University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

An Apartment in the Convent, the Stranger lies sleeping on a Couch. The Prior watching him.
Prior.
He sleeps, if it be sleep; this starting trance
Whose feverish tossings and deep muttered groans,
Do prove the soul shares not the body's rest—
[hanging over him.
How the lip works, how the bare teeth do grind—
And beaded drops course down his writhen brow—
I will awake him from this horrid trance,
This is no natural sleep—ho, wake thee, stranger—

Stran.
What, wouldst thou have, my life is in thy power—

Prior.
Most wretched man, whose fears alone betray thee—
What art thou,—speak.

Stran.
—Thou sayest I am a wretch—
And thou sayest true—these weeds do witness it—
These wave-worn weeds—these bare and bruised limbs,
What wouldst thou more—I shrink not from the question.
I am a wretch, and proud of wretchedness,
'Tis the sole earthly thing that cleaves to me.

Prior.
Lightly I deem of outward wretchedness,
For that hath been the lot of blessed saints—
But in their dire extreme of outward wretchedness
Full calm they slept in dungeons and in darkness—
Such hath not been thy sleep—

Stran.
Didst watch my sleep—
But thou couldst glean no secret from my ravings.—

Prior.
Thy secrets, wretched man, I reck not of them—
But I adjure thee by the church's power
(A power to search man's secret heart of sin),
Shew me thy wound of soul—
Weep'st thou, the ties of nature or of passion
Torn by the hand of Heaven—
Oh no! full well I deemed no gentler feeling
Woke the dark lightning of thy withering eye—
What fiercer spirit is it tears thee thus?
Shew me the horrid tenant of thy heart—
Or wrath, or hatred, or revenge, is there—

Stran.
(suddenly starting from his Couch, falling on his knees; and raising his clasped hands.)
I would consort with mine eternal enemy,
To be revenged on him.—

Prior.
Art thou a man, or fiend, who speakest thus.

Stran.
I was a man, I know not what I am—
What others' crimes and injuries have made me—
Look on me—What am I?—

[advancing.
Prior.
—I know thee not.

Stran.
I marvel that thou say'st it—
For lowly men full oft remember those
In changed estate, whom equals have forgotten:
A passing beggar hath remembered me,
When with strange eyes my kinsmen looked on me—
I wore no sullied weeds on that proud day
When thou a barefoot monk didst bow full low
For alms, my heedless hand hath flung to thee—
Thou doest not know me.—

[approaching him.
Prior.
Mine eyes are dim with age—but many thoughts
Do stir within me at thy voice.

Stran.
List to me, monk, it is thy trade to talk,
As reverend men do use in saintly wise,
Of life's vicissitudes and vanities—
Hear one plain tale that doth surpass all saws—
Hear it from me—Count Bertram—aye—Count Bertram—
The darling of his liege and of his land
The army's idol, and the council's head—
Whose smile was fortune, and whose will was law—
Doth bow him to the prior of St. Anselm
For water to refresh his parched lip,
And this hard-matted couch to fling his limbs on.—

Prior.
Good Heaven and all its saints!—

Ber.
Wilt thou betray me?—

Prior.
Lives there the wretch beneath these walls to do it?
Sorrow enough hath bowed thy head already
Thou man of many woes.—
Far more I fear lest thou betray thyself.
Hard by do stand the halls of Aldobrand
(Thy mortal enemy and cause of fall),
Where ancient custom doth invite each stranger
Cast on this shore to sojourn certain days,
And taste the bounty of the castle's lord—
If thou goest not, suspicion will arise
And if thou dost (all changed as thou art),
Some desperate burst of passion will betray thee
And end in mortal scathe—
What dost thou gaze on with such fixed eyes?

Ber.
—What sayest thou?
I dreamed I stood before Lord Aldobrand
Impenetrable to his searching eyes—
And I did feel the horrid joy men feel
Measuring the serpent's coil whose fangs have stung them;
Scanning with giddy eye the air-hung rock
From which they leapt and live by miracle;
Following the dun skirt of the o'erpast storm
Whose bolt did leave them prostrate—
—To see that horrid spectre of my thoughts
In all the stern reality of life—
To mark the living lineaments of hatred,
And say, this is the man whose sight should blast me;
Yet in calm dreadful triumph still gaze on:—
It is a horrid joy.

