Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series
Page 156
If — but you must away this instant.
Wer. No!
I’ll face it. Who shall dare suspect me?
Ulr. Yet
You had no guests — no visitors — no life
Breathing around you, save my mother’s?
Wer. Ah!
The Hungarian?
Ulr. He is gone! he disappeared
Ere sunset.
Wer. No; I hid him in that very
Concealed and fatal gallery.
Ulr. There I’ll find him.
[Ulric is going.
Wer. It is too late: he had left the palace ere
I quitted it. I found the secret panel 70
Open, and the doors which lead from that hall
Which masks it: I but thought he had snatched the silent
And favourable moment to escape
The myrmidons of Idenstein, who were
Dogging him yester-even.
Ulr. You reclosed
The panel?
Wer. Yes; and not without reproach
(And inner trembling for the avoided peril)
At his dull heedlessness, in leaving thus
His shelterer’s asylum to the risk
Of a discovery.
Ulr. You are sure you closed it? 80
Wer. Certain.
Ulr. That’s well; but had been better, if
You ne’er had turned it to a den for — — [He pauses.
Wer. Thieves!
Thou wouldst say: I must bear it, and deserve it;
But not — —
Ulr. No, father; do not speak of this:
This is no hour to think of petty crimes,
But to prevent the consequence of great ones.
Why would you shelter this man?
Wer. Could I shun it?
A man pursued by my chief foe; disgraced
For my own crime: a victim to my safety,
Imploring a few hours’ concealment from 90
The very wretch who was the cause he needed
Such refuge. Had he been a wolf, I could not
Have in such circumstances thrust him forth.
Ulr. And like the wolf he hath repaid you. But
It is too late to ponder thus: — you must
Set out ere dawn. I will remain here to
Trace the murderer, if ‘tis possible.
Wer. But this my sudden flight will give the Moloch
Suspicion: two new victims in the lieu
Of one, if I remain. The fled Hungarian, 100
Who seems the culprit, and — —
Ulr. Who seems? Who else
Can be so?
Wer. Not I, though just now you doubted —
You, my son! — doubted — —
Ulr. And do you doubt of him
The fugitive?
Wer. Boy! since I fell into
The abyss of crime (though not of such crime), I,
Having seen the innocent oppressed for me,
May doubt even of the guilty’s guilt. Your heart
Is free, and quick with virtuous wrath to accuse
Appearances; and views a criminal
In Innocence’s shadow, it may be, 110
Because ‘tis dusky.
Ulr. And if I do so,
What will mankind, who know you not, or knew
But to oppress? You must not stand the hazard.
Away! — I’ll make all easy. Idenstein
Will for his own sake and his jewel’s hold
His peace — he also is a partner in
Your flight — moreover — —
Wer. Fly! and leave my name
Linked with the Hungarian’s, or, preferred as poorest,
To bear the brand of bloodshed?
Ulr. Pshaw! leave any thing
Except our fathers’ sovereignty and castles, 120
For which you have so long panted, and in vain!
What name? You have no name, since that you bear
Is feigned.
Wer. Most true: but still I would not have it
Engraved in crimson in men’s memories,
Though in this most obscure abode of men — —
Besides, the search — —
Ulr. I will provide against
Aught that can touch you. No one knows you here
As heir of Siegendorf: if Idenstein
Suspects, ‘tis but suspicion, and he is
A fool: his folly shall have such employment, 130
Too, that the unknown Werner shall give way
To nearer thoughts of self. The laws (if e’er
Laws reached this village) are all in abeyance
With the late general war of thirty years,
Or crushed, or rising slowly from the dust,
To which the march of armies trampled them.
Stralenheim, although noble, is unheeded
Here, save as such — without lands, influence,
Save what hath perished with him. Few prolong
A week beyond their funeral rites their sway 140
O’er men, unless by relatives, whose interest
Is roused: such is not here the case; he died
Alone, unknown, — a solitary grave,
Obscure as his deserts, without a scutcheon,
Is all he’ll have, or wants. If I discover
The assassin, ‘twill be well — if not, believe me,
None else; though all the full-fed train of menials
May howl above his ashes (as they did
Around him in his danger on the Oder),
Will no more stir a finger now than then. 150
Hence! hence! I must not hear your answer. — Look!
The stars are almost faded, and the grey
Begins to grizzle the black hair of night.
You shall not answer: — Pardon me that I
Am peremptory: ‘tis your son that speaks,
Your long-lost, late-found son. — Let’s call my mother!
Softly and swiftly step, and leave the rest
To me: I’ll answer for the event as far
As regards you, and that is the chief point,
As my first duty, which shall be observed. 160
We’ll meet in Castle Siegendorf — once more
Our banners shall be glorious! Think of that
Alone, and leave all other thoughts to me,
Whose youth may better battle with them — Hence!
