University of Virginia Library

IV.

Cousin John.
A fool, Alfred, a fool, a most motley fool!

Lord Alfred.
Who?

Cousin John.
The man who has anything better to do;
And yet so far forgets himself, so far degrades
His position as Man, to this worst of all trades,
Which even a well-brought-up ape were above,
To travel about with a woman in love,—
Unless she's in love with himself.

Lord Alfred.
Indeed! why
Are you here then, dear Jack?

Cousin John.
Can't you guess it?

Lord Alfred.
Not. I.

Cousin John.
Because I have nothing that's better to do.
I had rather be bored, my dear Alfred, by you,
On the whole (I must own), than be bored by myself.
That perverse, imperturbable, golden-hair'd elf—
Your Will-o'-the-wisp—that has led you and me
Such a dance through these hills—

Lord Alfred.
Who, Matilda?

Cousin John.
Yes! she,
Of course! who but she could contrive so to keep
One's eyes, and one's feet too, from falling asleep
For even one half-hour of the long twenty-four?

Lord Alfred.
What's the matter?

Cousin John.
Why, she is—a matter, the more
I consider about it, the more it demands
An attention it does not deserve; and expands
Beyond the dimensions which ev'n crinoline,
When possess'd by a fair face and saucy Eighteen,
Is entitled to take in this very small star,
Already too crowded, as I think, by far.
You read Malthus and Sadler?

Lord Alfred.
Of course.

Cousin John.
To what use,
When you countenance, calmly, such monstrous abuse
Of one mere human creature's legitimate space
In this world? Mars, Apollo, Virorum! the case
Wholly passes my patience.

Lord Alfred.
My own is worse tried.

Cousin John.
Yours, Alfred?

Lord Alfred.
Read this, if you doubt, and decide.

Cousin John
(reading the letter).
‘I hear from Bigorre you are there. I am told
‘You are going to marry Miss Darcy. Of old—’
What is this?

Lord Alfred.
Read it on to the end, and you'll know.

Cousin John
(continues reading).

Lord Alfred.
Read on. You'll discern.

Cousin John
(continues).
‘Those letters I ask you, my lord, to return.’...
Humph!...Letters!... the matter is worse than I guess'd.
I have my misgivings—

Lord Alfred.
Well, read out the rest,
And advise.

Cousin John.
(continues)

Lord Alfred.
Continue!

Cousin John
(reading).
(reads)

Lord Alfred.
Yes.

Cousin John.
What will you do?

Lord Alfred.
You ask me, just what I would rather ask you.

Cousin John.
You can't go.

Lord Alfred.
I must.

Cousin John.
And Matilda?

Lord Alfred.
Oh, that
You must manage!

Cousin John.
Must I? I decline it, though, flat.
In an hour the horses will be at the door,
And Matilda is now in her habit. Before
I have finish'd my breakfast, of course I receive
A message for ‘dear Cousin John!’ ... I must leave
At the jeweller's the bracelet which you broke last night;
I must call for the music. `Dear Alfred is right:
‘The black shawl looks best: will I change it? of course
‘I can just stop, in passing, to order the horse.
‘Then Beau has the mumps, or St. Hubert knows what;
‘Will I see the dog-doctor?’ Hang Beau! I will not.

Lord Alfred.
Tush, tush! this is serious.

Cousin John.
It is.

Lord Alfred.
Very well,
You must think—

Cousin John.
What excuse will you make tho'?

Lord Alfred.
Oh, tell
Mrs. Darcy that...lend me your wits, Jack!...the deuce!
Can you not stretch your genius to fit a friend's use?
Excuses are clothes which, when ask'd unawares,
Good Breeding to naked Necessity spares.
You must have a whole wardrobe, no doubt.

Cousin John.
My dear fellow,
Matilda is jealous, you know, as Othello.

Lord Alfred.
You joke.

Cousin John.
I am serious. Why go to Serchon?

Lord Alfred.
Don't ask me. I have not a choice, my dear John.
Besides, shall I own a strange sort of desire,
Before I extinguish for ever the fire
Of youth and romance, in whose shadowy light
Hope whisper'd her first fairy tales, to excite
The last spark, till it rise, and fade far in that dawn
Of my days where the twilights of life were first drawn
By the rosy, reluctant auroras of Love:
In short, from the dead Past the grave-stone to move;
Of the years long departed for ever to take
One last look, one final farewell; to awake
The Heroic of youth from the Hades of joy,
And once more be, though but for an hour, Jack—a boy!

Cousin John.
You had better go hang yourself.

