University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

“LOST! LOST! LOST!”
Scene same. Time—Three months later.
Duchess discovered alone, with open letter in her hand.
Duchess.
I am sorry for it. This untimely war
Has for the present foiled my purposes.
Rudolph in arms against a foreign foe
Puts hope to threefold peril. First, and worst,
Being no carpet-warrior, he may fall,
Or lose his princedom, or a part of it;
Or, at the best, this heat of heart may cool,
Love's fire wax pale beside the war-god's blaze.
Methought ere this his presence would have cured
My winsome mistress of her wilfulness:
Well, should he triumph in his warlike quest,
Those eyes, that blenched not at the glint of gold,
Bright-burnished steel may dazzle. Like enough.
Enter Kauz.
But here is Kauz—our piece ubiquitous
Upon the board—knight, bishop, pawn in one,
By whose swift moves, or cunning ambuscades,
I oft have checked, and purpose to check-mate,
Our virtuous chamberlain.

Kauz.
What would your Highness?

Duchess.
A word with thee.

Kauz.
'Tis time, methinks, for deeds.

Duchess.
My deeds thou'lt find no worser than my words.
Art thou prepared to swear thou heardst him slander
Thy lord and me?

Kauz.
If he may slander speak
Who speaks but with himself, none by to heed.

Duchess.
Then is he guilty twice, in ear and tongue,
For telling first, then hearkening, his own tale.
But, more than this, thou heardst him muttering
Wild threats of revolution—that himself
Would lead the vassals to our overthrow,
And much disparaging Prince Rudolph's suit,
As though he knew one worthier.

Kauz.
This I heard,
And further marked him holding treasonous parle
With riot and rebellion—a bold gang,
That shouted death unto your Highnesses
E'en at the palace gates.

Duchess.
And he replied—

Kauz.
With flattery and fair words, entreating them
To patience till the hour were ripe, and faith
In Arnfeld's friendship, and their quarrel his,
And so with largess sent them on their way.

Duchess.
With largess! ha! thou saidst not so before.

Kauz.
I spake but of his words. Nathless, at parting
He flung them for their pains a purse of gold.
Good fees make faithful servants.

Duchess.
Thou art one,
And shalt have cause to be more faithful yet.
[Giving him money.
This little seed, late fallen from thy lips,
Dropped in good soil, where it shall fructify,
Take root ere long, and blossom to his bane.
Meanwhile—I know thou hast the appetite—
Pry into all his secrets, and search out
What more thou canst of his expenditure;
Then bring me word. Be watchful, and farewell.
[Exit Kauz.
So ho! then Arnfeld is the nibbling rat
That makes this leakage in the treasury!

[Exit.
Enter Heinrich as Forester, conversing with Arnfeld.
Arnfeld.
'Tis as thou sayst, good Forester; except
The work find wages, why, of naught comes naught.

Heinrich.
Of naught awhile came plenty, which good crop
I for his Highness reaped, you housed the same;
Of this a tithe's tithe spent, as now 'tis spared,
Would yield him tenfold harvest.

Arnfeld.
Thou art right.
Oh for some fine persuasive shaft to pierce
The Duke's impenetrable stubbornness!

Heinrich.
One shaft there is, but something overfine
For our tough bow-strings—his fair daughter.

Arnfeld.
Well,
Should others fail, that arrow, too, we'll try;
But my grey goosequill must be ventured first.

Heinrich.
Good luck go with thee! I wait here the while.
[Exit Arnfeld.
Where will this end? Before I left the forest
Mysterious whispers, that were not the wind's,
Stirred threateningly the branches, and will soon
Swell to an angry roar. Never did work
More worthy done, reap tardier recompense:
Yet still Sebastian must keep back their hire;
And I stand pledged to payment! Should we fail,
I have but armed the knaves against their lord,
And found them a fair quarrel. We must wrench
Somehow the miser's hands from his own throat,
And force him to breathe free. 'Tis strange, methinks,
How sweet mere drudgery tastes at Schlafenstein,
That smelt so stale in Traumberg. (Picking up a paper.)
What is this?
“To the Chief Forester.” From whom, I wonder.
[Opening it.
Some friend, who claims to preach incognito.
[Reading.
“One that hath hidden knowledge, from this day
Bids thee consort not with the traitor A.”
“A”? Arnfeld! traitor! Pshaw! and on the word
Of one who fears the sight of his own name?
I'll not believe it.

Enter Duke, Duchess, and Arnfeld.
Duke.
Treachery! treachery!
We have been robbed, robbed, robbed!

Arnfeld.
I trust your Highness
Will bid immediate search be made of all,
Who to the court have access.

Duchess.
'Tis well said.
Sir, give the order, and begin with him.

Arnfeld.
Madam, I too demand it, and dare hope
'Twill yet repent you of that heinous word,
When time unfolds the sequel. Foul suspicion
Taints not a life's pure service—no, nor yet
Stains the clear conscience, which, like earth herself,
To its own bosom takes the refuse flung,
And turns to wholesome savour.

