University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A dark night under the Castle Walls;—Bertram appears in a state of the utmost agitation;—he extends his arms towards a spot where the Moon has disappeared.
Ber.
Thou hidest away thy face, and wilt not view me,
All the bright lights of heaven are dark above me—
Beneath the black cope of this starless night
There lurks no darker soul—
My fiend-like glory hath departed from me—
Bertram hath nought above the meanest losel—
I should have bearded him in halls of pride—
I should have mated him in fields of death—
Not stol'n upon his secret bower of peace,
And breathed a serpent's venom on his flower.
(He looks up at the casement of the tower, at which a light appears, he gazes on it)
—She is there—
She weeps—no husband wipes her tears away—
She weeps—no babe doth cheer the guilty mother.
Aldobrand—No—I never will forgive thee,
For I am sunk beneath thee—Who art thou?

Enter Two of Bertram's Band.
1st. Rob.
Why dost thou wander in the woods alone,
Leaving thy mates to play with idle hilts,
Or dream with monks o'er rosary and relic?
Give us a deed to do.

Ber.
Yes, ye are welcome,
Your spirits shall be proud—ho—hear ye, villains,
I know ye both—ye are slaves that for a ducat
Would rend the screaming infant from the breast
To plunge it in the flames;
Yea, draw your keen knives cross a father's throat,
And carve with them the bloody meal ye earned;
Villains, rejoice, your leader's crimes have purged you,
You punished guilt—I preyed on innocence—
Ye have beheld me fallen—begone—begone.

1st. Rob.
Why then, Heaven's benison be with you,
Thou'lt need it if thou tarriest longer here.

Ber.
How, slave, what fear you?

2d. Rob.
Fly; this broad land hath not one spot to hide thee,
Danger and death await thee in those walls.

Ber.
They'd fell a blasted tree—well—let it fall—
But though the perished trunk feel not the wound;
Woe to the smiting hand—its fall may crush him.

1st. Rob.
Lord Aldobrand
Holds high commission from his sovereign liege
To hunt thy outlaw'd life through Sicily.

Ber.
(wildly.)
Who—what—

2d. Rob.
We mingled with the men at arms
As journeying home. Their talk was of Count Bertram,
Whose vessel had from Manfredonia's coast
Been traced towards this realm.

1st. Rob.
And if on earth his living form were found,
Lord Aldobrand had power to seal his doom.
Some few did pity him.

Ber.
(bursting into ferocity.)
Villain, abhorred villain.
Hath he not pushed me to extremity?
Are these wild weeds, these scarred and scathed limbs,
This wasted frame, a mark for human malice?
There have been those who from the high bark's side
Have whelmed their enemy in the flashing deep;
But who hath watch'd to see his struggling hands,
To hear the sob of death?—Fool—ideot—ideot—
'Twas but e'en now, I would have knelt to him
With the prostration of a conscious villain;
I would have crouched beneath his spurning feet;
I would have felt their trampling tread, and blessed it—
For I had injured him—and mutual injury
Had freed my withered heart—Villain—I thank thee.

“1st. Rob.
What wilt thou do? shall we prepare for blows?

“Ber.
Behold me, Earth, what is the life he hunts for?
“Come to my cave, thou human hunter, come;
“For thou hast left thy prey no other lair,
“But the bleak rock, or howling wilderness;
“Cheer up thy pack of fanged and fleshed hounds,
“Flash all the flames of hell upon its darkness,
“Then enter if thou darest.
“Lo, there the crushed serpent coils to sting thee,
“Yea, spend his life upon the mortal throe.”

1st. Rob.
Wilt thou fly?

