University of Virginia Library

SECOND ACT.

SCENE THE FIRST.

The House of Count Colville.
Count Colville and Le Charier.
COUNT COLVILLE.
WHAT answer from Duke D'Ormond do you bring?

LE CHARIER.
Oh, the old tale! he will not hear reproof.
His passions are in arms! 'Tis doubtless true,
That, of the Marchioness de Mielcour,
And him, which you have heard.

COUNT COLVILLE.
Would he not then
One moment listen to you?

LE CHARIER.
Not one moment.

COUNT COLVILLE.
Would he not see me?

LE CHARIER.
No.—When first I gave
Utterance to such a wish on your part, he
Writhed like a thing tormented.

COUNT COLVILLE.
Wretched man!—
What must be done for him? What I can, I will.
But here the possible seems impotence!—
But tell me what you gathered from him?

LE CHARIER.
When
To him your apprehensions I expressed
Of the ill consequence of intercourse
With Courtenaye and his comrades, and when further,
As you had authorized, nay had enjoined,
I hinted at the rumour you had heard
Of an arrangement 'twixt the Marchioness
De Mielcour, and him, and then suggested
The cruel consequence to Julia Villeneuve
Of such an infidelity, he bit
His lips, frowned sternly, stamped upon the ground,
And quitting me abruptly, he pushed back
The door with all his might, so that the room
E'en shook; and thus without allowing me
Time to expostulate, or his departure
Gracing with any courteous ceremony,
Finally disappeared. But I have now
Another charge of which t'acquit myself:
As I departed from the house, a servant
Asked me if I came not from you. The truth
Confessing, he informed me that a lady
Then in the house, had questioned him of you,
And wished to send to you a messenger.
Then added, shewing me a letter, which
He held, that she had begged him to take that
With many charges of discreet conveyance,
To your abode: he then went on to ask me,—
As being burthened with variety
Of hindrances, from doing this to-night;
If I would be the bearer of it.—See,—
Here is the letter, sir.—

COUNT COLVILLE.
To me, a letter!—
And from a lady! In an unknown hand!—
And yet methinks ere now I've seen that writing!
What may its contents be? Sorrow in me
Has made such ravages, in me, alas!
Is such a constant inmate, with her pale
Attendant apprehension, that I draw
Inference calamitous, from each event
That seems mysterious or extraordinary,
And not of every day's anticipation.
Well, I will open it, and put an end
To these perplexed conjectures!—
[Opens the letter.
From Julia!—
From the affianced bride of the Duke D'Ormond!—
She tells me here that she is come to Paris:
And further my permission she entreats
To have brief interview with me!
(To Le Charier.)
But did
You not say you received this at the house
Where D'Ormond meets with his licentious friends?
In short within the very threshold, where
You erewhile met him?

LE CHARIER.
Yes, it is so.

COUNT COLVILLE.
Ah!
Should they meet there. Well, if they do, I hope
That Providence will turn the chance to good!—
At all events I'll see her. Sit you down
While briefly to her letter I reply.—

[He sits down, writes. Folds and seals a letter, and gives it to a servant with an order to deliver it to Julia Villeneuve.]
COUNT COLVILLE.
What can she have to say to me? What can
I say to her? Oh that I could, or ere
I quit my native land, Duke D'Ormond see
Released from his degenerate enthralment?
To Julia reconciled!—And being one,
As I have reason to believe, who well
Deserves his love, e'en as he was or ere
By vice degraded, that he might again
Confer his love on her, and wedding her,
With peace, and virtue, form a lasting union!
I have myself from vice too deeply suffered,
Not e'en to shudder, when its strong allurements,
Enthral a heart susceptible of good!—
I am not, Le Charier, the thing I seem!—

LE CHARIER.
So you have often told me; but I know not—
You're always so consistent with yourself,
Practice in you not only so makes good,
But so outstrips profession—I confess,
How to believe your self-disparagement.—