Duchess.
Did you not
Lend countenance to bawling knaves, who came
With axes armed, and ruffian insolence,
To lop the laws and prune all privileges,
That curb the licence of their upstart growth,
And intercept forsooth the light of heaven?
Did you not carp at thronèd power, and plant
Ladders of hope, for indigence to climb by,
Wink at their claims, allow their grievances,
And send them glad and gilded to their homes?
Did you do this, or not? And, if you did,
How thrives your conscience, and whence came your gold?

Arnfeld.
Madam, your spies have done their duty well,
Baked a fair loaf, with so much flour of truth
As hides the bane, 'twas kneaded up withal.
I deemed myself alone, and, with myself
Communing, spake what I will not repeat,
Save to myself again. Your listener lied
I chid their violence, fooled away their threats,
Dulled every axe-edge with my blunt reproofs,
And if their wives, at meeting, grasped that day
No empty hands, what filled them was my own.

Duchess.
Who else hath access to the treasury?

Arnfeld.
None that I know, except your Highnesses.

Duchess.
Then either are we robbers of ourselves,
Or else—Well, well, the inference is easy.
Enough of this: we will make search anon.
Good Master Forester, how pay you now
The thews and sinews of your enterprise?

Heinrich.
It much imports, believe me, that you keep
Faith with these men; the knaves are worth their hire;
And, if denied, their numbers and their needs
Will make them dangerous.

Duke.
I tell you, sir,
My means are bankrupt: many a time before,
Have I suspected from some petty loss
The pilfering finger—some slight surface-theft,
Beside the long slow thaw of time, that wastes,
Drip, drip, the polished crust—but never felt I
A crash like this. Bid them go starve, I say;
I have no doit to spare, no doit to spare.

Heinrich.
What! is the whole mass melted quite away?

Duke.
All.

Duchess.
Or what seems all. (Aside)
From a miser's heart
Pluck but one treasure, the black void beneath
Wells up and over, darkening what remains.
(Aloud)
But tell me, sir, your lictors' claims appeased,
Were there good market for our timber still?

Heinrich.
Ay, to repay your cast a hundredfold:
As five chips to a forest, so past winnings
To what may yet be won.

Duchess.
Why, let us in, then,
To track the traitor, and to count our loss.

[Exeunt all but Heinrich.
Heinrich.
To count our loss, and haply lose our Count!
As well store wine in reservoirs of sand,
As treasure in yon tills! the Danaids' curse
Is on them; and so late I quenched their drought
With a full draught of gold! O Arnfeld, Arnfeld!
My heart and senses are at feud about thee;
I feel thou art loyal, and yet fear thou'rt false.

[Sits down wearily.
Helene
(heard singing within).
'Tis an old, old tale, I trow;
Be not fooled with outward show;
Deep within love's treasures lie;
Trust the heart, and not the eye:
Though your faith in man be gone,
Or in woman, still love on;
Still believe against belief:
Love is lasting, falsehood brief.

Heinrich.
Hark! my good angel's voice upbraiding me!
I know not, I, what charm ineffable
Steals from her spirit into mine, and fills
Earth with the freshness as of early dawn,
When with her maiden-step she blesses it.
There seems no need of the millennium then;
Say, rather, it is here—all Nature knows it;
In all her moods transfigured, glorified;
Such power on earth to one pure soul is given.
Is it for me alone of men, I wonder,
Her key unlocks the universe, makes faith
A revelation, hope an ecstasy,
And love the wheels on which the world goes round?
All shocks of time, all sorrows and despairs,
When she is by, seem light and curable,
Mere jolts and jars upon the planet's track,
That check the course, not change it, or, at worst,
But self-opposèd forces, tending each,
And helping, to the perfect poise of heaven.

Enter Corcilius.
Corcilius.
What, Karl, ballooning in the clouds? Thou look'st
For all the world as thou hadst seen a vision.

Heinrich.
Perhaps I have, of plots and treacheries,
Theft, slanders, avarice, seething up together
In one black whirlpool.

Corcilius.
While from one white hand
Out of the cloud-rift shower cool flakes of peace,
To heal and quench it?

Heinrich.
Well, what brings you here?

Corcilius.
Clarissa. 'Tis five hours since we have met;
Besides, the woods wax clamorous for the sop
That lulls awhile their thousand-throated foe.

Heinrich.
Alack! the ducal larder has been robbed!
With this and other home-pushed accusations,
The Duchess rails on Arnfeld, who has foes—
Witness this paper, whether false or true—
Sebastian wrings his hands, and blind with rage
Bids starve the goose that laid the eggs of gold.

Corcilius.
'Tis an old saw, in him, I fear, found true—
“Whom the gods hate, they first with madness strike.”

Heinrich.
Naught else it were to prove close-handed now.

Corcilius.
Will nothing stir him?

Heinrich.
Only what would stir
A vice, rust-soldered: all the drugs of science
Could not relax this tetanus of soul,
Or heal the heart of lock-jaw. No, my friend,
There is but one hope left us. Here it comes!