And may your age be happy! — I will kiss
My mother once more, then Heaven’s speed be with you!
Wer. This counsel’s safe — but is it honourable?
Ulr. To save a father is a child’s chief honour.
[Exeunt.
ACT IV
Scene I. — A Gothic Hall in the Castle of Siegendorf, near Prague.
Enter Eric and Henrick, Retainers of the Count.
Eric. So, better times are come at last; to these
Old walls new masters and high wassail — both
A long desideratum.
Hen. Yes, for masters,
It might be unto those who long for novelty,
Though made by a new grave: but, as for wassail,
Methinks the old Count Siegendorf maintained
His feudal hospitality as high
As e’er another Prince of the empire.
Eric. Why
For the mere cup and trencher, we no doubt
Fared passing well; but as for merriment 10
And sport, without which salt and sauces season
The cheer but scantily, our sizings were
Even of the narrowest.
Hen. The old count loved not
The roar of revel; are you sure that this does?
Eric. As yet he hath been courteous as he’s bounteous,
And we all love him.
Hen. His reign is as yet
Hardly a year o’erpast its honeymoon,
And the first year of sovereigns is bridal:
Anon, we shall perceive his real sway
And moods of mind.
Eric. Pray Heaven he keep the present! 20
Then his brave son, Count Ulric — there’s a knight!
Pity the wars are o’er!
Hen. Why so?
Eric. Look on him!
And answer that yourself.
Hen. He’s very youthful,
And strong and beautiful as a young tiger.
Eric. That’s not a faithful vassal’s likeness.
Hen. But
Perhaps a true one.
Eric. Pity, as I said,
The wars are over: in the hall, who like
Count Ulric for a well-supported pride,
Which awes, but yet offends not? in the field,
Who like him with his spear in hand, when gnashing 30
His tusks, and ripping up, from right to left,
The howling hounds, the boar makes for the thicket?
Who backs a horse, or bears a hawk, or wears
A sword like him? Whose plume nods knightlier?
Hen. No one’s, I grant you. Do not fear, if war
Be long in coming, he is of that kind
Will make it for himself, if he hath not
Already done as much.
Eric. What do you mean?
Hen. You can’t deny his train of followers
(But few our native fellow-vassals born 40
On the domain) are such a sort of knaves
As — — [Pauses.
Eric. What?
Hen. The war (you love so much) leaves living.
Like other parents, she spoils her worst children.
Eric. Nonsense! they are all brave iron-visaged fellows,
Such as old Tilly loved.
Hen. And who loved Tilly?
Ask that at Magdebourg — or, for that matter,
Wallenstein either; — they are gone to — —
Eric. Rest!
But what beyond ‘tis not ours to pronounce.
Hen. I wish they had left us something of their rest:
The country (nominally now at peace) 50
Is over-run with — God knows who: they fly
By night, and disappear with sunrise; but
Leave us no less desolation, nay, even more,
Than the most open warfare.
Eric. But Count Ulric —
What has all this to do with him?
Hen. With him!
He — — might prevent it. As you say he’s fond
Of war, why makes he it not on those marauders?
Eric. You’d better ask himself.
Hen. I would as soon
Ask the lion why he laps not milk.
Eric. And here he comes!
Hen. The devil! you’ll hold your tongue? 60
Eric. Why do you turn so pale?
Hen. ‘Tis nothing — but
Be silent.
Eric. I will, upon what you have said.
Hen. I assure you I meant nothing, — a mere sport
Of words, no more; besides, had it been otherwise,
He is to espouse the gentle Baroness
Ida of Stralenheim, the late Baron’s heiress;
And she, no doubt, will soften whatsoever
Of fierceness the late long intestine wars
Have given all natures, and most unto those
Who were born in them, and bred up upon 70
The knees of Homicide; sprinkled, as it were,
With blood even at their baptism. Prithee, peace
On all that I have said!
Enter Ulric and Rodolph.
Good morrow, count.
Ulr. Good morrow, worthy Henrick. Eric, is
All ready for the chase?
Eric. The dogs are ordered
Down to the forest, and the vassals out
To beat the bushes, and the day looks promising.
Shall I call forth your Excellency’s suite?
What courser will you please to mount?
Ulr. The dun,
Walstein.
Eric. I fear he scarcely has recovered 80
The toils of Monday: ‘twas a noble chase:
You speared four with your own hand.
Ulr. True, good Eric;
I had forgotten — let it be the grey, then,
Old Ziska: he has not been out this fortnight.
Eric. He shall be straight caparisoned. How many
Of your immediate retainers shall
Escort you?