Prior.
—Nay, rave not thus—
Thou wilt not meet him, many a day must pass
Till from Palermo's walls he wend him homeward
Where now he tarries with St. Anselm's knights.—
His dame doth dwell in solitary wise
Few are the followers in his lonely halls—
Why dost thou smile in that most horrid guise?—

Ber.
(repeating his words.)
His dame doth dwell alone—perchance his child—
Oh, no, no, no—it was a damned thought.

Prior.
I do but indistinctly hear thy words,
But feel they have some fearful meaning in them.—

Ber.
Oh, that I could but mate him in his might,
Oh, that we were on the dark wave together,
With but one plank between us and destruction,
That I might grasp him in these desperate arms,
And plunge with him amid the weltering billows—
And view him gasp for life—and—

Prior.
Horrible—horrible—I charge thee cease—
The shrines are trembling on these sainted walls—
The stony forms will start to life and answer thee

Ber.
Ha ha—I see him struggling—
I see him—ha, ha, ha (a frantic laugh.)


Prior.
—Oh horrible—
Help, help—to hold him—for my strength doth fail—

Enter 1st Monk.
Monk.
The lady of St. Aldobrand sends greeting—

Prior.
Oh, art thou come, this is no time for greeting—
Help—bear him off—thou sees't his fearful state.

[Exeunt bearing him off.

SCENE II.

Hall in the Castle of St. Aldobrand.
Enter Hugo shewing in Bertram's Comrades, Clotilda following.
Hugo.
This way, friends, this way, good cheer awaits you.

1st Sail.
Well then, good cheer was never yet bestowed
On those who need it more.

Hugo.
—To what port bound,
Did this fell storm o'ertake you?

1st Sail.
—No matter
So we find here a comfortable haven.

Hugo.
Whence came you?

1st Sail.
—Psha, I cannot answer fasting.

Hugo.
Roughness, the proverb says, speaks honesty,
I hope the adage true.

Clot.
Lead them in, Hugo,
They need speedy care—which is your leader?

1st Sail.
He will be here anon—what ye would know,
Demand of him.

2d Sail.
(advancing)
He's here.

Clot.
I fain would learn
Their country and their fortunes.

Enter Bertram, with a sullen air, but scrutinizing all around.
Clot.
Is that him?
His looks appal me, I dare not speak to him,

[All pause at his appearance.
Hugo.

Come, come, the feast's prepared within,
this way.

[Bertram passes on sullenly and exit.
Clot.
The grief that clothes that leader's woe-worn form,
The chilling awe his ruin'd grandeur wears
Is of no common sort—I must observe him.
[Exit Clot.

1st Sail.
Glee.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Moonlight; a terrassed rampart of the Castle; a part of the latter is seen, the rest concealed by woods.
Imogine alone, she gazes at the Moon for some time, and then advances slowly.
Imo.
—Mine own loved light,
That every soft and solemn spirit worships,
That lovers love so well—strange joy is thine,
Whose influence o'er all tides of soul hath power,
Who lendst thy light to rapture and despair;—
The glow of hope and wan hue of sick fancy
Alike reflect thy rays: alike thou lightest
The path of meeting or of parting love—
Alike on mingling or on breaking hearts
Thou smil'st in throned beauty.—Bertram—Bertram.
How sweet it is to tell the listening night
The name beloved—it is a spell of power
To wake the buried slumberers of the heart,
Where memory lingers o'er the grave of passion
Watching its tranced sleep!—
The thoughts of other days are rushing on me,
The loved, the lost, the distant, and the dead,
Are with me now, and I will mingle with them
'Till my sense fails, and my raised heart is wrapt
In secret suspension of mortality.

Enter Clotilda.
Clot.
Why dost thou wander by this mournful light,
Feeding sick fancy with the thought that poisons?—

Imo.
I will but weep beneath the moon awhile.—
Now do not chide my heart for this sad respite,
The thoughts it most doth love do visit it then,
And make it feel like heaven—

Clot.
Nay, come with me, and view those storm-'scaped men
A feasting in thy hall; 'twill cheer thy heart—
Of perils 'scaped by flood and fire they tell,
And many an antique legend wild they know
And many a lay they sing—hark, their deep voices
Come faintly on the wind.