Enter Helene and Clarissa.
Helene.
Oh, sir, you know what trouble brews within—
The treasury plundered, faithful Arnfeld wronged,
Our workmen wageless, left an easy prey
To windy rumours worse than any truth—
And you and good Corcilius loitering here!

Clarissa.
This good Corcilius, as you call him, madam,
I still have found a loiterer, good for nought.

Corcilius.
There stands the culprit; 'tis no blame to me.
True steel will loiter where the magnet lies.

Clarissa.
Am I your magnet, then? and do I lie?

Corcilius.
Ay, when you bear false witness.

Helene.
Prithee, peace!
[Corcilius and Clarissa go aside together.
And from the forest, say, what tidings bring you?

Heinrich.
Alas! dear lady, like a star thou comest,
The faint sole hope of foundering mariners,
When the sea raves and heaven is blotched with storm.

Helene.
It is no time for trope or compliment;
Say out the worst. What is it?

Heinrich.
The worst is
E'en what yourself have said. I cannot go
Back to these men, and bid them toil for naught;
They have done well, the towers of your new Troy
Are rising fair—

Helene.
And, like Laomedon,
The Duke defrauds his builders, you would say.

Heinrich.
Except his guardian angel should dissuade him.

Helene.
Is that the worst?

Heinrich.
Nay; for, if speak I must,
There is a worse fear yet, as evils known
Are easier coped with than some treacherous ill,
Tricked with the attributes and hues of health,
That saps unseen the fortress of our life,
And takes the heart from action.

Helene.
Oh, these men!
How oft 'twixt failure and success there lies
Naught but a finger-breadth of human faith!

Heinrich.
What would you have me do?

Helene.
Believe, and act.

Heinrich.
In whom should I believe?

Helene.
Believe in Arnfeld,
And your own heart; believe that gold can melt,
Our senses cheat us, ear and eye play false;
Believe some tricksy demon plagues us so,
Yea, and what most is unbelievable,
Rather than disbelieve the faith of friends.

Heinrich.
I would believe the devil, if you bade me.

Helene.
Blind faith! the father of the infidel!
I say not trust the demonstrably false,
But let your eyes, that spell the smaller type,
Woman, now con the larger text of man.
'Tis well, methinks, you were not born to rule;
For rulers should be readers of mankind,
And you are none. To have known the man three months,
And doubt him! Pshaw! 'twere saner to believe
That I myself had done the deed in sleep,
Than Arnfeld waking.

Heinrich.
Lady, say no more.
Should he be self-arraigned, I'ld swear he lies,
And cancel disbelief with disbelief.

Corcilius
(returning with Clarissa).
You are a thief, and have purloined my heart.

Clarissa.
A hollow bauble, which, being thrust upon me,
Too paltry seemed to pelt you back withal.

Corcilius.
And I believe you robbed the treasury.

Clarissa.
I'll not deny 'twere better worth the pains.

Heinrich.
I fear, Corcilius, you have found your match.

Corcilius.
(Aside)
I hope I have. (Aloud)
A match I dare not strike;
If one but speak to her, she sputters sparks.

Helene.
Your tongues are like two battledoors; but now
Or drop, or catch, this shuttlecock of wit.
Corcilius, I have work for you to do.

Corcilius.
Work for your Highness is but holiday,
That rids me of her rating for the nonce.

Helene.
You shall play truant, then. Now, Forester,
Take you this wallet; it is charged with gold
Of mine own hoarding, saved and husbanded
For no such swift defrayal; but all needs,
E'en charitable gifts, are luxuries
Not to be thought of, while the clamorous mouths
Of our just debts remain unsatisfied.
So take it, sir, and bid Corcilius,
That is, if you can trust him—ah! you wince!—
Speed to the forest with what sum will serve;
And be the remnant locked from overflow,
That our fair enterprise come not aground,
Till hope swell buoyant with the tide's return.

Heinrich.
Princess, 'tis not for me to thank or praise;
And yet—but no; since either spoken word,
So fate decrees, must seem presumptuous,
Let swift obedience act alike for both.
Now, friend, upon your welcome errand hie,
And may good tidings speed the journey back!

Corcilius.
Amen. Clarissa, pray for my return,
To wile the hours of absence.

Clarissa.
Never fear;
I shall outlive the time; yet loiter not.

Heinrich.
Methinks Corcilius grows so light of brain,
That, lest his hand make autumn in the world,
Strewing the wood-floor with untimely gold,
By your good leave I'll set him on his way
With some sage counsel, and return anon.

[Exeunt Heinrich and Corcilius.
Clarissa.

I'll warrant him to keep his word, too. There goes
as pretty a pair of lovers as ever fair ladies feigned
to be weary of.

Helene.

Pair of lovers! What mean you by that, Mistress
Oracle? Have you snared them both?

Clarissa.

Nay. I have singed the wings of one; but the other
flutters round a brighter lamp than mine; he beats
his head against the moon.