COUNT COLVILLE.
I am the thing I seem, and I am not!—
You know I leave my native land: with me
Time now is precious. Ere this lady come,—
Since other opportunities may fail,—
The few hours which I have to tarry here,
Are with so many more affairs o'ercharged,
Than I, with my enfeebled faculties,
Can well dispatch,—I will now shew to you
My inner self, if utterance meet be lent me.
I am the thing I seem, and I am not!—
Inasmuch as I am sincere I am;
And inasmuch I am not as the times
Discretion, place, person, and circumstance,
Or would not suffer, or not authorize
Me, to be unreservedly sincere.—
But if you knew the pang it cost me, when
I deviate the least from truth's plain path,
My aberrations you would deem the effect
Of circumstance, not offspring of my will.
I have a heavy burthen at my heart!—
Le Charier, divers are the characters
Of human beings! Are there not who seem
In early life for good predestinate
Who by some fatal swerving of the will
In perilous temptation, blast a prime
Of happy promise: trees are they, which bear,
Or ought to bear delicious fruit, which nipped
By blighting east winds, sapless, withered, sered,
And unproductive, finally become
The leafless skeletons of what they were!—
From men like these all joyous impulse flies;
When they should act, they think, not having thought
In past times ere they acted! Instinct dies
In them, and scrutiny usurps its place.
They see through all the common forms of things!
They weigh; they speculate; they analyze!—
In actions, which, to other men, seem good,
And graceful, they, detecting but too well
The prevalent motive, nothing see to praise.
They are like automatic entities!
They, for a gush of tears, or throb of love,
Would hazard more than conqueror ever did,
And Cæsar's hardships. Alexander's toils,—
Give them the promise of sweet sympathy,—
To them like sports of childhood would appear.
I—I—am one of these!—

LE CHARIER.
You jest, Count Colville.

COUNT COLVILLE.
Ah, that I did! the icy cold that weighs
Upon my heart, the tearless speculation
With which mine eyes see scenes even of anguish,
That make my blood creep in my veins, and all
My bodily functions seem to paralyze,
These symptoms, though invisible to others,
Cleaving with importunity to me,
Tell but too plainly, to the wretch who feels them,
Of a disorganized and shattered conscience.
It is by its inexorable pang,
Immitigable, inextinguishable,
Alone, that I retain a consciousness
Of conscience, and discover that I have one.—
As to all other joys, I am quite dead
To its approval;—to its terrors, victim!—
I talk of virtue, but I feel it not!—
Talk of religion, but I cannot pray!—
And talk of loving, loveless, and unloved!
In youth, I pious forms of speech acquired;
In youth with virtuous men alone I lived;
In youth I framed to virtue my demeanour;
And though my speech, my feelings, and my deeds,
Still, like a parrot that can talk by rote,
Bear virtue's impress, her sweet peace of mind,
Her joys unspeakable, are gone for ever!—
I am called hugonot, called heretic!—
I am no hugonot, no heretic!—
But I am one who have too freely tasted
Fruit of the tree of knowledge, not to smile
At modern commutations,—called Religion,—
For sense of moral obligation,
And practice of the human hearted virtues.
Not but that I believe that heaven consents
Slight penance to accept for slight offences.
But when the sense of duty is thrown off,
None but slight minds at slight offences stop.
Offences these of superficial souls,
Which cannot or be great in vice or virtue.
There are some of etherial innocence:
And there are others of mixed temperament,
Who cannot or be great in vice or virtue.
But those whose virtues are pre-eminent,
Are they of perilous natures, who have borne
Faithfully a commingled communing,
With deep solicitings from froward passions.—
Woe be to those who have at once in them
Angel combined with devil, and through weakness
Have let the latter gain th' ascendancy.—
These, these know what it literally is,
When they have basely yielded to temptation,
To realize again the angel's fall.
Hell,—Heaven,—are within them: and the shows
Of outward things, as they are prone to yield
To ill, or firm as spirits militant
T'assist the better cause, reflect on them
Infernal horror, or celestial brightness!—
So, on the other hand, how bright at last,
Shines, like the fire of Vesta, the trimmed lamp,
Which,—though it have been cumbered with thick fogs,
Or oft half quenched by surly visitings
From felon blasts, and noisome damps, and storms
Of rain, hail, sleet, and snow,—a good man tends
E'en to the hour of final dissolution
With vigilant unintermitted toil!—
Yet think not I complain! Though buffeted
By (sorest of misfortunes here below!)
The anguish of a lacerated conscience,
I yet can see, or think I see, e'en here,
In this untoward world, the ascendancy
Of truth o'er error; o'er the ill, of good;
A permanence in moral excellence;
A self-destructive mutability
In pain, and falsehood, and calamity;
And thence the promise of the final triumph
Of truth, of virtue, and of happiness!—