(Noise of singing and revelry without.)
Imo.
Their wild and vulgar mirth doth startle me.
This clamorous wassail in a baron's hall
Ill suits the state of rescued fearful men:—
But as I passed the latticed gallery
One stood alone;—I marked him where he stood,
His face was veiled,—faintly a light fell on him;
But through soiled weeds his muffled form did shew
A wild and terrible grandeur.

Clot.
I marked him too. He mixed not with the rest,
But o'er his wild mates held a stern controul—
Their rudest burst of riotous merriment
Beneath his dark eye's stilling energy
Was hushed to silence.

Imo.
He never spoke?

Clot.
No, he did nought but sigh,
If I might judge by the high-heaving vesture
Folded so deep on his majestic breast;—
Of sound I heard not—

Imo.
Call him hither.—
There is a mystery of woe about him
That strongly stirs the fancy.

Clot.
Wilt thou confer alone, at night, with one
Who bears such fearful form?

Imo.
Why therefore send him—
All things of fear have lost their power o'er me—

[Exit Clotilda.
Imogine appears to be debating with herself how to receive him, at length she says
Imo.
If he do bear, like me, a withered heart
I will not mock him with a sound of comfort—

Bertram enters slowly from the end of the stage; his arms folded, his eyes fixed on the earth, she does not know him.
Imo.
A form like that hath broken on my dreams
So darkly wild, so proudly stern,
Doth it rise on me waking?

Bertram comes to the end of the stage, and stands without looking at her.
Imo.
Stranger, I sent for thee, for that I deemed
Some wound was thine, that yon free band might chafe,—
Perchance thy wordly wealth sunk with yon wreck—
Such wound my gold can heal—the castle's almoner—

Ber.
The wealth of worlds were heaped on me in vain.

Imo.
Oh then I read thy loss—Thy heart is sunk
In the dark waters pitiless; some dear friend,
Or brother, loved as thine own soul, lies there—
I pity thee, sad man, but can no more—
Gold I can give, but can no comfort give
For I am comfortless—
Yet if I could collect my faltering breath
Well were I meet for such sad ministry,
For grief hath left my voice no other sound—

Ber.
(Striking his heart.)
No dews give freshness to this blasted soil.—

Imo.
Strange is thy form, but more thy words are strange—
Fearful it seems to hold this parley with thee.
Tell me thy race and country—

Ber.
What avails it?
The wretched have no country: that dear name
Comprizes home, kind kindred, fostering friends,
Protecting laws, all that binds man to man—
But none of these are mine;—I have no country—
And for my race, the last dread trump shall wake
The sheeted relics of mine ancestry,
Ere trump of herald to the armed lists
In the bright blazon of their stainless coat,
Calls their lost child again.—

Imo.
I shake to hear him—
There is an awful thrilling in his voice,—
The soul of other days comes rushing in them.—
If nor my bounty nor my tears can aid thee,
Stranger, farewell; and 'mid thy misery
Pray, when thou tell'st thy beads, for one more wretched.

Ber.
Stay, gentle lady, I would somewhat with thee.
Imogine retreats terrified.
(Detaining her)
—Thou shalt not go—

Imo.
Shall not!—Who art thou? speak—

Ber.
And must I speak?—
There was a voice which all the world, but thee
Might have forgot, and been forgiven,—

Imo.
My senses blaze—between the dead and living
I stand in fear—oh God!—It cannot be—
Those thick black locks—those wild and sun-burnt features
He looked not thus—but then that voice—
It cannot be—for he would know my name.

Ber.
Imogine— [She has tottered towards him during the last speech, and when he utters her name, shrieks and falls into his arms.]


Ber.
Imogine—yes,
Thus pale, cold, dying, thus thou art most fit
To be enfolded to this desolate heart—
A blighted lily on its icy bed—
Nay, look not up, 'tis thus I would behold thee.
That pale cheek looks like truth—I'll gaze no more—
That fair, that pale, dear cheek, these helpless arms,
If I look longer they will make me human.