Helene.

Poor lunatic! But I am in no mood for riddle-solving.
What is the sober truth of it?

Clarissa.

Tell me, is it part of my duty to you, Madam, to
break faith with others?

Helene.

No.

Clarissa.

I would you had said ay; for then I might have
eased my mind, without burdening my conscience.

Helene.

In what relation, pray, stand you to the Forester,
that you should prate of secrecy?

Clarissa.

I am his first confidante, once removed.

Helene.

Expound.

Clarissa.

Corcilius is the bucket that goes down the well,
and I the pitcher it spills into at the top.

Helene.

Go not too often to that well, lest you be broken at
last.

Clarissa.

No fear, Madam; but, if you thirst for stolen waters,
take these three sips: first, Karl the Forester is a
poet.

Helene.

I guessed as much from his moodiness, his metaphors,
and his melancholy face.

Clarissa.

Secondly, he is in love with a lady far above himself
in rank.

Helene.

That is the way with poets—either too high, or else
too low; nothing on the level track hits their fancy.
But tell me, how high does this poet aim?

Clarissa.

Just as high, if I mistake not, as Paris, son of Priam,
King of Troy. But, thirdly, I have here a song, writ
by his hand, and from his heart, to the lady of his
despair. Shall I read it?

Helene.

You may, if it amuse you. I do not promise to
attend; but read.

Clarissa
(reading).

Well, for a man of plain feature and lowly birth so
to write of beauty and his betters!

Helene.

Hush! simpleton; Corcilius had no hand in it.
But hie thee to the palace, and bring Count Arnfeld
hither. Begone, I say. (Exit Clarissa.)
The two
men shall meet before me. If the heart of the Forester
be indeed as clay upon my wheel, I will so mould
and temper it, as no more to suffer love-leakage
through the cracks of doubt.

Re-enter Heinrich.
Heinrich.
Lady, I spake nor trope nor compliment,
But the mere surface and bare shell of truth:
You are our saving and our guiding star.

Helene.
Well, well, the tongue's a strange interpreter!
So ruefully your look belied the word,
I rather deemed that in some doleful house
Of heaven my planet with thwart influence
Had crossed the skies of your nativity.

Heinrich.
It may be—yet, what say I? All my life,
Battle against it with what heart I may,
Have I been subject to strange loss of cheer,
And sudden overcloudings of the soul,
As if—I know not—through some door of heaven
A bleak wind blew, that put the sunshine out,
And one by one the flowers, and the bird's songs.
E'en so, dear Princess, fared it with me now,
When at the point of joy, 'twixt thought and speech,
My heart grew faint with sad presentiment.

Helene.
To find and keep an equipoise of soul
'Twixt hopes and fears, ambition and content,
Whence, like the hovering hawk, to swoop or soar,
Passed e'en the wit of wisest Solomon:
Yet 'tis the secret of true happiness.
I speak but as a mere maid, nature-taught,
And innocent of all philosophies.

Heinrich.
You speak the thing you are—a soul ensphered
Beyond the need of all philosophies.
But with us men, methinks, 'tis seldom so:
Impatient of the laws that either way
Set bounds to being, we o'er-strain our powers,
And, leaving soul or body in the lurch,
Would fain be gods or satyrs, fire or clay;
All, save the happy, well-attempered few,
Who, citizens of earth, keep touch with heaven.

Helene.
So stand you self-convicted: those that dare
The peril of strange regions, life in hand—
Sheer Alp, dry desert, or the frozen pole—
Fired with a glorious madness, must abide
By their own choice, and grudge not to forego
The peaceful skies above the village spire.
You might have compassed in a single word
The sum of all your miseries, and said,
“I am a poet.”

Heinrich.
O false prophetess!
That were my sum of joys. But there are poets
By natural frailty or some freak of fate
Foredoomed to silence.

Helene.
Then let silence speak
In action that proclaims the voice within.
That is my answer.

Heinrich.
Other some there are,
Who, finding utterance, hazard and dare all,
To pluck one gold star from the galaxy;
Yet the world heeds not.

Helene.
Let them strive and fail.
To have failed nobly is enough reward,
So trim their pinions to a humbler flight,
And win the peace that comes through suffering.

Heinrich.
Poets and thinkers are life's aeronauts;
They mount to windy regions, where the soul,
Sailing through shoreless and tempestuous seas,
May well be lost for lack of pilotage,
Yet scorns to grapple the dull earth again.

Helene.
Then must their scorn console them; yet methinks
E'en for the wild swan happier far to cleave
The mere, high-breasted, than droop wings in heaven.
How say you, sir?

Heinrich.
I know not. I have tried
Both; have essayed the firmament, and found
A barren exultation, but no joy—
The conqueror's triumph, near akin to scorn;
Then, stooping to the mere, have seen beneath,
Height over height, transfigured, yet the same,
A happier heaven, wherein I love to gaze,
But may not enter.