Ulr. I leave that to Weilburgh, our
Master of the horse.[Exit Eric.
Rodolph!
Rod. My Lord!
Ulr. The news
Is awkward from the — — [Rodolph points to Henrick.
How now, Henrick? why
Loiter you here?
Hen. For your commands, my Lord. 90
Ulr. Go to my father, and present my duty,
And learn if he would aught with me before
I mount.[Exit Henrick.
Rodolph, our friends have had a check
Upon the frontiers of Franconia, and
‘Tis rumoured that the column sent against them
Is to be strengthened. I must join them soon.
Rod. Best wait for further and more sure advices.
Ulr. I mean it — and indeed it could not well
Have fallen out at a time more opposite
To all my plans.
Rod. It will be difficult 100
To excuse your absence to the Count your father.
Ulr. Yes, but the unsettled state of our domain
In high Silesia will permit and cover
My journey. In the mean time, when we are
Engaged in the chase, draw off the eighty men
Whom Wolffe leads — keep the forests on your route:
You know it well?
Rod. As well as on that night
When we — —
Ulr. We will not speak of that until
We can repeat the same with like success:
And when you have joined, give Rosenberg this letter. 110
[Gives a letter.
Add further, that I have sent this slight addition
To our force with you and Wolffe, as herald of
My coming, though I could but spare them ill
At this time, as my father loves to keep
Full numbers of retainers round the castle,
Until this marriage, and its feasts and fooleries,
Are rung out with its peal of nuptial nonsense.
Rod. I thought you loved the lady Ida?
Ulr. Why,
I do so — but it follows not from that
I would bind in my youth and glorious years, 120
So brief and burning, with a lady’s zone,
Although ‘twere that of Venus: — but I love her,
As woman should be loved — fairly and solely.
Rod. And constantly?
Ulr. I think so; for I love
Nought else. — But I have not the time to pause
Upon these gewgaws of the heart. Great things
We have to do ere long. Speed! speed! good Rodolph!
Rod. On my return, however, I shall find
The Baroness Ida lost in Countess Siegendorf?
Ulr. Perhaps: my father wishes it, and, sooth, 130
‘Tis no bad policy: this union with
The last bud of the rival branch at once
Unites the future and destroys the past.
Rod. Adieu.
Ulr. Yet hold — we had better keep together
Until the chase begins; then draw thou off,
And do as I have said.
Rod. I will. But to
Return — ’twas a most kind act in the count
Your father to send up to Konigsberg
For this fair orphan of the Baron, and
To hail her as his daughter.
Ulr. Wondrous kind! 140
Especially as little kindness till
Then grew between them.
Rod. The late Baron died
Of a fever, did he not?
Ulr. How should I know?
Rod. I have heard it whispered there was something strange
About his death — and even the place of it
Is scarcely known.
Ulr. Some obscure village on
The Saxon or Silesian frontier.
Rod. He
Has left no testament — no farewell words?
Ulr. I am neither confessor nor notary,
So cannot say.
Rod. Ah! here’s the lady Ida. 150
Enter Ida Stralenheim.
Ulr. You are early, my sweet cousin!
Ida. Not too early,
Dear Ulric, if I do not interrupt you.
Why do you call me “Cousin?”
Ulr. (smiling).Are we not so?
Ida. Yes, but I do not like the name; methinks
It sounds so cold, as if you thought upon
Our pedigree, and only weighed our blood.
Ulr. (starting).Blood!
Ida. Why does yours start from your cheeks?
Ulr. Aye! doth it?
Ida. It doth — but no! it rushes like a torrent
Even to your brow again.
Ulr. (recovering himself). And if it fled,
It only was because your presence sent it 160
Back to my heart, which beats for you, sweet Cousin!
Ida. “Cousin” again.
Ulr. Nay, then, I’ll call you sister.
Ida. I like that name still worse. — Would we had ne’er
Been aught of kindred!
Ulr. (gloomily).Would we never had!
Ida. Oh, heavens! and can you wish that?
Ulr. Dearest Ida!
Did I not echo your own wish?
Ida. Yes, Ulric,
But then I wished it not with such a glance,
And scarce knew what I said; but let me be
Sister, or cousin, what you will, so that
I still to you am something.
Ulr. You shall be 170
All — all — —
Ida. And you to me are so already;
But I can wait.
Ulr. Dear Ida!
Ida. Call me Ida,
Your Ida, for I would be yours, none else’s —
Indeed I have none else left, since my poor father —
[She pauses.
Ulr. You have mine — you have me.
Ida. Dear Ulric, how I wish
My father could but view my happiness,
Which wants but this!
Ulr. Indeed!
Ida. You would have loved him,
He you; for the brave ever love each other:
His manner was a little cold, his spirit