Ber.
Never—on this spot I stand
The champion of despair—this arm my brand—
This breast my panoply—and for my gage—
(Oh thou hast reft from me all knightly pledge)
Take these black hairs torn from a head that hates thee—
Deep be their dye, before that pledge is ransomed—
In thine heart's blood or mine—why strivest thou with me?
(Wild with passion.)
Lord Aldobrand, I brave thee in thy halls,
Wrecked, famished, wrung in heart, and worn in limb—
For bread of thine this lip hath never stained—
I bid thee to the conflict—aye, come on—
Coward—hast armed thy vassals?—come then all—
Follow—ye shall have work enough—Follow.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Imogine in her apartment—a lamp burning on the Table—She walks some time in great agitation and then pushes the light away.
Imo.
Away, thou glarest on me, thy light is hateful;
Whom doth the dark wind chide so hollowly?
The very stones shrink from my steps of guilt,
All lifeless things have come to life to curse me:
Oh! that a mountain's weight were cast on me;
Oh! that the wide, wild ocean heaved o'er me;
Oh! that I could into the earthy centre
Sink and be nothing.
Sense, memory, feeling, life extinct and swallowed,
With things that are not, or have never been,
Lie down and sleep the everlasting sleep—
(She sinks on the ground.)
If I run mad, some wild word will betray me,
Nay—let me think—what am I?—no, what was I?
(A long pause.)
I was the honoured wife of Aldobrand;
I am the scorned minion of a ruffian.

Enter Clotilda.
Imo.
Who art thou that thus comest on me in darkness?

Clot.
The taper's blaze doth make it bright as noon.

Imo.
I saw thee not, till thou wert close to me.
So steal the steps of those who watch the guilty;
How darest thou gaze thus earnestly upon me;
What seest thou in my face?

Clot.
A mortal horror.
If aught but godless souls at parting bear
The lineaments of despair, such face is thine.

Imo.
See'st thou despair alone?
Nay, mock me not, for thou hast read more deeply,
Else why that piercing look.

Clot.
I meant it not—
But since thy lonely walk upon the rampart—
Strange hath been thy demeanour, all thy maidens
Do speak in busy whispers of its wildness—

Imo.
Oh hang me shuddering on the baseless crag—
The vampire's wing, the wild-worm's sting be on me,
But hide me, mountains, from the man I've injured—

Clot.
Whom hast thou injured?

Imo.
Whom doth woman injure?
Another daughter dries a father's tears;
Another sister claims a brother's love;
An injured husband hath no other wife,
Save her who wrought him shame.

Clot.
I will not hear thee,

Imo.
We met in madness, and in guilt we parted—
Oh! I see horror rushing to thy face—
Do not betray me, I am penitent—
Do not betray me, it will kill my Lord—
Do not betray me, it will kill my boy,
My little one that loves me.

Clot.
Wretched woman—
Whom guilt hath flung at a poor menial's feet—
Rise, rise, how canst thou keep thy fatal secret?
Those fixt and bloodshot eyes, those wringing hands—

Imo.
And were I featureless, inert, and marble—
Th'accuser here would speak—

Clot.
Wilt thou seek comfort from the holy prior?

Imo.
When I was innocent, I sought it of him—
For if his lip of wrath refused my pardon,
My heart would have absolved me—
Now when that heart condemns me, what avails
The pardon of my earthly erring judge?

Clot.
Yet, hie from hence, upon their lady's bower
No menial dares intrude.

Imo.
That seat of honour—
My guilty steps shall never violate—
What fearful sound is that?

Clot.
Alas, a feller trial doth abide thee;
I hear thy lord's approach.
Madness is in thy looks, he'll know it all—

Imo.
Why, I am mad with horror and remorse—
He comes, he comes in all that murderous kindness;
Oh Bertram's curse is on me.

Enter Aldobrand.
Ald.
How fares my dame? give me thy white hand, love.
Oh it is pleasant for a war-worn man
To couch him on the downy lap of comfort—
And on his rush-strewn floors of household peace
Hear his doffed harness ring—Take thou my helmet;
(To page who goes out.)
Well may man toil for such an hour as this.

Imo.
(standing timidly near him)
Yea, happier they, who on the bloody field
Stretch when their toil is done—

Ald.
—What means my love?

Imo.
Is there not rest among the quiet dead;
But is there surely rest in mortal dwellings?