Helene.
Your own art-ideal,
Dimly reflected here in Schlafenstein?

Heinrich.
Nay, but the living substance, of which Art,
With its fantastic, though creative, power,
Saw but the shadow.

Helene.
And this happier heaven—
Why, since so near you, lies it out of reach?

Heinrich.
Ah! would you bid me hope that it does not?

Helene.
It lies, believe me, sir, in all men's power—

Heinrich.
In all men's?

Helene.
Ay, to weave from their own lives
A heaven above them, or a hell beneath.
I speak not of the dome which Fancy rears—
A glorious bubble, by God's breath inspired,
Blown from the lips of genius; that indeed
Were a fair house for mind and soul to dwell in,
And with pure beauty hold eternal parle,
Far from the turmoil of mortality.
But lonely contemplation is not life;
And he who dwells therein—though few be they
That can find solace there—must dwell aloof
From all the myriad needs that make up Man.

Heinrich.
What is that other heaven, that all may reach?

Helene.
That which you call the heaven within the mere—
Thought and emotion, those ethereal rays
That light Imagination's airy realm,
Pent in the mind that bred them, through the thin
Rare atmosphere shoot colourless and cold,
Sheer from the zenith. Let them fall aslant,
Mix with earth's mists, and strike the water's face,
Dive to the troubled depths of human life,
With softening power irradiate the gloom,
Glancing, refracted, interpenetrating—
Lo! you have warmth and colour, light and shade,
The play of passion, and the heart of peace—
That chequered heaven, which is the sphere of man.

Heinrich.
So, loftiest thought to lowliest service bowed,
That is your spell to make life beautiful.
Heinrich of Traumberg, thou art tried and judged!

Helene.
Heinrich of Traumberg!

Heinrich.
Ah! you knew him not.
The worse for Heinrich, and for Traumberg too!

Helene.
He was of noble nature, as men say,
And yet unhappy. Have you known him long,
And was he dear to you?

Heinrich.
As mine own self.
From earliest childhood we were bred together,
And our first parting fell upon the day
That brought me to the towers of Schlafenstein.

Helene.
No marvel you are sad, then. I myself
Ne'er had a playmate, but in happy dreams
Have pictured one in closest sisterhood,
So twined about me as well-nigh to break
My foolish heart, on waking to her loss.
Oh, sir, you should have told me; I had then
Pitched my poor music to a kinder key,
And sung the sorrow of fresh-parted friends.

Heinrich.
Such friends are happier parted. We had lived
In the same palace of enchanted hope,
Built of bright visions, pinnacled in air,
Upon ideal beauty banqueting—
He Duke, I poet, welded into one—
Not heedless wholly of the crowd below,
But thinking in our folly these would quit
Their filthy sty for our fair paradise,
As Traumberg were indeed the Hill of Dreams;
But they still grovelled on, we still aspired,
Till disappointment, like a changing wind,
Scattered the cloudy fabric.

Helene.
Ah! and then?

Heinrich.
We left them to their wallowing in the mire.
What, think you, does he merit, who so failed
In faith to heaven, his subjects, and himself?

Helene.
Oh, bid not me pass sentence, lest the doom
Recoil two-edged on her that utters it,
Piercing the bosom nearest to her own.

Heinrich.
Is not the whole world's record marred by this?
That power is oft his birthright, on whose soul
Nature has set no mark of sovereignty,
But either sense enslaves him, and his mouth
Needs bit and bridle, whose hand holds the rein,
Or thirst for conquest, or some crazy creed
Of honour, makes his people miserable;
Or he is one for lowlier service framed
By heaven, to labour for the needs of men,
As wise physician, skilled artificer,
Or, lover of the soul's more lonely heights,
Poet or saint or sage. There throned he sits,
While in the crowd, unnoticed haply, stands
The heaven-born ruler; but the same dark fate
That made him kingly, made him not a king;
So the blind law of birth confounds us all.

Helene.
Well, here comes one whom the blind law of birth
Made a kind friend and faithful counsellor.
Enter Arnfeld and Clarissa.
At last, Clarissa!

Clarissa.
Madam, my best speed
Availed not earlier to obey you: first,
There were some tears of duty to be shed
At parting from Corcilius; then, to wash
From both mine eyes the misty storm-rings left,
Like halos round the moon; and last, to lure
This wildered falcon from his fruitless chase,
To perch upon my wrist.

Helene.
Well, come your ways;
You grow too pert. We'll leave you, sirs, together.

[Exeunt Helene and Clarissa.
Heinrich.
Arnfeld, forgive me.

Arnfeld.
What unknown offence?

Heinrich.
A moment's doubt of your fair loyalty.

Arnfeld.
No marvel, sir, if you, so late a stranger,
Suspect me somewhat, being much suspected
Of those whom I have served full forty years.
I do not blame you; nay, this mystery
So baffles my poor wisdom to unravel,
I am half minded to suspect myself.
Here is my hand as index to my heart,
That beating witness in the breast, which saith
There is no grudge between us.