LE CHARIER.
Since earliest youth have I been visited
With manifold calamities! In none
Of these could I discern that man possessed
A more than instrumental agency!—
A mightier than myself has scourged me.
I have bowed down in silent passiveness,
Have learned humility: and 'mid all woes
Religion a sure comforter has been!—

COUNT COLVILLE.
When I consider the infinity,
The contrariety, complexity,
Of powers that bear upon this scene, not made
For mortal explanation, I am lost
In wonder at the order thence educed,—
Their skilful adaptation! With a good,
Is there an evil which teems not? Unfit
To assume another, and a better form,
In nature an abortion? We accuse
Men, institutions, as they were the cause
Of evil. But the bitterness with which
We make the accusation, proves to me
That its seat deeper lies—in our own hearts!

LE CHARIER.
Talk ever thus! Though I am one whose fate
Is spited by the world, I love the world,
And those my brethren who inhabit it.
It soothes me thus in human things to trace
A power educing good from imperfection.

COUNT COLVILLE.
So, my friend, is it! 'Tis the fortunate
Who chiefly at their destiny complain.
Who, for the most part suffer, if they be
Among those numbered, to whom ‘all things work
Together for their good,’ learn to endure
In silence: to ‘rejoice with thankfulness’
When it is mitigated. “Then at once
“Their tongues are loosen'd, and their lips unclosed.
“Somewhat of virtue, health, and happiness,
“Form the preponderant experience
“Of mortals; hence as contraries, and hence
“As of more rare occurrence of the two,
“Of instances to the reverse we talk,
“And he who has fewest of these contraries
“Talks with the loudest, and the bitterest tongue!
“'Tis an exception which he cannot brook!
“We never hear men marvel when they're well!—
“Comment, as on a miracle, on joy!—
“As thing unheard of, celebrate success!—
“Or speak of safety as a prodigy!—
“From health allotted, for one grateful word;
“From joy imparted, for one warm thanksgiving;
“From friendship shewn, one tributary praise;
“How many rash ones from infirmity!
“How many peevish ones from wretchedness!
“How many pinings from ingratitude!
“And these, meanwhile, it might be clearly shewn,
“Are the exceptions to the general rule.”—
Enough of this! Le Charier, let me now
Do that to which I've pledged myself already!
Yet not to you, as to a Confessor,
Do I myself disburthen! No, I deem,
God hates not, with an arbitrary hatred,
The vicious, but from contrariety
Of vice to his pure essence.—Change of heart,
Alone can be a grateful sacrifice
To Him, not mere confession, much less penance,
And all the juggling tricks by which the crafty,—
Making them the equivalents for virtue,—
Have sought, as one means of ascendency,
To gain an influence o'er coward souls,
Enervate from the consciousness of guilt.
I therefore, as from friend to friend, and not
As to a priest—would all priests were like you,
Though staunch, and willing martyrdom t'endure
In the high cause of your religion, yet
Deeming diversity of forms no more
Than of man's levity, imperfectness,
His love of change, tenaciousness for shew
Rather than substance, necessary fruits:—
Therefore I sent to you, that, ere I leave
My native land for ever, as from friend
To bosom friend, I might to you impart—
That which I never yet have done to any—
The clue from whence to comprehend,—the spring,
The master-key of,—my heart's mystery!—
I am not what I seem! Le Charier, no!—
Hear from my lips that which I really am!—
The self-denying, exemplary, Colville,—
The mortified ascetic Colville is—

LE CHARIER.
Stop! stop! for mercy's sake! Your countenance
Is wild, and agitated! You are ill!—
You know not that which you are saying.—

COUNT COLVILLE.
I
Know but too well! In order to destroy
A fabric of foundationless repute,
Which I have gained with you, and a few more,—
For narrow is my circle of acquaintance—
To you,—who judge of others by yourself,
And cannot, without the reality,
Of the appearance, dream, of rectitude,—
I, this confession make. My heart will be
Tormented less, when it has once to you
Communicated its mysterious secret:
Although it cost me pangs like those which wait
Upon the hour when soul and body part;
Yea, anguish indescribably intense,
And throes of agonizing fearfulness!
Your friend, your Colville is—

(A Servant enters).
SERVANT.
A lady, sir,
Waits, in a chariot, at your door, who fain
Would speak with you.