Ald.
Deep loneliness hath wrought this mood in thee,
For like a cloistered votaress, thou hast kept,
Thy damsels tell me, this lone turret's bound—
A musing walk upon the moonlight ramparts,
Or thy lute's mournful vespers all thy cheering—
Not thine to parley at the latticed casement
With wandering wooer, or—

Imo.
(wildly)
For mercy's sake forbear—

Ald.
How farest thou?

Imo.
(recovering)
well—well—a sudden pain o'th'heart.

Ald.
Knowest thou the cause detained me hence so long,
And which again must call me soon away?

Imo.
(trying to recollect herself)
—Was it not war?

Ald.
—Aye, and the worst war, love—
When our fell foes are our own countrymen.
Thou knowest the banished Bertram—why, his name
Doth blanch thy altered cheek, as if his band
With their fierce leader, were within these towers—

Imo.
Mention that name no more—on with thy tale—

Ald.
I need not tell thee, how his mad ambition
Strove with the crown itself for sovereignty—
The craven monarch was his subject's slave—
In that dread hour my country's guard I stood,
From the state's vitals tore the coiled serpent,
First hung him writhing up to public scorn,
Then flung him forth to ruin.

Imo.
Thou need'st not tell it—

Ald.
Th'apostate would be great even in his fall—
On Manfredonia's wild and wooded shore
His desperate followers awed the regions round—
Late from Taranto's gulf his bark was traced
Right to these shores, perchance the recent storm
Hath spared me further search, but if on earth
His living form be found—

Imo.
Think'st thou he harbours here—
Go, crush thy foe—for he is mine and thine—
But tell me not when thou hast done the deed.

Ald.
Why art thou thus, my Imogine, my love?
In former happier hours thy form and converse
Had, like thy lute, that gracious melancholy
Whose most sad sweetness is in tune with joy—
Perchance I've been to thee a rugged mate—
My soldier's mood is all too lightly chafed—
But when the gust hath spent its short-liv'd fury,
I bowed before thee with a child's submission,
And wooed thee with a weeping tenderness.

Imo.
(after much agitation)
Be generous, and stab me—

Ald.
Why is this?
I have no skill in woman's changeful moods,
Tears without grief and smiles without a joy—
My days have passed away 'mid war and toil—
The grinding casque hath worn my locks of youth;
Beshrew its weight, it hath ploughed furrows there,
Where time ne'er drove its share—mine heart's sole wish
Is to sit down in peace among its inmates—
To see mine home for ever bright with smiles,
'Mid thoughts of past, and blessed hopes of future,
Glide through the vacant hours of waning life—
Then die the blessed death of aged honour,
Grasping thy hand of faith, and fixing on thee
Eyes that, though dim in death, are bright with love.

Imo.
Thou never wilt—thou never wilt on me—
Ne'er erred the prophet heart that grief inspired
Though joy's illusions mock their votarist—
I'm dying, Aldobrand, a malady
Preys on my heart, that medicine cannot reach,
Invisible and cureless—look not on me
With looks of love, for then it stings me deepest—
When I am cold, when my pale sheeted corse
Sleeps the dark sleep no venomed tongue can wake
List not to evil thoughts of her whose lips
Have then no voice to plead—
Take to thine arms some honourable dame,
(Blessed will she be within thine arms of honour)
And—if he dies not on his mother's grave—
Still love my boy as if that mother lived.

Ald.
Banish such gloomy dreams—
'Tis solitude that makes thee speak thus sadly—
No longer shalt thou pine in lonely halls.
Come to thy couch, my love—

Imo.
Stand off—unhand me.—
Forgive me, oh my husband;
I have a vow—a solemn vow is on me—
And black perdition gulf my perjured soul
If I ascend the bed of peace and honour
'Till that—

Ald.
'Till what?

Imo.
My penance is accomplished.

Ald.
Nay, Heav'n forefend I should disturb thy orisons—
The reverend prior were fittest counsellor—
Farewell!—but in the painful hour of penance
Think upon me, and spare thy tender frame.