Heinrich.
Know you this?
[Showing him the anonymous paper.
The trees here, it would seem, shed poisonous leaves.
This morn I found it dropped upon my path.

Arnfeld
(glancing at it).
I know not, but conjecture. There is one
Kauz, whom, erewhile an officer of taxes,
I ousted for extortion; whereupon
With rancorous cunning he so slandered me
Before the Duchess, who ne'er loved me well,
That I have long since led a hunted life,
And grope my way like some lost trespasser
In a dark wood, where traps are laid. But now,
To repay trust with trust, I have a word
For thy sole ear.

Heinrich.
Importing of the State?

Arnfeld.
And of three lives—one precious; not indeed
That any ruffian could find heart to hate
A presence of such sweetness, as might heal
The bitterest Mara-waves of misery;
But in so dark a plot—

Heinrich.
Oh, friend, be brief;
You torture me: what plot?

Arnfeld.
A plot to murder
The ducal house, seize on the treasury,
Preach rapine and revolt, and through the land
Loose all the windy passions from their cave,
Till smouldering licence swell to raging fire.

Heinrich.
Whence know you this?

Arnfeld.
From one whom I know well,
But may not name—a woodsman of your band,
Who overheard the ruffians in their talk.
You are the witless cause of this new peril;
For even thieves will not conspire for naught,
And we erewhile lay empty as the dry
Wind-sifted bottom of some torrent's bed,
Till like Pactolus through the land you flow,
Spangling the mud-floor with bright specks of gold.

Heinrich.
Thou hast indeed repaid me good for ill.
We must not quit the palace for one hour.
Who is their leader?

Arnfeld.
More he might not tell,
Save that by one, who spake with a masked face,
The signal should be given—a trumpet blown
Loud from the forest-edge, some nine days hence,
As chance should offer.

Heinrich.
You have guards at hand,
Whom we may count upon?

Arnfeld.
Ay, true as steel,
Hid within hearing through the palace-park,
Who know the signal, and will act upon it—
Hearts that would hush their beating for her sake.
I go e'en now to visit them. Farewell,
And silence!
[Exit Arnfeld.

Heinrich.
'Tis a golden chance, I hope,
Of Heaven's own sending! Once in a man's life,
And once for all, a moment comes, 'tis said,
When, like Bellerophon, if swift and sudden,
He too may catch wing'd Fortune by the mane,
And ride through heaven. Oh, if she cross my path,
What though at hurricane speed, I shall make shift
To mount her yet, for love leaps fast and far.
Soon shall the horror of this stony spell,
That holds me limb-bound, impotent of speech,
Release its victim. Re-invigorate then,
I shall upstart from slumber; and what joy,
Waking, Helene love, to strike for thee,
Rescue thy sire from death, thy land from shame,
And cast myself and Traumberg at thy feet!
Enter Corcilius.
How now, Corcilius!

Corcilius.
Oh, my lord, my lord!

Heinrich.
What ails thee? Have the rascals mutinied?

Corcilius.
No, sir; but Proszka—

Heinrich.
Proszka! Is he dead?

Corcilius.
Ay, dead to honour, and buried in his shame.
I have a secret message here from Traumberg;
He hath cast loose allegiance, blown to heaven
Wild-flying rumours of your Highness slain
In some far forest, hunting of the boar,
And by consent, or fear, of all men, seized
The estates and lordship of your fair domain.

Heinrich.
Durst he do so? Thou seest, Corcilius,
How these men rate me. To be flouted thus!
Had I been banished, warred against, dethroned,
Loathed for my deeds, yet dreaded, and at worst
Not held as nothing in the scales of chance,
Contemptuously put by, 'twere bearable—
Gall, but with honey mingled. Now all's flat
And tasteless as the very dregs of shame.
This is the verdict of the men of action
On us mere dreamers! Well, there was a time
When I had scarce breathed quicker, hearing it;
Now, 'tis far otherwise. By Heaven! I reap
These tares of mine own sowing.

Corcilius.
Dear my lord—

Heinrich.
But does he think, because our soul forsooth
Gasped not amid the mudbanks, where are hatched
The creeping things of purblind policy,
Therefore we cannot choke them in their slime,
And knavery must go scathless?

Corcilius.
Now you speak
Words, I pray Heaven to see take shape in act.
When start we hence for Traumberg?

Heinrich.
When you will!—
Nay, 'tis impossible! (Aside)
The plot! the plot!

Corcilius.
Why, sir, what hinders you?

Heinrich.
O evil chance,
That holds me prisoner here at Schlafenstein,
While 'twixt the parting chariots of my fate
Bound, like the traitor, I am torn in twain!

Corcilius.
A moment since your purpose had an edge
Keen as to cleave these idle gossamers:
What blunts it now?

Heinrich.
That which I may not breathe
Even to thee—a spell potent as love,
And absolute as honour.