COUNT COLVILLE.
This must be Julia Villeneuve.
(To Le Charier).
May I request you to retire now? Soon
As from this lady I'm released—at least
Or ere I lay me on my pillow—will I
The rest of my confession make to you.

LE CHARIER.
Sir, I retire. May heaven bring healing to you!

[As Le Charier withdraws on one side, Julia Villeneuve enters on the other].

SCENE THE SECOND.

Count Colville and Julia Villeneuve.
JULIA VILLENEUVE
(in deep mourning).
Your name is Colville, sir?

COUNT COLVILLE.
It is.

JULIA.
I fain
Would beg, that you, on my abrupt intrusion,
Would put no harsh construction. I am driven
By stern necessity.—

COUNT COLVILLE.
(To the Servant, who still waits).
Place chairs, and then
Withdraw from hence.
(To Julia).
Madam, sit down I pray you.
And trust, that, whatsoe'er your purpose be,
I think myself indebted to the cause
Which brought so sweet a visitant.—

JULIA.
My name
Is Julia Villeneuve. I am not, I trust,
Mistaken, thinking you the gentleman
Who once was intimate with one near of kin:
Son to my mother's brother? The Duke D'Ormond?

COUNT COLVILLE.
Such honour once I boasted. But of him
What have you to relate?

JULIA.
That you're his friend
You do not disavow.

COUNT COLVILLE.
I fain would not.

JULIA.
Say, is he well? Tidings of any sort
Were welcomer to me than none at all.

COUNT COLVILLE
(aside).
Poor girl! I greatly fear—
(To Julia).
I trust he's well.

JULIA.
I fain would trust the same. I came to you,—
Myself divesting of my sex's fears,
That to enquire, of which to be resolved,
Though disappointingly, to my worn spirits
Were better than to linger in surmise.

COUNT COLVILLE
(aside).
Poor injured innocent! What shall I say?—
(To Julia).
Have you of late then not had tidings of him?

JULIA.
For the strange step which I have taken now
Better apology I cannot make,
Than by divulging to you, that, to which
It otherwise would pain me to give utterance.
An aged mother, aged and infirm,
To whom I had not only to supply
The place of child, but who, on earth, save me,
No other knew whose love she might command,
And the Duke D'Ormond, were to me, at once
The only objects of my youthful love.—
When they were joined they made my only world:
Disjoin'd, the absent only seemed o'th' two
The dearer, since the absent. Had it been
Either, that one had seemed for the time the dearest,
And the remaining one been incomplete.—
She now is gone, of whom to talk so now,
Seems like profaneness!—May I speak to you?—
There is indulgence in your eye; and that
In you, which prompts to confidence!—I prate.—
But, sir, time presses! I am sore beset!—
All the complexion of my future days,
All that, for which, in long, unsleeping nights,
I've prayed, and wept: all,—all,—is now at stake!
She is no more! My mother is no more!
Oh, may I tell it you? Pious she was,
But she was what is deemed heretical
In times like these; though never outwardly
She left the bosom of her mother church,
Yet both by precept, and example, she
Discountenanced persecution, of the which
Religion—so to indulge malicious tempers—
Rather than cause, was pretext. Such the Duke was. I
An orphan am sent hither, not by friends,—
No,—no,—but by the hard ensnaring wiles
Of those on whom, now,—friendless, parentless—
The power devolves of governing my fate.
To-day is my last day of liberty!
A cloister's walls to-morrow will receive me
In living sepulture! I hither came
With one attendant, and in former times
While I, in happier hour, the play-mate was
Of D'Ormond, having learned, from seeing him
Write letters to you, how to address you,—more,
Having myself wrote letters to him, when
He was your guest,—the place of your abode
I knew, and ere the last sad fatal moment
For ever from the world has sever'd me,
I came to crave of you,—pardon the freedom,
Since I am ignorant of his abode,—
News of a kinsman and a once dear friend.

