passing circumstance;
Her hasty journey here; her keen distress
Whene'er my soul's abhorrence I express'd;
Ay, and that damned reconciliation,
With tears extorted from me: Oh, too well!
All, all too well bespeak the shameful tale.
I should have thought of heaven and hell conjoin'd,
The morning star mix'd with infernal fire,
Ere I had thought of this—
Hell's blackest magic, in the midnight hour,
With horrid spells and incantation dire,
Such combination opposite unseemly,
Of fair and loathsome, excellent and base,
Did ne'er produce—But every thing is possible,
So as it may my misery enhance!
Oh! I did love her with such pride of soul!
When other men, in gay pursuit of love,
Each beauty follow'd, by her side I stay'd;
Far prouder of a brother's station there,
Than all the favours favour'd lovers boast.
We quarrell'd once, and when I could no more
The alter'd coldness of her eye endure,
I slipp'd o'tip-toe to her chamber-door;
And when she ask'd who gently knock'd—Oh! oh!
Who could have thought of this?
[Throws himself into a chair, covers his face with his hand, and bursts into tears. After some time, he starts up from his seat furiously.
Hell's direst torment seize the infernal villain!
Detested of my soul! I will have vengeance!
I'll crush thy swelling pride—I'll still thy vaunting—
I'll do a deed of blood!—Why shrink I thus?
If by some spell or magic sympathy,
Piercing the lifeless figure on that wall
Could pierce his bosom too, would I not cast it?
[Throwing a dagger against the wall.
Shall groans and blood affright me? No, I'll do it.
Though gasping life beneath my pressure heav'd,
And my soul shudder'd at the horrid brink,
I would not flinch.—Fie, this recoiling nature!
O that his sever'd limbs were strew'd in air,
So as I saw it not!
Enter Rezenvelt behind from the glass door. De Monfort turns round, and on seeing him, starts back, then drawing his sword, rushes furiously upon him.
Detested robber! now all forms are over;
Now open villainy, now open hate!
Defend thy life!
Rez.
De Monfort, thou art mad.
De Mon.
Speak not, but draw. Now for thy hated life!
[They fight: Rezenvelt parries his thrusts with great skill, and at last disarms him.
Then take my life, black fiend, for hell assists thee.
Rez.
No, Monfort, but I'll take away your sword,
Not as a mark of disrespect to you,
But for your safety. By to-morrow's eve
I'll call on you myself and give it back;
And then, if I am charg'd with any wrong,
I'll justify myself. Farewell, strange man!
[Exit.
[De Monfort stands for some time quite motionless, like one stupified. Enters to him a servant: he starts.
De Mon.
Ha! who art thou?
Ser.
'Tis I, an' please your honour.
De Mon.
(staring wildly at him).
who art thou?
Ser.
Your servant Jacques.
De Mon.
Indeed I knew thee not.
Now leave me, and when Rezenvelt is gone,
Return and let me know.
Ser.
He's gone already.
De Mon.
How! is he gone so soon?
Ser.
His servant told me,
He was in haste to go; as night comes on,
And at the evening hour he purposes
To visit some old friend, whose lonely mansion
Stands a short mile beyond the farther wood,
In which a convent is of holy nuns,
Who chaunt this night a requiem to the soul
Of a departed sister. For so well
He loves such solemn music, he has order'd
His horses onward by the usual road,
Meaning on foot to cross the wood alone.
So says his knave. Good may it do him, sooth!
I would not walk through those wild dells alone
For all his wealth. For there, as I have heard,
Foul murders have been done, and ravens scream;
And things unearthly, stalking through the night,
Have scar'd the lonely trav'ller from his wits.
[De Monfort stands fixed in thought.
I've ta'en your steed, an' please you, from the field,
And wait your farther orders.
[De Monfort heeds him not.
95
Begins to mend. What further must be done?
[De Monfort still heeds him not.
His honour heeds me not. Why should I stay?
De Mon.
(eagerly, as he is going).
He goes alone, saidst thou?
Ser.
His servant told me so.
De Mon.
And at what hour?
Ser.
He 'parts from Amberg by the fall of eve.
Save you, my lord! how chang'd your count'nance is!
Are you not well?
De Mon.
Yes, I am well: begone,
And wait my orders by the city wall:
I'll wend that way, and speak to thee again.
[Exit servant.
[De Monfort walks rapidly two or three times across the stage; then seizes his dagger from the wall, looks steadfastly at its point, and exit hastily.
SCENE III.
Moonlight. A wild path in a wood, shaded with trees. Enter De Monfort, with a strong expression of disquiet, mixed with fear, upon his face, looking behind him, and bending his ear to the ground, as if he listened to something.De Mon.
How hollow groans the earth beneath my tread!
Is there an echo here? Methinks it sounds
As though some heavy footstep follow'd me.
I will advance no farther.
Deep settled shadows rest across the path,
And thickly-tangled boughs o'erhang this spot.
O that a tenfold gloom did cover it,
That'mid the murky darkness I might strike!
As in the wild confusion of a dream,
Things horrid, bloody, terrible do pass,
As though they pass'd not; nor impress the mind
With the fix'd clearness of reality.
[An owl is heard screaming near him.
(Starting.)
What sound is that?
[Listens, and the owl cries again.
It is the screech-owl's cry.
Foul bird of night! what spirit guides thee here?
Art thou instinctive drawn to scenes of horror?
I've heard of this.
[Pauses and listens.
How those fall'n leaves so rustle on the path,
With whisp'ring noise, as though the earth around me
Did utter secret things.
The distant river, too, bears to mine ear
A dismal wailing. O mysterious night!
Thou art not silent; many tongues hast thou.
A distant gath'ring blast sounds through the wood,
And dark clouds fleetly hasten o'er the sky:
O! that a storm would rise, a raging storm;
Amidst the roar of warring elements
I'd lift my hand and strike! but this pale light,
The calm distinctness of each stilly thing,
Is terrible (starting).
Footsteps, and near me too!
He comes! he comes! I'll watch him farther on—
I cannot do it here.
[Exit.
Enter Rezenvelt, and continues his way slowly from the bottom of the stage: as he advances to the front, the owl screams, he stops and listens, and the owl screams again.
Rez.
Ha! does the night-bird greet me on my way?
How much his hooting is in harmony
With such a scene as this! I like it well.
Oft when a boy, at the still twilight hour,
I've leant my back against some knotted oak,
And loudly mimick'd him, till to my call
He answer would return, and, through the gloom,
We friendly converse held.
Between me and the star-bespangled sky,
Those aged oaks their crossing branches wave,
And through them looks the pale and placid moon.
How like a crocodile, or winged snake,
Yon sailing cloud bears on its dusky length!
And now transformed by the passing wind,
Methinks it seems a flying Pegasus.
Ay, but a shapeless band of blacker hue
Comes swiftly after.—
A hollow murm'ring wind sounds through the trees;
I hear it from afar; this bodes a storm.
I must not linger here—
[A bell heard at some distance.
The convent bell.
'Tis distant still: it tells their hour of prayer.
It sends a solemn sound upon the breeze,
That, to a fearful superstitious mind,
In such a scene, would like a death-knell come.
[Exit.
| De Monfort | |