Corcilius.
Nay, my lord,
Honour, as I conceive it, is a power
Within the breast, that keeps a man's heart true
Both to himself—his future and his past—
And the main current of external things;
Not prone to swerve with every shifting gust,
Nor, if the forward reach be dull to view,
Lured to side-issues, where achievement bears
No just proportion to his destiny.

Heinrich.
Corcilius, were some vessel to make port
Freightless of all she sailed for, a mere hull,
Leaving her priceless treasure to the gripe
Of fierce marauders, when a timelier stay
Had sealed her bargains, of what sane man's hope
Were that the consummation? To go hence
Heinrich without Helene—

Corcilius.
Then, here dies
Allegiance, and here sickens to its death
A life-long friendship. Even the noblest aim,
Bought with betrayal of an earlier trust,
Becomes ignoble, and may turn to loss
Of that which was, and that which might have been.
This Princess, if she love, will love a man,
Not a man's picture. Since you fail yourself,
She too may fail you. Look to it. Farewell!
[Exit Corcilius.

Heinrich.
O irony of fate! So many years
In folly's bog to flounder, by my friends
Uncensured, till repentance call for praise!
Well, he will know me better by-and-by.

Enter Arnfeld.
Arnfeld.
Still here, and uncompanioned! I perceive
Some thought disturbs you.

Heinrich.
Not so far beneath
The surface, but your tongue may safely launch
Its lightest word upon me.

Arnfeld.
I had rather
It sank to your heart's deep than idly floated.

Heinrich.
Have you fresh tidings, then?

Arnfeld.
Nay, all is told.
We are ready for worse crops of dragon-teeth
Than yon rough soil can ripen; but one doubt
I have that craves your counsel.

Heinrich.
What is that?

Arnfeld.
Whether 'tis safe to keep this treason locked
In our own minds, or wiser to divulge it,
At least to the Princess.

Heinrich.
Divulge it not.
Let her first learn this peril was to pass
When past and over.

Arnfeld.
There the lover spoke,
And not the statesman. Nay, sir, pardon me;
We are all lovers here of the Princess,
With your good leave; so let not that affront you.
How if we fail through sheer self-confidence?
Unwarned, what hinders that they tempt not death
Outside the circuit of our sentinels,
While we lie ambushed idly?

Heinrich.
Nay, the thieves
Have set their trap, and will abide their time,
Nor for one victim risk the main revenge.
Assume some danger, we may well forestall it.
The Duke and Duchess seldom stir abroad;
And, for their gracious daughter, if she stray
Beyond our safeguard, as the time draws near,
We must contrive some charm to lure her back.

Arnfeld.
Well, be it so.

Heinrich.
It is the smaller peril;
Else love, more strong than prudence in her heart,
Might wake her sire's suspicion, who would then,
With torrents of wild speech or violent act,
Blow to the wind both plot and counterplot,
And so drive back to dangerous despair
Whom secure hope had else made impotent.

Arnfeld.
Be it your charge, then, from to-morrow's dawn
To mark the steps of our fair prisoner;
I will attend upon their Highnesses.
Now, if your leisure serve, we will together
Draw from the range of o'er-observant eyes,
And in my private chamber more at length
Discourse the matter.

Heinrich
(moving off with Arnfeld).
Gladly; let us go.
Nine days from hence, he said? And you are sure
The spy spake truth?

Arnfeld.
Nine days, and I am sure.

[Exeunt.
Enter Helene, Clarissa, and Corcilius.
Helene
(to Corcilius).
Doubtless, but all this he has risked for me—
For me, you say, lost all.

Corcilius.
Madam, 'tis true.

Helene.
True! Then I most in all the world, methinks,
Were graceless to upbraid him.

Corcilius.
You alone
In all the world can win him back to honour.

Helene.
Tush, sir! I have no gift to plead with men
Upon assumed devotion to myself.
Hear what I have to say. We three ride hence
This very hour for Traumberg. With your aid
I mean to win this dukedom back again.
Traitors are often cowards; it may be
At sight of you he will disgorge his lie
With what it purchased. You have friends, you say.
Summon them; raise the city; let them know
Heinrich is living. I myself will lead
Their wives and sisters with what arms are ours—
Tears, prayers, reproaches—to uphold his cause.
Triumph is certain. Oh, that we were there!

Corcilius.
Brave lady, I am with you.

Clarissa.
And I too.

Helene.
Go, then, with speed. Saddle Success for me,
My palfrey for Clarissa; lose no time,
But bring them to the forest unobserved;
We shall await you at the parting ways.
[Exit Corcilius.
Go in, Clarissa, and what need requires,
With frugal choice make ready for the road;
Anon I shall be with you. (Exit Clarissa.)
Oh, dear father!
How will the tidings of my flight distress thee!
How wilt thou weary for my home-return!
Yet deem me not undutiful. God knows
'Tis from no lack of love to thee-ward; nay,
Some power outside myself compels me hence
With strange imperious mandate. It must be
That I was born for this one deed. I yearn
To act, to dare for others, and therewith,
So my heart whispers, to thy life convey
Some tributary stream of happiness,
And end the dull stagnation of thy days.
O breathing air! O waving branches! O
Familiar sights and sounds of my loved home!
With peace, with comfort, steal into his soul!
Be, every hour, sweet messengers from me
That we shall meet again, and meet with joy!

