The Saint's Tragedy

A chamber in the Wartburg. Elizabeth sitting in widow's weeds; Guta and Isentrudis by her.

Isen. What? Always thus, my Princess? Is this wise, By day with fasts and ceaseless coil of labour; About the ungracious poor--hands, eyes, feet, brain O'ertasked alike--'mid sin and filth, which make Each sense a plague--by night with cruel stripes, And weary watchings on the freezing stone, To double all your griefs, and burn life's candle, As village gossips say, at either end? The good book bids the heavy-hearted drink, And so forget their woe.

Eliz. 'Tis written too In that same book, nurse, that the days shall come When the bridegroom shall be taken away--and then-- Then shall they mourn and fast: I needed weaning From sense and earthly joys; by this way only May I win God to leave in mine own hands My luxury's cure: oh! I may bring him back, By working out to its full depth the chastening The need of which his loss proves: I but barter Less grief for greater--pain for widowhood.

Isen. And death for life--your cheeks are wan and sharp As any three-days' moon--you are shifting always Uneasily and stiff, now, on your seat, As from some secret pain.

Eliz. Why watch me thus? You cannot know--and yet you know too much-- I tell you, nurse, pain's comfort, when the flesh Aches with the aching soul in harmony, And even in woe, we are one: the heart must speak Its passion's strangeness in strange symbols out, Or boil, till it bursts inly.

Guta. Yet, methinks, You might have made this widowed solitude A holy rest--a spell of soft gray weather, Beneath whose fragrant dews all tender thoughts Might bud and burgeon.

Eliz. That's a gentle dream; But nature shows nought like it: every winter, When the great sun has turned his face away, The earth goes down into the vale of grief, And fasts, and weeps, and shrouds herself in sables, Leaving her wedding-garlands to decay-- Then leaps in spring to his returning kisses-- As I may yet!--

Isen. There, now--my foolish child! You faint: come--come to your chamber--

Eliz. Oh, forgive me! But hope at times throngs in so rich and full, It mads the brain like wine: come with me, nurse, Sit by me, lull me calm with gentle tales Of noble ladies wandering in the wild wood, Fed on chance earth-nuts, and wild strawberries, Or milk of silly sheep, and woodland doe. Or how fair Magdalen 'mid desert sands Wore out in prayer her lonely blissful years, Watched by bright angels, till her modest tresses Wove to her pearled feet their golden shroud. Come, open all your lore.

[Sophia and Agnes enter.]

My mother-in-law!

[Aside] Shame on thee, heart! why sink, whene'er we meet?

Soph. Daughter, we know of old thy strength, of metal Beyond us worldlings: shrink not, if the time Be come which needs its use--

Eliz. What means this preface? Ah! your looks are big With sudden woes--speak out.

Soph. Be calm, and hear The will of God toward my son, thy husband.

Eliz. What? is he captive? Why then--what of that? There are friends will rescue him--there's gold for ransom-- We'll sell our castles--live in bowers of rushes-- O God! that I were with him in the dungeon!

Soph. He is not taken.

Eliz. No! he would have fought to the death! There's treachery! What paynim dog dare face His lance, who naked braved yon lion's rage, And eyed the cowering monster to his den? Speak! Has he fled? or worse?

Soph. Child, he is dead.

Eliz. [clasping her hands on her knees.] The world is dead to me, and all its smiles!

Isen. Oh, woe! my Prince! and doubly woe, my daughter.

[Elizabeth springs up and rushes out.]

Oh, stop her--stop my child! She will go mad-- Dash herself down--Fly--Fly--She is not made Of hard, light stuff, like you.

Soph. I had expected some such passionate outbreak At the first news: you see now, Lady Agnes, These saints, who fain would 'wean themselves from earth,' Still yield to the affections they despise When the game's earnest--Now--ere they return-- Your brother, child, is dead--

Agnes. I know it too well. So young--so brave--so blest!--And she--she loved him-- Oh! I repent of all the foolish scoffs With which I crossed her.

Soph. Yes--the Landgrave's dead-- Attend to me--Alas! my son! my son! He was my first-born! But he has a brother-- Agnes! we must not let this foreign gipsy, Who, as you see, is scarce her own wits' mistress, Flaunt sovereign over us, and our broad lands, To my son's prejudice--There are barons, child, Who will obey a knight, but not a saint: I must at once to them.

Agnes. Oh, let me stay.

Soph. As you shall please--Your brother's landgravate Is somewhat to you, surely--and your smiles Are worth gold pieces in a court intrigue. For her, on her own principles, a downfall Is a chastening mercy--and a likely one.

Agnes. Oh! let me stay, and comfort her!

