University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The Ruins of the Castle of Wittelsbach, blackened by fire, and razed in many places nearly to the ground; only a few buttresses standing.
Otto leaning over Ulric, dead.
Otto.
Ha! did he move? No! no! Dead! dead! Cold! cold!
'Twas my fierce breath that stirred the clustering curls
On the pale forehead, still and heavy now,
Damp with the chilly death-dew. The small hand
Whose last faint pressure, when the feeble speech
Was quenched, still spake of love unquenchable,
That little hand falls lifeless from my grasp—
A lump of stiffening clay. My boy! my boy!
Gentle and brave! To die! and so to die!
Without a roof to shelter thee, or food,
Or needful raiment; the cold earth thy bed,
And howling wind and rain and arrowy hail
Beating around thee in the last long hour!
Yet not the pitiless elements, 'gainst them
His bold heart battled bravely, did to death
The valiant child. He died of grief and shame,
The slow sure poison of much misery.
Ha! some one comes. Is't Ida? No, a man!
Men, by the echoing footsteps! I'll not leave
The corse to birds obscene and ravening wolves.
No! no! I'll stay. What should I fear? Why, Fear,
Dark trembling phantom, linked to radiant Hope
As the shadow to the sunshine, Fear belongs
To life. I am death's watcher.

[Enter Alf and another poor Citizen from the Ruins; Alf speaking as he enters.
Alf.
'Tis in vain,
Good comrade! Here's no treasure. Let's begone!
'Tis sad to look upon these huge grim walls,
Once firm and stable as the rocks and hills,
Now scathed and overthrown; sadder to think
On him, the bold, the kind, who never heard
Of want but succour followed.

Otto.
Who is that
That dares commit a charitable sin,
And name without a curse a wretch accurst?

Alf.
The Count of Wittelsbach!

Otto.
I am he that once
Bore that proud title. Wittelsbach and I
Alike are fallen. What! Alf! alive and free!
They do not then all die who pity us!
How didst thou 'scape?

Alf.
An archer of the guard
Freed me for the sake of his old chief. My lord,
There be true hearts would rally round thee still;
Few love the Emperor; all abhor Count Calheim;
Draw but thy sword, set but thy lance in rest—

Otto.
What! be again a soldier and a knight!
Taste the keen joy of the combat! Mix once more
Beloved and honoured midst my fellows! live
Blessing and blest! Oh, mockery! I stand here
In the palace-home of centuries, which seemed
Eternal as our race, now like our race
A yawning ruin. At my feet the heir
Of our proud name, gone like that name. For me
There is nor Past nor Future.

Alf.
The poor boy!
The noble, gallant boy!

Otto.
Thou must away,
They must not find thee here. What brought thee, Alf?

Alf.
Poverty, good my lord. My honest neighbour
Hath lost his little all, and came to dig
For treasure in these vaults.

Otto.
For treasure? Alf!
Didst never hear from fond and babbling age
The annals of our race? How my great-grandsire,
Count Berthold, emptied chests of coinèd gold
And pledged his lands to raise and arm the people,
Ay, a whole people, burghers, franklyns, serfs,
In the Bohemian wars? Or how his son
Melted his silver vessels, even the chalices
Of our old chapel (sacrilege, the priests
Miscalled the deed), to feed the starving poor
In the great famine? Or how my good mother,
The Countess Bertha, when a ravaging fire
Burnt half the city, sold her jewelled chains
And strings of pearl and glittering carcanets
To clothe the shelterless? We had no hoards
In Wittelsbach. The treasures of our house
Were in its archives, in the knightly name,
Pure, stainless, bright, which I—which my foul crime,
My frenzy—Take this gold; 'tis all I have,
I need it not. I shall not need it. Go.

Alf.
Now blessings on that noble head!

Citizen.
My children
Shall pray for thee.

Otto.
Go!
[Exeunt Alf and the Citizen.
Did he talk of blessings?
There is good need that one should pray for me;
For as I bend over the newly dead,
All uncompanioned save by mute despair,
Here on my ruined hearth, the murderer's curse
Tugs at my heartstrings, fires my burning brain,
Throbs in each throbbing pulse. What's here? A mattock!
I will go dig our graves.

Enter Ida.
Ida.
The cave is now
Prepared, dear father. How is he? I left
Poor Margaret weeping betwixt grief and joy;
Poor faithful Margaret! She would fain have come
To tend upon us here. Might we not move him
To her trim cottage? Sleeps he still? Speak, father!