Lord Alfred.
No! were it but
To make sure that the Past from the Future is shut,
It were worth the step back. Do you think we should live
With the living so lightly, and learn to survive
That wild moment in which to the grave and its gloom
We consign'd our heart's best, if the doors of the tomb
Were not lock'd with a key which Fate keeps for our sake?
If the dead could return, or the corpses awake?

Cousin John.
Nonsense! nonsense!

Lord Alfred.
Not wholly. The man who gets up
A fill'd guest from the banquet, and drains off his cup,
Sees the last lamp extinguish'd with cheerfulness, goes
Well contented to bed, and enjoys its repose.
But he who hath supp'd at the tables of kings,
And yet starved in the sight of luxurious things;
Who hath watch'd the wine flow, by himself but half tasted,
Heard the music, and yet miss'd the tune; who hath wasted
One part of life's grand possibilities;—friend,
That man will bear with him, be sure, to the end,
A blighted experience, a rancour within:
You may call it a virtue, I call it a sin.

Cousin John.
I see you remember that cynical story
Of the wicked old profligate fellow—a hoary
Lothario, whom dying, the priest by his bed
(Knowing well the unprincipled life he had led,
And observing, with no small amount of surprise,
Resignation and calm in the old sinner's eyes)
Ask'd if he had nothing that weigh'd on his mind:
‘Well,...no,’ ... says Lothario, `I think not. I find,
‘On reviewing my life, which in most things was pleasant,
‘I never neglected, when once it was present,
‘An occasion of pleasing myself. On the whole,
‘I have nought to regret;’ ... and so, smiling, his soul
Took its flight from this world.

Lord Alfred.
Well, Regret or Remorse,
Which is best?

Cousin John.
Why, Regret.

Lord Alfred.
No; Remorse, Jack, of course;
For the one is related, be sure, to the other.
Regret is a spiteful old maid: but her brother,
Remorse, though a widower certainly, yet
Has been wed to young Pleasure. Dear Jack, hang Regret!

Cousin John.
Bref! you mean, then, to go?

Lord Alfred.
Bref! I do.

Cousin John.
One word ... stay!
Are you really in love with Matilda?

Lord Alfred.
Love, eh?
What a question! Of course.

Cousin John.
Were you really in love
With Madame de Nevers?

Lord Alfred.
What; Lucile? No, by Jove,
Never really.

Cousin John.
She's pretty?

Lord Alfred.
Decidedly so.
At least, so she was, some ten summers ago.
As pale as an evening in autumn—with hair
Neither black, nor yet brown, but that tinge which the air
Takes at eve in September, when night lingers lone
Through a vineyard, from beams of a slow-setting sun.
Eyes—the wistful gazelle's; the fine foot of a fairy;
And a hand fit a fay's wand to wave,—white and airy;
A voice soft and sweet as a tune that one knows.
Something in her there was, set you thinking of those
Strange backgrounds of Raphael ... that hectic and deep
Brief twilight in which southern suns fall asleep.

Cousin John.
Coquette?

Lord Alfred.
Not at all. 'Twas her one fault. Not she!
I had loved her the better, had she less loved me.
The heart of a man's like that delicate weed
Which requires to be trampled on, boldly indeed,
Ere it give forth the fragrance you wish to extract.
'Tis a simile, trust me, if not new, exact.

Cousin John.
Women change so.

Lord Alfred.
Of course.

Cousin John.
And, unless rumour errs,
I believe that, last year, the Comtesse de Nevers
Was at Baden the rage—held an absolute court
Of devoted adorers, and really made sport
Of her subjects.

Lord Alfred.
Indeed!

Cousin John.
When she broke off with you Her engagement, her heart did not break with it?

Lord Alfred.
Pooh!
Pray would you have had her dress always in black,
And shut herself up in a convent, dear Jack?
Besides, 'twas my fault the engagement was broken.

Cousin John.
I dare say. How was that?

Lord Alfred.
Oh, the tale is soon spoken.
She bored me. I show'd it. She saw it. What next?
She reproach'd. I retorted. Of course she was vex'd.
I was vex'd that she was so. She sulk'd. So did I.
If I ask'd her to sing, she look'd ready to cry.
I was contrite, submissive. She soften'd. I harden'd.
At noon I was banish'd. At eve I was pardon'd.
She said I had no heart. I said she had no reason.
I swore she talk'd nonsense. She sobb'd I talk'd treason.
In short, my dear fellow, 'twas time, as you see,
Things should come to a crisis, and finish. 'Twas she
By whom to that crisis the matter was brought.
She released me. I linger'd. I linger'd, she thought,
With too sullen an aspect. This gave me, of course,
The occasion to fly in a rage, mount my horse,
And declare myself uncomprehended. And so
We parted. The rest of the story you know.