COUNT COLVILLE
(aside).
Poor friendless innocent! I pity thee!—
What can I say to comfort her?—

JULIA.
You seem
Disquieted! Pray tell me all,—all—all!
I can bear all! I think I can!—

COUNT COLVILLE.
Will you
Permit me, ere, to nearer interests,
Our conversation turns, to step aside
To speak to one who has it in his power
More to confirm me in the replication
To all your interrogatories?

JULIA.
Sir!
Use ceremony not with me! Its rules
In coming here I've broken. Sufferance now
Is all I have to plead for, and perhaps
'Tis more than I should now anticipate.

COUNT COLVILLE.
Lady, this self disparagement, ill suits
Your character: though since it is sincere—
For insincerity could never speak
In tones like your's—strong in its weakness, 'tis
To me a theme for veneration!
I wish a second time to question one
Better informed than I, from whence I may
Learn that which either may confirm, or, as
I fain would rather hope, enable me
To dissipate, your apprehensive fears.

JULIA.
To you I'm much beholden!

COUNT COLVILLE.
He who could,
Beholding you, not wish to make you happy,
Must have indeed a heart of adamant.

[Exit.
JULIA
(alone).
I'm not mistaken. My conjectures were
So favourable of Count Colville's goodness,
From sentiments which I beheld in letters,
In past times, written from him to Duke D'Ormond,
That I by this was,—and the confidence
He lived above the world's vain ceremonies,—
Urged, and emboldened such a step to take.
D'Ormond, canst thou have made thyself unworthy
Of a friend so excellent? I will not think it!
Yet when the Count I questioned of his friend
Why should he thus with hesitation answer?—
Ah D'Ormond, didst thou as myself remember
The lovely days we spent together, when
The year was in its prime, all change to thee
Were now, as 'tis to me, impossible!—
How did affection, and fidelity
Saint-like and pure, seem to inspire thy voice,
When walking in free converse, burst on us
The beauties of a renovated world!—
The swelling buds, the animating warmth
That through all nature seemed to penetrate,
The song of birds, the clear blue atmosphere,
All told us of th' Eternal who walked forth
And through the very common forms of things
Breathed an immortal re-productiveness.

Re-enter Count (aside).
What can I say to her? Rather than speak
That which I must, I would announce his death.

JULIA
(who had caught his last words).
“Death!” Did you say he is dead? Then I indeed
Am friendless and undone!

[Faints.
COUNT COLVILLE.
Poor girl! Poor orphan!
If apprehension of her D'Ormond's death
Thus agitate her, at the thought I shudder
Of what must be th' effect of telling her
That of which now Le Charier has this instant
A second time to-night given me assurance.
Further enquiry but confirms, not weakens
Th' impression which his story made on me.
(To Julia, reviving).
No, lady, no, he is not dead! He lives!—

JULIA.
D'Ormond!

COUNT COLVILLE.
Poor girl! He is not dead! No, no—
Yet lives he.
(Aside).
But I rather would announce
His death to her, than his degraded state!—
Yet, noble, or so seemed it, was his nature!

JULIA
(catching his last words).
Was noble, say you? And “so seemed it?” Oh,
You wrong his nature! Noble 'tis, and can
Never be aught save noble! Now I think on't,
He must have oft mentioned my name to you!
His kinswoman, his Julia Villeneuve, and
His aunt, her mother, could not but be known
To one so dear a friend as you are to him?

COUNT COLVILLE.
(aside).
Oh, that I might that title challenge still!
I soon would bring him to this lady's side.
(To Julia).
His “dear friend?” Yes, I was so, and am still!
That is, he's dear to me! and I would fain
Believe that I am dear to him; would fain
Still be a friend to him.—Yes, yes, you are
By me well known, and worthily esteemed.