Otto.
Ida, if thou have pity, call me not
Father! The very sound stabs like a sword.
Call me the thing I am, girl—murderer!
Regicide! Call me—No; there is no word
For my unparagoned sin. The mind of man
When fashioning the myriad sounds that lend
A winged life to Thought, ne'er framed a name
For the slayer of his children. I was born
To be that first worst murderer.

Ida.
Alas!
Then he is dead, mine own sweet brother!

Otto.
Ay;
Even as an oak stricken by the thunderbolt,
Whose fall hath crushed the tender sapling. Thee
The cloister shall protect; or Isidore—

Ida.
Oh, never, never! Talk not of him, father!
I will not leave thee. None shall sever us;
Not even thyself. I'll cling to thee in life,
In death; as the ivy wreathes its living cords
Around the fallen oak. I'll follow thee
Through the wide world; tend on thee; comfort thee;
Make a home for thee in the savage woods,
Or the caves of the sea-shore. Oh, look upon me
As thou wast wont! Bury not in his grave
All love! Hold me not from thee! Scorn me not!
I am thine own poor child.

Otto.
Oh, bruisèd flower,
Whose odorous perfumes breathe their balmiest sweets
Around the foot that crushes thee! bright star,
Whose quivering, trembling lamp holds out her light
To cheer and guide in misery's darkest hour!
My child! my Ida! all that fate hath left
To this poor heart! Forgive me, best and dearest!
Forgive me, mine own Ida! Thou didst love him
Even with a mother's tenderness;—and he—
Oh, how he loved thee, Ida! his young nurse,
When, tottering beneath the stout babe's weight,
Thou'st held him up to view the dazzling helm
Which fixed his infant gaze; and I have stooped
To place in reach of his uncertain grasp
My drooping plume;—Dost thou remember, Ida?—
From that time downward even to the day
When the bold boy first strove to draw my sword,
And swore that he would challenge knight and peer
In honour of his sister, his fair sister,
Thou wert the cherished idol of his soul,
The vision of all goodness and all beauty.
And I, for his sake who for my foul sin
Lies dead before mine eyes, and for thine own,
My best beloved, most precious, do abjure
For ever thy dear presence, do renounce
Thy filial duty; severing each link
Of the golden chain of love, sweet, gracious words
And patient smiles, and fond and hopeful looks,
Relics of Paradise, I give up all
In thee. Here lies one victim. Make me not
Thy murderer, Ida! The ban leaves unscathed
Thy innocent head. Go from me. Bring not down
Fresh sins upon my sinful soul. Go from me,
My precious child, my all!

Ida.
Oh, father! father!
I cannot speak. Let my tears plead for me,
For me and for thyself. We'll go together.
We will not part.

Otto.
I dare not bless thee, Ida!
Blessings from me the accurst would turn to curses.
But there is One who reads the broken heart,
Who heeds the unspoken prayer. His blessing rest
Upon thee, my fair child. At night we'll seek
The Abbess of St. Agatha. Watch now
Beside the tranquil dead. I go to dig
His grave amid these frowning buttresses,
These half-discovered vaults, which like some huge
Ancestral tomb stand yawning to receive
Their master's fated race. Bide here. I go
To seek amid our desolated home
Earth's last best resting-place.
[Exit Otto.

Ida.
No; I'll not leave him;
I'll never leave him.—Ulric! Oh, how calm!
How beautiful! how pure! The holy smile
That lingers on those lips reflects the bliss
Of the freed spirit. I'll go seek for flowers,
The pale, dim woodbine, the faint Autumn rose,
And lingering spikes of odorous lavender
To strew upon the corse. Flowers wet with tears
Are all I have, are all the mightiest have
To deck the loved-one's bier. The sepulchre,
Awful and stern, rejects wealth's tinsel gauds,
And in her silent womb receives alone
The simple offering prince or serf may cull
From upland pasture or deep woody glen.

Enter Calheim, speaking to an Officer.
Cal.
Look that the archers close around the walls,
Watching that none escape. Wait thou beside
Yon buttress. Ay, 'tis she. Our search is o'er.
[The Officer retires, and Calheim advances to Ida.
Should I not know that form, albeit the robes
Of cumbrous pomp no longer idly shroud
The light and delicate grace of springy youth?
Should I not know that face, albeit none ever
Saw the fair cheek so pale? The Countess Ida.
Turn not away. I've sought thee, lady, long,
And must have speech with thee. Where dwellest thou?
Where is thy home?

Ida.
Alas! I have no home,
A houseless, lonely wanderer.

Cal.
Lonely?