Enter Duke.
[Helene, retiring up palace steps, confronts the Duke.
Duke.
Helene!

Helene.
Father!

[Embraces him, and turns to go.
Duke.
Must you leave me, then?

Helene.
Yes, for a little—I shall soon be back.
Heaven keep thee, father!

Duke.
And thee too, my child!
[Slowly descends the steps. Exit Helene, gazing after him.
The sun was shining but a moment since;
How quickly 'tis o'erclouded!—Hans, come hither!—
Enter Hans with wheelbarrow.
The days grow chill, methinks, and year by year
Summer seems shorter.
[Hans sets the barrow down by the Duke.
What is in thy barrow?

Hans.
Stra', zire, to lay athirt the dahlia-roots,
Lest they be nipt. We shall ha' vrost to-night.

Duke.
Well, and what else?

Hans.
Bezide the stra', your Highness?
Nothen', excep', maybe, zome odds an' ends
O' garden-stuff—a marrer, and zome carrots,
'Martyrs, ezekiel, an' the lik.

Duke
(looking under the straw).
Thou knave!
Enough to sup a score of starving folk!

Hans.
That's what they mid be vor, zoo please your Highness.

Duke.
So, we are robbed under our very noses
By peer alike and pauper.

Hans.
Not but what
I had the orders.

Duke.
Orders, knave!—from whom?

Hans.
From the Princess; God bless her gentle heart!

Duke.
Well, go your ways.

Hans.
Be I to teäke 'em, zire?

Duke.
Eh?—what?

Hans.
Be these to goo along wi' I?

Duke.
Ay, if she bade thee. Say that they are welcome.

[Exit Hans, with a low whistle of surprise.
Enter Duchess.
Duchess.
There is some secret villainy afoot
'Twixt Arnfeld and the Forester. I marked them
E'en now in closest conference together.
If I know whom to trust in Schlafenstein,
Never believe me.

Duke.
I am sick of it,
And of myself, and all thy restless scheming.
The fabric of our state is rottenness,
A hollow trunk, that puts no branches forth,
And yields no shelter to the passing foot,
Wind-pierced and sapless, so that all who see
Marvel why earth is cumbered with it.

Duchess.
Fie!
What ails thee, dotard?

Duke.
Once my subjects loved me,
I do remember: that was long ago,
Ere we were married; then thou taughtst me pride;
And pride bred hate, and hatred tyranny,
And tyranny rebellion. We grew poor;
That maddened me with a hot thirst for gold
Cureless and quenchless; for what gold I win
Slips through my hands like water. Out upon it!
No love, no wealth, no honour, no content!

Duchess.
Comfort thyself that with increasing age
Thy wealth of words increaseth.

Duke.
Thou canst taunt;
But what of that, unless thou taunt us back
To happiness and hope of prosperous days?
In all my counsels thou hast borne a part;
More than became me I have leaned on thee;
That prop has failed. Canst thou for one poor plan
Claim kindred with success? Who honours thee,
Or trembles at thy bidding? Tell me that.
Art thou not, even as I, scorned more than feared?

Duchess.
E'en so. To have fared otherwise, I must
Have reigned alone, or mated with a man.
I care not to dispute it, wasting breath,
While through thy cowardice or blindness still
The thief goes free, and Fortune from her throne
Beckons in vain.

Duke.
'Twere nearer truth to say,
Misfortune beckons from Prince Rudolph's throne.

Duchess.

Duke.
I thank thee for that word. I have sunk low—
Ay, even to the beasts; but thou hast helped me
To my old self. Thou bidst me sell my daughter,
And play the man. I have enough of man
Still beating here to answer thee “No, no,
By God! I will not.” Help, Helene, help!

Enter hastily Arnfeld and Heinrich.
Duchess.
Eavesdropping, ha!

Arnfeld.
My lord, is aught amiss?

Heinrich.
What ails his Highness?

Duke
(to Arnfeld).
Send for the Princess.

Enter Kauz; Arnfeld turns to obey, but stops on seeing him.
Kauz.
My lord, the Princess is beyond recall
By you or any else in Schlafenstein.
I met her galloping for dear life, 'twould seem
Toward the frontier.

Duchess.
Unaccompanied!

Kauz.
No, madam; but I dare not say with whom.

Duchess.
Answer, if thou be sane.

Kauz.
'Twas with Corcilius,
The friend of your good Forester. I speak
But what mine eyes unwillingly beheld;
Count Arnfeld, I doubt not, can tell you more.

Heinrich.
Villain, thy life shall answer for this lie.

Duchess.
So perish all my plans! Too late! too late!

Duke.
And I have nothing, nothing more to lose!

[Sinks back, but is supported by Arnfeld.
CURTAIN.