Imo.
And dost thou leave me with such stabbing kindness?

Ald.
(to Clotilda who goes out)
Call to my page
To bring the torch and light me to my chamber—

Imo.
(with a sudden impulse falling on her knees)
Yet, ere thou goest, forgive me, oh my husband—

Ald.
Forgive thee!—What?—

Imo.
Oh, we do all offend—
There's not a day of wedded life, if we
Count at its close the little, bitter sum
Of thoughts, and words, and looks unkind and froward,
Silence that chides and wounding of the eye—
But prostrate at each others' feet, we should
Each night forgiveness ask—then what should I?—

Ald.
(not hearing the last words)
Why take it freely;
I well may pardon, what I ne'er have felt.

Imo.
(following him on her knees, and kissing his hand)
Dost thou forgive me from thine inmost soul—
God bless thee, oh, God bless thee—

Ald.
Farewell—mine eyes grow heavy, thy sad talk
Hath stolen a heaviness upon my spirits—
I will unto my solitary couch—Farewell.
[Exit Aldobrand.

Imo.
There is no human heart can bide this conflict—
All dark and horrible,—Bertram must die—
But oh, within these walls, before mine eyes,
Who would have died for him, while life had value;—
He shall not die,—Clotilda, ho, come forth—
He yet may be redeemed, though I am lost—
Let him depart, and pray for her he ruin'd.
Hah! was it fancy's work—I hear a step—
It hath the speech-like thrilling of his tread:
It is himself.
Enter Bertram.
It is a crime in me to look on thee—
But in whate'er I do there now is crime—
Yet wretched thought still struggles for thy safety—
Fly, while my lips without a crime may warn thee—
Would thou hadst never come, or sooner parted.
Oh God—he heeds me not;
Why comest thou thus, what is thy fearful business?
I know thou comest for evil, but its purport
I ask my heart in vain.

Ber.
Guess it, and spare me. (A long pause, during which she gazes at him.)

Canst thou not read it in my face?

Imo.
I dare not;
Mixt shades of evil thought are darkening there;
But what my fears do indistinctly guess
Would blast me to behold— (turns away, a pause.)


Ber.
Dost thou not hear it in my very silence?
That which no voice can tell, doth tell itself.

Imo.
My harassed thought hath not one point of fear,
Save that it must not think.

Ber.
(throwing his dagger on the ground.)
Speak thou for me,—
Shew me the chamber where thy husband lies,
The morning must not see us both alive.

Imo.
(screaming and struggling with him.)
Ah! horror! horror! off—withstand me not,
I will arouse the castle, rouse the dead,
To save my husband; “villain, murderer, monster,
“Dare the bayed lioness, but fly from me.

“Ber.
Go, wake the castle with thy frantic cries;
“Those cries that tell my secret, blazon thine.
“Yea, pour it on thine husband's blasted ear.

“Imo.
Perchance his wrath may kill me in its mercy.

“Ber.
No, hope not such a fate of mercy from him;
“He'll curse thee with his pardon.
“And would his death-fixed eye be terrible
“As its ray bent in love on her that wronged him?
“And would his dying groan affright thine ear
“Like words of peace spoke to thy guilt—in vain?

“Imo.
I care not, I am reckless, let me perish.

“Ber.
No, thou must live amid a hissing world,
“A thing that mothers warn their daughters from,
“A thing the menials that do tend thee scorn,
“Whom when the good do name, they tell their beads,
“And when the wicked think of, they do triumph;
“Canst thou encounter this?

“Imo.
I must encounter it—I have deserved it;
“Begone, or my next cry shall wake the dead.

“Ber.
Hear me.

“Imo.
No parley, tempter, fiend, avaunt.

“Ber.
Thy son— (she stands stupified.)

“Go, take him trembling in thy hand of shame,
“A victim to the shrine of public scorn—
“Poor boy! his sire's worst foe might pity him,
“Albeit his mother will not—
“Banished from noble halls, and knightly converse,
“Devouring his young heart in loneliness
“With bitter thought—my mother was—a wretch.”