Ida.
Ay;
A solitary wanderer.

Cal.
And thy father?
Why dost thou start, fair maiden? I but ask thee
Where bides Count Otto? Speak.

Ida.
Hast thou not heard
The piteous tale, that in the swollen Rhine
A broidered cloak, bearing the lion crest
Of Wittelsbach, a draggled heron plume,
Such as still decked his knightly helm, were found
Floating upon the wave?

Cal.
The broidered cloak!
The heron plume! Thou art ill at feigning, lady;
Thy fair cheek changes not; thine eye is calm;
Thy voice unfaltering. Not in such a tone
Speaks a fond daughter of a father dead.
He is not drowned; he lives; we've tracked him hither;
He lurks within these walls. Why, now thou tremblest;
Thine eyelids quiver now; and the flush of fear
Mounts to thy temples. He is here.

Ida.
Count Calheim,
Be merciful! Have pity on us! Save him!
My tongue cleaves to my mouth. I have no words,
I am weaker than a child. Fear takes from me
All power of thought or utterance. Only save him!
As thou didst love thy father, as thou hop'st
For children that shall love thee in thine age,
Save him!

Cal.
Arise.

Ida.
I'll never leave thy feet
Till thou hast sworn to save him. Wouldst thou slay
A father 'fore his daughter's eyes? The headsman,
Rude and unnurtured as his axe, would shrink
From such a butchery. Draw off thy band,
Thou canst an' if thou wilt, and my whole life
Shall be one prayer for thee. Oh, save him! save him!

Cal.
Listen. Thyself, and only thou, canst save
Count Otto.

Ida.
I! Now blessings on thy head
Thou art a good man, Charles of Calheim. Blessings
On thee and thine! Out on my foolish fear!
Fie on me that I tremble so. Speak! Speak!

Cal.
Calm thee and hearken. At the tournament
Of Worms I saw and loved thee; and when sent,
The Ambassador of Leopold, to Spires,
I asked thee of thy father; and with taunt,
Bitter and gross, with jibe and contumely,
Was my frank offer spurned. Had some vile groom
Or viler criminal sought of Count Otto
His daughter's hand, he could not have flung off
Bondsman or thief with fiercer scorn. Nay, listen!
My story shall be brief. The Counts of Calheim
Have still been known to keep an equal reckoning
With friend or foe. We are no ingrates, lady;
We pay our debts of good and evil, blessing
For blessing, curse for curse. I inly swore
A deep and lasting vengeance; and with aid
Of man's blind passions, cold, smooth treachery,
And rash, hot choler, I have drunk to the dregs
Revenge's bitter sweets. The haughty knight,
Who flung his biting scoffs at me, as boys
Pelt curs with pebble-stones, what is he now?
A regicide. The scathing, withering ban,
That cuts man from his fellow-man, hath smitten
Him and his house. Vengeance is satiate now,
And Love may revel.

Ida.
Love! thy love!

Cal.
Nay, snatch not
Thine hand from mine, fair Ida: lovelier far
In grief and terror than in hope and joy!
Snatch not away thy hand. Be wise, and save
The guilty and the innocent, Count Otto
And his fair boy.

Ida.
He is beyond thy power.
And I, even now, with vain and sinful tears
Bemoaned his death. He is at rest.

Cal.
Thy father!

Ida.
He would not be so saved. Off, torturing fiend!
Destroyer of our race! This is not love,
But hate. Thy look is fearful, man! Hold off!
Approach me not. Avaunt!

Cal.
Hast thou forgot
The Imperial archers? They await my call,
And know their duty. Once again I ask thee
Be mine.

Ida.
Oh, never!

Cal.
In thine own despite
I'll bear thee to a happier destiny.

Enter Otto.
Otto.
Didst call me, Ida? Heard I not a cry
Of terror and of anguish? Miscreant, turn!
Though my good arm were withered, my keen sword
Blunted, this cause—Ha! is it thou, Count Calheim?
Thou hast tracked the quarry to his lair. So be it.
I know my doom. But an' thou touch a hair
Of her fair head, thou'lt find me still a man,
Ay, and a father. Dost thou brave me here,
Here in my old hereditary home?

Cal.
Thy home! 'Tis forfeit to the empire.