Cousin John.
No, indeed.

Lord Alfred.
Well, we parted. Of course we could not
Continue to meet, as before, in one spot.
You conceive it was awkward? Even Don Ferdinando
Can do, you remember, no more than he can do.
I think that I acted exceedingly well,
Considering the time when this rupture befel,
For Paris was charming just then. It deranged
All my plans for the winter. I ask'd to be changed—
Wrote for Naples, then vacant—obtain'd it—and so
Join'd my new post at once; but scarce reach'd it, when lo!
My first news from Paris informs me Lucile
Is ill, and in danger. Conceive what I feel.
I fly back. I find her recover'd, but yet
Looking pale. I am seized with a contrite regret.
I ask to renew the engagement.

Cousin John.
And she?

Lord Alfred.
Reflects, but declines. We part, swearing to be
Friends ever, friends only. All that sort of thing!
We each keep our letters.... a portrait ... a ring ...
With a pledge to return them whenever the one
Or the other shall call for them back.

Cousin John.
Pray go on.

Lord Alfred.
My story is finish'd. Of course I enjoin
On Lucile all those thousand good maxims we coin
To supply the grim deficit found in our days,
When Love leaves them bankrupt. I preach. She obeys.
She goes out in the world; takes to dancing once more—
A pleasure she rarely indulged in before.
I go back to my post, and collect (I must own
'Tis a taste I had never before, my dear John)
Antiques and small Elzevirs. Heigho! now, Jack,
You know all.

Cousin John
(after a pause).
You are really resolved to go back?

Lord Alfred.
Eh, where?

Cousin John.
To that worst of all places—the past.
You remember Lot's wife?

Lord Alfred.
'Twas a promise when last
We parted. My honour is pledged to it.

Cousin John.
Well,
What is it you wish me to do?

Lord Alfred.
You must tell
Matilda, I meant to have call'd—to leave word—
To explain—but the time was so pressing—

Cousin John.
My lord,
Your lordship's obedient! I really can't do ...

Lord Alfred.
You wish then to break off my marriage?

Cousin John.
No, no!
But indeed I can't see why yourself you need take
These letters.

Lord Alfred.
Not see? would you have me, then, break
A promise my honour is pledged to?

Cousin John
(humming).
‘Off, off,
‘And away! said the stranger’...

Lord Alfred.
Oh, good! oh, you scoff!

Cousin John.
At what, my dear Alfred?

Lord Alfred.
At all things!

Cousin John.
Indeed?

Lord Alfred.
Yes! I see that your heart is as dry as a reed.
You're a blasé unprincipled roué. I see
You have no feeling left in you, even for me!
At honour you jest; you are cold as a stone
To the warm voice of friendship. Belief you have none;
You have lost faith in all things. You carry a blight
About with you everywhere. Yes, at the sight
Of such callous indifference, who could be calm?
I must leave you at once, Jack, or else the last balm
That is left me in Gilead you'll turn into gall.
Heartless, cold, unconcern'd ...

Cousin John.
Have you done? Is that all?
Well, then, listen to me! I presume when you made
Up your mind to propose to Miss Darcy, you weigh'd
All the drawbacks against the equivalent gains,
Ere you finally settled the point. What remains
But to stick to your choice? You want money: 'tis here.
A settled position: 'tis yours. A career:
You secure it. A wife, young, and pretty as rich,
Whom all men will envy you. Why must you itch
To be running away on the eve of all this
To a woman whom never for once did you miss
All these years since you left her? Who knows what may hap?
This letter—to me—is a palpable trap.
The woman has changed since you knew her. Perchance
She yet seeks to renew her youth's broken romance.
When women begin to feel youth and their beauty
Slip from them, they count it a sort of a duty
To let nothing else slip away unsecured
Which these, while they lasted, might once have procured.
Lucile's a coquette to the end of her fingers,
I will stake my last farthing. Perhaps the wish lingers
To recall the once reckless, indifferent lover
To the feet he has left: let intrigue now recover
What truth could not keep. 'Twere a vengeance, no doubt—
A triumph;—but why must you bring it about?
You are risking the substance of all that you schemed
To obtain; and for what? some mad dream you have dream'd!

Lord Alfred.
But there's nothing to risk. You exaggerate, Jack.
You mistake. In three days, at the most, I am back.

Cousin John.
Ay, but how? ... discontented, unsettled, upset,
Bearing with you a comfortless twinge of regret;
Pre-occupied, sulky, and likely enough
To make your Fiancée break off in a huff.
Three days do you say? But in three days who knows
What may happen? I don't, nor do you, I suppose.