Soph. Romance! You girls adore a scene--as lookers on.

[Exit Sophia.]

Agnes. [alone] Well spoke the old monks, peaceful watching life's turmoil, 'Eyes which look heavenward, weeping still we see: God's love with keen flame purges, like the lightning flash, Gold which is purest, purer still must be.'

[Guta enters.]

Alas! Returned alone! Where has my sister been?

Guta. Thank heaven you hear alone, for such sad sight would haunt Henceforth your young hopes--crush your shuddering fancy down With dread of like fierce anguish. You saw her bound forth: we towards her bower in haste Ran trembling: spell-bound there, before her bridal-bed She stood, while wan smiles flickered, like the northern dawn, Across her worn cheeks' ice-field; keenest memories then Rushed with strong shudderings through her--as the winged shaft Springs from the tense nerve, so her passion hurled her forth Sweeping, like fierce ghost, on through hall and corridor, Tearless, with wide eyes staring, while a ghastly wind Moaned on through roof and rafter, and the empty helms Along the walls ran clattering, and above her waved Dead heroes' banners; swift and yet more swift she drove Still seeking aimless; sheer against the opposing wall At last dashed reckless--there with frantic fingers clutched Blindly the ribbed oak, till that frost of rage Dissolved itself in tears, and like a babe, With inarticulate moans, and folded hands, She followed those who led her, as if the sun On her life's dial had gone back seven years, And she were once again the dumb sad child We knew her ere she married.

Isen. [entering] As after wolf wolf presses, leaping through the snow-glades, So woe on woe throngs surging up.

Guta. What? treason?

Isen. Treason, and of the foulest. From her state she's rudely thrust; Her keys are seized; her weeping babies pent from her: The wenches stop their sobs to sneer askance, And greet their fallen censor's new mischance.

Agnes. Alas! Who dared to do this wrong?

Isen. Your mother and your mother's son-- Judge you, if it was knightly done.

Guta. See! see! she comes, with heaving breast, With bursting eyes, and purpled brow: Oh that the traitors saw her now! They know not, sightless fools, the heart they break.

[Elizabeth enters slowly.]

Eliz. He is in purgatory now! Alas! Angels! be pitiful! deal gently with him! His sins were gentle! That's one cause left for living-- To pray, and pray for him: why all these months I prayed,--and here's my answer: Dead of a fever! Why thus? so soon! Only six years for love! While any formal, heartless matrimony, Patched up by Court intrigues, and threats of cloisters, Drags on for six times six, and peasant slaves Grow old on the same straw, and hand in hand Slip from life's oozy bank, to float at ease.

[A knocking at the door.]

That's some petitioner. Go to--I will not hear them: why should I work, When he is dead? Alas! was that my sin? Was he, not Christ, my lodestar? Why not warn me? Too late! What's this foul dream? Dead at Otranto-- Parched by Italian suns--no woman by him-- He was too chaste! Nought but rude men to nurse!-- If I had been there, I should have watched by him-- Guessed every fancy--God! I might have saved him!

[A servant-man bursts in.]

Servant. Madam, the Landgrave gave me strict commands--

Isen. The Landgrave, dolt?

Eliz. I might have saved him!

Servant [to Isen.] Ay, saucy madam!-- The Landgrave Henry, lord and master, Freer than the last, and yet no waster, Who will not stint a poor knave's beer, Or spin out Lent through half the year. Why--I see double!

Eliz. Who spoke there of the Landgrave? What's this drunkard? Give him his answer--'Tis no time for mumming--

Serv. The Landgrave Henry bade me see you out Safe through his gates, and that at once, my Lady. Come!

Eliz. Why--that's hasty--I must take my children Ah! I forgot--they would not let me see them. I must pack up my jewels--

Serv. You'll not need it-- His Lordship has the keys.

Eliz. He has indeed. Why, man!--I am thy children's godmother-- I nursed thy wife myself in the black sickness-- Art thou a bird, that when the old tree falls, Flits off, and sings in the sapling?

[The man seizes her arm.]

Keep thine hands off-- I'll not be shamed--Lead on. Farewell, my Ladies. Follow not! There's want to spare on earth already; And mine own woe is weight enough for me. Go back, and say, Elizabeth has yet Eternal homes, built deep in poor men's hearts; And, in the alleys underneath the wall, Has bought with sinful mammon heavenly treasure, More sure than adamant, purer than white whales' bone, Which now she claims. Lead on: a people's love shall right me. [Exit with Servant.]

Guta. Where now, dame?

Isen. Where, but after her?

Guta. True heart! I'll follow to the death. [Exeunt.]