Imo.
(falling at his feet.)
I am a wretch—but—who hath made me so?
I'm writhing like a worm, beneath thy spurn.
Have pity on me, I have had much wrong.

Ber.
My heart is as the steel within my grasp.

Imo.
(still kneeling.)
Thou hast cast me down from light,
From my high sphere of purity and peace,
Where once I walked in mine uprightness, blessed—
Do not thou cast me into utter darkness.

Ber.
(looking on her with pity for a moment.)
Thou fairest flower—
Why didst thou fling thyself across my path,
My tiger spring must crush thee in its way,
But cannot pause to pity thee.

Imo.
Thou must,
For I am strong in woes—I ne'er reproached thee—
I plead but with my agonies and tears—
Kind, gentle Bertram, my beloved Bertram,
For thou wert gentle once, and once beloved,
Have mercy on me—Oh thou couldst not think it—
(Looking up, and seeing no relenting in his face, she starts up wildly.)
By heaven and all its host, he shall not perish.

Ber.
By hell and all its host, he shall not live.
This is no transient flash of fugitive passion—
His death hath been my life for years of misery—
Which else I had not lived—
Upon that thought, and not on food, I fed,
Upon that thought, and not on sleep, I rested—
I come to do the deed that must be done—
Nor thou, nor sheltering angels, could prevent me.

Imo.
But man shall—miscreant—help.

Ber.
Thou callest in vain—
The armed vassals all are far from succour—
Following St. Anselm's votarists to the convent—
My band of blood are darkening in their halls—
Wouldst have him butchered by their ruffian hands
That wait my bidding?

Imo.
(falling on the ground.)
—Fell and horrible
I'm sealed, shut down in ransomless perdition.

Ber.
Fear not, my vengeance will not yield its prey,
He shall fall nobly, by my hand shall fall—
But still and dark the summons of its fate,
So winds the coiled serpent round his victim.
(A horn sounds without.)
Whence was that blast? those felon slaves are come—
He shall not perish by their ruffian hands.
[Exit Bertram.

Imo.
(gazing round her, and slowly recovering recollection, repeats his last words)
—He shall not perish—
Oh! it was all a dream—a horrid dream—
He was not here—it is impossible—
(Tottering towards the door.)
I will not be alone another moment
Lest it do come again—where, where art thou?—

Enter Clotilda.
Clo.
Didst thou not call me?—at thy voice of anguish
I hasten, though I cannot hear thy words—

Imo.
Let me lean on thee, let me hold thee fast—
“Yea, strongly grasp some strong substantial thing
“To scare away foul forms of things that are not—
They have been with me in my loneliness.
“Oh, I have had such dark and horrid thoughts,
“But they are gone—we will not think of them—

Clo.
What hath been with thee?

“Imo.
Something dark that hovered
[deliriously.
“Upon the confines of unmingling worlds,
“In dread for life—for death too sternly definite,
Something the thought doth try in vain to follow—
Through mist and twilight—

Clo.
Woe is me! methought
I saw the form of Bertram as I entered—

Imo.
(Starting with sudden recollection)
Oh God—it was no vision then, thou sawest him—
Give me my phrensy back—one moment's thought—
'Tis done, by Heaven, 'tis done—
I will fall down before his injured feet,
I'll tell him all my shame, and all my guilt,
My wrongs shall be a weapon in his hand,
And if it fail, this tainted frame of sin
Shall fall a shield before my husband's breast—
I'll wake the castle—wake the faithful vassals
I'll— (going she stops suddenly).

I cannot be the herald of my shame,
Go thou, and tell them what I cannot utter.

Clo.
Oh, yet forgive me, through that gloomy passage
I dare not venture, lest that dark form meet me.