Otto.
Thou
Didst see these strong towers crackle and consume
Beneath thy stronger fires. Thy heavy axe
Joined the devouring flame that blazed and roared
From turret to foundation-stone, till heaven
Blushed, and earth trembled, as each mighty tower,
An age's boast, fell prostrate. That fierce flame,
Bright minister of man's revenge, hath yet
A power beneficent—ay, even as death,
To enfranchise and to consecrate. It frees
Whom it destroys. No feudal lord shall rule
In these old feudal halls. Long waving grass,
Bramble, and briony, and pungent flowers
Shall fringe the crumbling walls. The hare shall couch
Beside the ruined hearth; the hill-fox hide
Within the deep recesses; the stern outlaw
Find in these vaults a tomb. Thou hast sought me here
Amidst the black and devastated walls,
That once were Wittelsbach. Didst think to pass
Safe from the lion's den? Thou hast found me digging
A grave for my fair boy, my famished boy,
My one fair, famished boy!—Didst think to 'scape
The mountain eyrie, where the eagle shrieks
Over his slaughtered young? Come on, Count Calheim!
I called thee coward once;—forgive that wrong!
Thrice valiant he who singly dares to brave
Me and my great despair. Come on. Away, girl!

Cal.
Put up thy sword.

Otto.
Off with thee, Ida!—Now!—
Now!—He's a coward still.

Cal.
Dar'st thou to challenge
A knight of the empire? Thou, with 'scutcheon burnt,
And banner torn, and broken spurs, and name
Degraded! Sir, the Emperor—not thine Emperor,
Thy master and thy friend;—Shak'st thou at that?
Not he, for he is dead;—Who trembles now?
But Leopold of Brunswick sent me hither
To do quick justice on a famous traitor
Under the ban. Dost mark me, Sir? a murderer!
A regicide! Thou art begirt with foes;
The Imperial archers wait within my call
To seize thee.

Otto.
Summon them; and see if then
I tremble.—Ida! sweet one, hang not thus
Around me. Sit thee down and listen, Ida,
To my last words. When I am gone, or now—
This very now—

Ida.
Father, 'twas I betrayed thee!

Otto.
Vex not thy gentle heart with thoughts like these,
But listen and obey. Haste with all speed
To the convent of St. Agatha; the Abbess
Will shield thy tender youth. Beseech her, Ida,
For love of thy dear mother, that her son
May rest in hallowed earth, with holy dirge
And pious requiem. Crave nought for me;
My bones must whiten in the wind and sun
Unblest. But sometimes in thine inmost heart
Thou'lt think of me; and such mute thoughts are prayers
That mount to heaven seraph-winged. Go! go!

Ida.
Father, 'twas I betrayed thee! I, thy child,
That called thee here to die.

Cal.
Ay, that sweet voice
Hath done a royal service; hath brought forth
A criminal to justice; those bright eyes
Shall see the righteous doom.

Ida.
Oh, mercy! mercy!

Cal.
Thou still may'st save him. Wed me, and yon band—

Ida.
Wilt thou dismiss them? Wilt thou save him? Father,
I cannot see thee die! I have bethought me;
Hearken, Count Calheim! I will be thy bride.

Otto.
Sooner wed Death, the crownèd skeleton,
That banquets with the worm: famished as he,
Thy pretty brother, stabbed as I shall be;
Or with thy full heart bursting even here,
At sight of that last agony. Wed Death
In his most ghastliest form rather than lust
And cunning craft, and cowardly cruelty.
Count Calheim, call thy archers.

Cal.
Nay, thou hear'st
The maiden hath consented.

Otto.
Demon, see!
She lies as one from whose frail form the spirit
Hath newly passed away. Oh, fondest! faithfullest!
That so thou wert! That the poor heart were dead
To grief and fear! Summon thy band. Dost linger?
Dost palter with thy duty? Must I show thee
To serve thy Emperor? Ho! brave archers! Warriors
Of Brunswick and the empire! Veterans
Of Philip and of Leopold! What ho!
I summon ye to vengeance.
Enter Soldiers, &c.
Ye are sent
To seek and seize Otto of Wittelsbach,
Traitor, and murderer, and regicide,
Under the ban. He hath deserved his doom.
But what may he deserve, the double traitor,
Your craven leader—Struggle not; I clutch thee
In a grip as strong as death!—who, not for pity,
But base and brutish passion, strove to save
The wretch he came to slay, to evade the law
He swore to execute, to abet and succour
The excommunicate? Say, for ye know me,
When you shall tell your children my sad tale,
That I denounced the traitor, I, Count Otto;
And 'twas my sword that wreaked Heaven's mighty justice
On him and on myself.

As Otto stabs first Calheim and then himself, Isidore enters with Alf and Attendant, seizes Ida in his arms; and the Curtain falls.