Imo.
(starting from him.)
Fly, fly, the vassals of thine enemy wait
To do thee dead.

Ber.
Then let them wield the thunder,
Fell is their dint, who're mailed in despair.
Let mortal might sever the grasp of Bertram.

Imo.
Release me—I must break from him—he knows not—
Oh God!

Ber.
Imogine—madness seizes me—
Why do I find thee in mine enemy's walls?
What dost thou do in halls of Aldobrand?
Infernal light doth shoot athwart my mind—
Swear thou art a dependent on his bounty,
That chance, or force, or sorcery, brought thee hither
Thou canst not be—my throat is swoln with agony—
Hell hath no plague—Oh no, thou couldst not do it.

Imo.
(kneeling.)
Mercy.

Ber.
Thou hast it not, or thou wouldst speak—
Speak, speak, (with frantic violence.)


Imo.
I am the wife of Aldobrand,—
To save a famishing father did I wed.

Ber.
I will not curse her—but the hoarded vengeance—

Imo.
Aye—curse, and consummate the horrid spell,
For broken-hearted, in despairing hour
With every omen dark and dire I wedded—
Some ministering demon mocked the robed priest,
With some dark spell, not holy vow they bound me,
Full were the rites of horror and despair.
They wanted but—the seal of Bertram's curse.

Ber.
(not heeding her.)
—Talk of her father—could a father love thee
As I have loved?—the veriest wretch on earth
Doth cherish in some corner of his heart,
Some thought that makes that heart a sanctuary
For pilgrim dreams in midnight-hour to visit,
And weep and worship there.
—And such thou wert to me—and thou art lost.
—What was her father? could a father's love
Compare with mine?—in want, and war, and peril,
Things that would thrill the hearer's blood to tell of,
My heart grew human when I thought of thee—
Imogine would have shuddered for my danger—
Imogine would have bound my leechless wounds—
Imogine would have sought my nameless corse,
And known it well—and she was wedded—wedded—
—Was there no name in hell's dark catalogue
To brand thee with, but mine immortal foe's?—
And did I 'scape from war, and want, and famine
To perish by the falsehood of a woman?

Imo.
Oh spare me,—Bertram—oh preserve thyself—

Ber.
A despot's vengeance, a false country's curses,
The spurn of menials whom this hand had fed—
In my heart's steeled pride I shook them off,
As the bayed lion from his hurtless hide
Shakes his pursuers' darts—across their path—
One dart alone took aim, thy hand did barb it.

Imo.
He did not hear my father's cry—Oh heaven—
Nor food, nor fire, nor raiment, and his child
Knelt madly to the hungry walls for succour
E'er her wrought brain could bear the horrid thought
Or wed with him—or—see thy father perish.

Ber.
Thou tremblest least I curse thee, tremble not—
Though thou hast made me, woman, very wretched—
Though thou hast made me—but I will not curse thee—
Hear the last prayer of Bertram's broken heart,
That heart which thou hast broken, not his foes!—
Of thy rank wishes the full scope be on thee—
May pomp and pride shout in thine addered path
Till thou shalt feel and sicken at their hollowness—
May he thou'st wed, be kind and generous to thee
Till thy wrung heart, stabb'd by his noble fondness
Writhe in detesting consciousness of falsehood—
May thy babe's smile speak daggers to that mother
Who cannot love the father of her child,
And in the bright blaze of the festal hall,
When vassals kneel, and kindred smile around thee,
May ruined Bertram's pledge hiss in thine ear—
Joy to the proud dame of St. Aldobrand—
While his cold corse doth bleach beneath her towers.

Imo.
(Detaining him)
Stay.

Ber.
No.

Imo.
Thou hast a dagger.

Ber.
Not for woman.—

Imo.
(flinging herself on the ground)
It was my prayer to die in Bertram's presence,
But not by words like these—

Ber.
(turning back)
—on the cold earth!
—I do forgive thee from my inmost soul—

(The child of Imogine rushes in and clings to her)
Child.
Mother.

Ber.
(eagerly snatching up the child)
God bless thee, child—Bertram hath kissed thy child.

(He rushes out, Clotilda enters gazing after him in terror, and goes to afford relief to Imogine.)
The curtain drops.