Imo.
Nay, thou must go, 'tis I that dare not venture—
For, if I see him in his holy sleep
Resting so calmly on the bed I've wronged,
My heart will burst, and he must die warned—

[Exit Clotilda.
Imo.
(Listening after her).
How long she lingers—aye—he knows my guilt
Even from this untold summons—aye—my boy
They'll clothe thee with my shame.
Hush—look—all's still within—an horrid stillness—
Perchance, that she, even she is bribed to aid—
Woe's me, who now can trust a menial's faith,
When that his wedded wife hath done him wrong—

Enter Clotilda.
Clo.
All's safe—all's well—

Imo.
What meanest thou by those words?—
For sounds of comfort to my blasted ear
Do ring a death-peal—

Clo.
Heardest thou not the horn?

Imo.
I heard no horn, I only heard a voice
That menaced murder—

Clo.
Oh! the horn did sound—
And with it came a blessed messenger.
St. Anselm's knights within their patron's walls
Do hold a solemn feast, and o'er his shrine
They hang the holy banner of his blessing—
Full swiftly came the summons to thy lord
To join them in their solemn ceremony—
Lord Aldobrand with few attendants gone,
Though late the hour, and dark the way, ere this
Hath measured half the distance

Imo.
(throwing herself vehemently on her knees.)
Thank God, thank God—Heaven bless the gallant knights!
Then he is safe until the morning's dawn.

Enter Page.
Imo.
Speak—who art thou?

Page.
Dost thou not know me, lady?

Imo.
Well, well, I reck not—wherefore art thou come?

Page.
So fierce the mountain-stream comes roaring down,
The rivulet that bathes the convent walls
Is now a foaming flood—upon its brink
Thy lord and his small train do stand appalled—
With torch and bell from their high battlements
The monks do summon to the pass in vain;
He must return to-night.

Imo.
Tis false, he must not—Oh, I shall run mad—
Go thou, and watch upon the turret's height— (to Clotilda)

The flood must fall—the bright moon must shine forth;
Go, go and tell me so—why stayest thou here (to page

Begone, and do not heed, and do not watch me.
[Exit p
I've lost the courage of mine innocence,
And dare not have the courage of despair—
The evil strength that gave temptation danger,
Yet cannot give remorse its energy.

Enter Clotilda.
Clot.
The night is calm and clear, and o'er the plain
Nor arms do glimmer on my straining sight,
Nor through the stilly air, did horseman's tramp
Ring in faint echo from the hollow hill,
Though my fixed ear did list to giddiness—
Be comforted, he must have passed the stream—

Imo.
Yea, I am comforted, 'tis blessed comfort—
He must have passed the stream—Oh pitying Heaven,
Accept these tears, these are not sinful tears—
Tell me again that he will not return.

Clot.
I soothly say, he must have passed the stream.

(The horn is heard without, announcing Aldobrand's return.)
Clot.
'Tis Aldobrand, he's lost—we all are lost— (without)


Imo.
Now Heaven have mercy on thy soul, my husband,
For man hath none—Is there no hope—no help?—
(Looking towards the door, across which the band of Bertram march silently and range themselves)
None, none—his gathering band are dark around me—
I will make one last effort for their mercy—
If they be human, they will listen to me—
(Rushing towards them, they step forward and point their swords to resist her.
Oh, there is nothing merciful in their looks;
Oh, there is nothing human in their hearts;
They are not men—Hell hath sent up its devils.
There is no hope—I'll hear his dying groan—
I'll hear his last cry for that help that comes not—
I'll hear him call upon his wife and child—
I will not hear it.— (stopping her ears.)

Oh that my tightened heart had breath for prayer—
Mercy, oh mercy, Bertram.

(Another horn heard without, she starts and staggers towards the door;—a noise of swords within).
Ald.
(within)
Off, villain, off—

Ber.
Villain, to thy soul—for I am Bertram.

(Aldobrand retreating before Bertram, rushes on the stage, and falls at Imogine's feet.)
Ald.
Let me die at her feet my wife, my wife—
Wilt thou not staunch the life-blood streaming from me?
Wilt thou not look at me?—Oh save my boy (dies).


(Imogine at the name of her son, rushes off;— Bertram stands over the body holding the dagger with his eyes fixed on it;—The band fill up the back.
The curtain drops.