JULIA.
Why then delay so, if you deem me worthy
Of such a trust, to give some palliative
At least, to my anxiety for him?
I know him rash; and these are perilous times.
Impassion'd too is he; and Paris is
Full of temptations. All these things I know.
So deeply my inquietudes are seated
Sometimes they almost rise to agony!—
Perhaps you disapprove—

COUNT COLVILLE.
No, no, I cannot
Disapprove aught with so much innocence.
No, no—I cannot disapprove—I,—I,—
Rather compassionate—I would say respect,—
That is, I venerate—I would say,—I know
Not what to say.—

JULIA.
I cannot bear suspense
Like this!—Tell me at once if he be living.
Or—I mean is he well or ill?—Is he?—
You know what I would say! Your look persuades me
You only know too well! Would he, good sir,
His cousin know again? his play-mate know
In days gone by, in former happier hours?
All I can bear to hear: I think I can:
I'm stronger than I seem: at doubt I tremble,
But, when I know the worst, I'm resolute!

COUNT COLVILLE.
Yes, he is living.

JULIA.
Ill?

COUNT COLVILLE.
No. Yes.—

JULIA.
Good sir,
Point out to me the place of his abode.
Perhaps e'en now he stands in need of solace?—
Who can so well as I, that long have known him,
Known him from infancy, with all his ways
Am well acquainted, to his wants supply
A nurse's place?—Oh agony!—Alas,
I rave!—I did forget that all this while,
No longer of my person, time, abode,
Am I the mistress!—

COUNT COLVILLE.
Lovely enthusiast!—
How shall I break it to her?—
(With great solemnity).
Julia!—
[Julia starts from her chair.]
Be seated, madam! Force yourself to calmness,
Or I can ill perform the painful task
I have before me! The Duke D'Ormond lives;
Far as I know he is in health, but—

JULIA.
Sir?—

COUNT COLVILLE.
The rest you must conjecture.—I can't tell it.—

JULIA.
He loves another? Is she worthy of him?—

COUNT COLVILLE
(aside).
How, e'en i'th' midst of her emotions, are
Her first thoughts promptings of a generous nature!
This elevation in her sentiments
Gives my chained tongue the utterance it needs.
(To Julia).
To say the truth, he is no more the man
Whom you and I once knew.—

JULIA.
I scarce can think it!
Except my corporal senses vouch its truth.
This were indeed a heavy blow! have hours,
Hours, days, and sleepless nights, weeks, months, and years,
Spent by me in unsolaced carefulness,
In prayers and tears for him brought nought but this!—
It is a heavy blow! But may not you
Be misinformed?

COUNT COLVILLE.
Ah, madam, that I were!
Most freely, for it so to prove, would I
Surrender every claim to future credence!
But, 'twere to flatter you to think it possible.
For though with me he has declined all commerce,
By means of one of known veracity,—
And one, who, in his measure, fain would be,
As much as I, a friend to him, I gain
Tidings of him, not,—as you well may think—
To gratify a curious disposition;
But—for a moment should conviction smite him,—
That I may be prepared to avail myself
Of such an interval, to extricate
Him from the snares in which he is involved.
To be explicit,—for I can perceive
I agitate you, and torment as much
By this imperfect, as I could divulging
With the most perfect, confidence, his state.
Your mind is by religion fortified
I trust. Here you will need to have recourse
To such support. Yet it is preferable
To know the extent of a calamity,
To being left to dark surmise—and here
I have, for this disclosure, double reason.—
To you I look now as the only means
Of bringing him again to duty's path.—
And that you may be able to apply
Wisely a remedy, you first must know
The extent, and nature of the malady.—

JULIA.
In such experiment were my life forfeit,
Were I successful, I should deem the price
As nothing!

COUNT COLVILLE.
I believe you most devoutly!—
Now to my tale—and listen, if you can,
With seeming calmness, or in vain shall I
Endeavour calmly to sustain my part.
With men of desperate character, Duke D'Ormond,
And desperate fortune, for some six months past,
Has closely leagued himself; or rather, they
But too successfully have spread their snare
To entangle him as their confederate.
They are aware how ample is his fortune;
I, from to-day's report, have gained fresh clue
Whereby to unravel his late purposes.
I have no doubt but that the self-abasement
He felt, when so ignobly he left you,
And your infirm and venerable mother,—
From the degrading influence of remorse
When paltered with, and not accompanied
By strict resolve to heed its prohibitions,—
Prepared his mind for the ascendancy
Of those pernicious schemes which have enthralled him.
Although his irritable restless passions
Suffered him not to keep the post of duty,
But urged him to forsake you (to such minds
A good far distant is no good at all).
And as you had resolved so long as lived
Your mother, not to join to his your fate;
That other duties might not interfere
With a devout exclusive care for her;
So he was galled, and left you—as I gained
From his own lips—in an unlucky hour
Of moody passion: though, I say, the throes
Of a tempestuous, fiery temperament,
Urged him to this, they could not silence in him.
But rather they augmented,—inasmuch
As such a character is always gifted
With a proportion'd sensibility,—
The gnawings of remorse. This very fact,
Of failure in one point, prepar'd in him
The state which fitted him for more declension.
How oft do persons wanting self-controul,
Transgress with open eyes, and agonized
With piercing consciousness of self-betrayal,
Not only wrongly act, but act more wrongly,
With fiercer eagerness, proportionate
To the intensity of their remorse!—
Hoping each new step of delinquency
May bring clear riddance to their consciousness,
And cast oblivion on those gone before.
His passions you well know—for those who know
Him well, like you, cannot have fail'd to mark it—
Are always on the very verge of frenzy.
With sensibility, and genius too
Richly endowed, his judgment hitherto
Hath not proportionably been matured.
This genius, and sensibility,
Give him imaginative power to frame
A portraiture most exquisite of virtue:
And give him even rapturously to feel
Influence from what is fair, and good, and perfect;
And deeply in his heart to venerate
All elevating qualities, all those
Which are sublime and awful! Yet, alas!
From want of strength of resolution
He sometimes deviates from the standard fixed
Within his mind of worth! Ah then, how keen—
E'en in proportion to his keen perceptions,—
Is his remorse! How turbulent its throes!—
How wild its transports! Were he lost to virtue,
For ever lost, her cause would be deprived
Of one, by nature fitted most to grace it.

JULIA.
Of him you're worthy. Worthily you praise him.
Ah! can he have a friend like you, and leave
His faithful side, for the perfidious lure
Of adulating minions, parasites,
Men that make traffic of a brother's weakness?

COUNT COLVILLE.
So now it seems. When first he hither came,
He passed my threshold once or twice. Of you
I question'd him; and from his manner feared
All was not right with him. In former times,
And in his letters, never were his words
So eloquent, as when you were his theme.
The subject now he waived; talked wildly; muttered
Something 'bout wilfulness, propriety;
And measur'd coldness.—Just enough for me
To gather that his feelings were incensed
By some refusal on your part to plight
Your faith to his, so long as to your love
Your mother's life was spared. At last, by means
Of one, a friar mendicant, by name
Le Charier, I gain'd intelligence
That he had leagued with desperate adventurers:
I wrote to him: begged him to come to me:
And somewhat perhaps inadvertently
Hinted at his delinquency. He deigned
Not a reply. Oft have I sought his house:—
Never is he to me accessible.
By letter oft have I addressed him: yet
Never has answer been returned: at last
One was sent back unopened. Thus, at length,
Closed ten years intercourse! From his fifteenth year
Had he been known to me. All that I since
Have learned of him, has, through the means been gained
Of this Le Charier: who, this evening, called
At a famed house for banqueting, to which,
With his unworthy colleagues, frequently
He, as I am informed, resorts: and grieved
Am I to say, that all which I have learned
This evening, but confirms my former fears.—

JULIA.
Ah, God!—But, sir—may I the nature ask?—
You understand me?—

COUNT COLVILLE.
Yes, too well I do!—
As at my tale's commencement I affirmed,
He by a set of harpies is environed,
Whom, probably,—though he consort with them,—
He with ineffable contempt regards.—
Leader of these confederates in vice,
And profligate voluptuousness, is one,
Courtenaye by name, a man exactly fitted
To gain ascendency o'er such a mind
As that of the Duke D'Ormond. You must be,
From native sense, instinctively aware,
Young though you be, and though your bosom hides,
In its clear region, no suspicious thoughts;
That 'tis not so much as men act on others
That they gain influence, as that they be framed,
Iron-nerv'd, of impenetrable stuff,
So that no other men can act on them.—
Coldness e'en with fatuity, that walks
Unswerving in one line (when leagued with souls,
However gifted, that are self-betrayed
From too exceeding warmth, not counterbalanced
By an antagonist energy of judgment)
Will gain th' ascendancy, and rule e'en those
Of mettle framed for a more noble lot:
As we at least should think, did not, when brought
To the test of proof, th' anticipation vanish.
Thus Courtenaye inaccessible to all
The irresolute fluctuations of the Duke,
And with a character to comprehend,
Though not to emulate, his attributes,
Has, at the same time power to assume the semblance,
Though spurious, of a fascinating fervour;
And he discriminates enough to feel,
When their propensities are weighed, what most
At once ensnares, and captivates his victims.
He hides the most flagitious callousness
'Neath the exterior of warm-hearted frankness.
And seeming the mere shuttlecock of whim,
Caprice, and gaiety, or, when he chuses,
With most enthusiastic ardour fraught,
He is impenetrably cold, untouched
By conscientious yearnings: not one twinge
Of that conviction, which makes men relent
In their bad purposes,—howe'er he may
Scatter dismay, and ruin, and despair
Around him,—ever touched his heart of steel!
Well, well he knew that he could never rule
Duke D'Ormond's soul, 'till he had mastery gained
Of his master passion:—could discriminate
That this ascendency he ne'er could gain
With his inferior talents and endowments,
'Till he, by leading him to do some deed
Abhorrent to his nature, that he felt
Degrading, made him with himself at war.
Love, lawless love—I rack your soul—and mine
Burns, as in torment, at the cruel tale,—
This was the passion, this the instrument
He chose, as best adapted to his end.—
As virtuous love would militate against him,
So thought he a licentious paramour,
Mainly if she abetted his designs,
And in his interest were, would rivet fast
His chains.—Most noble of the works of nature,
When blest with spirit of self-sacrifice,
At once a heroine, and tremulous
In sensitiveness, so as to know how
To bind man's wounds most efficaciously,
What canst thou not, oh woman, when sublime,
And tender thou in soul art, not perform!
To such a woman I commit Duke D'Ormond.
This is not flattery! Though I now but first
Beheld you, much of you has been to me
Reported; and your countenance tells a tale
To which the heart yields an implicit credence.
Save him! oh, save him! Something to my heart
Whispers to me that it is in your power;
And may heaven's blessing help you to perform it
Without yourself being a sacrifice.
Oh, save him! All my influence over him
Is at an end! But let a full placed trust
In your own power, derived from trust in heaven,
Inspire you, with a blessing from above,
You yet may be a “lantern to his feet,”
“Light to his path!”
But to my narrative—
Duke D'Ormond has been introduced by Courtenaye
To th' Marchioness de Mielcour. Thus it seems
That fate decrees it of your sex to be
Glorious, or perilous prerogative,
To work redemption for him or perdition.
This lady is, as I am told, disposed,
With passionate devotion, to abet
The schemes of Courtenaye: while she has address
To transfer to your D'Ormond—for I still
Shall think him your's and call him so—the semblance
Of that devotion, she is doing this
But as auxiliar to her paramour.
But you have heard enough. Once more I go
To-morrow to his door. Will you go with me?
Wherever you appoint, I'll call for you.—
I will, if he be there, make my way to him,
Even should his name be refused to me.
Once more from my lips shall he hear the truth!
And by the silent pleading of your presence
Accompanied, truth he cannot resist.

JULIA.
Should he refuse to see me? Oh my god,
I almost tremble to anticipate
The possibility of such a slight
From one so dear to me; to place myself
In circumstance which gives to him the power
So cruelly to shake me off, and wrong me!—
But I have but one day! Decide for me!—
Oh, should he prove my saviour! and while he
Generously snatches me from living death,
Oh, should the rapture of that thought become
Thrice rapturous, thinking that I also am
The humble instrument him to restore
To that nobility, that radiance
Of soul—if by himself not forfeited—
By birth-right, and inheritance, his own!—
Yes, could I be subservient to a means
Of benefit to him, e'en such a wrong
As that of being banish'd from his presence,
I calmly could confront! I love too well!
I've loved too long; and too much for himself
I love him, in my breast to harbour pride!
True love fears not, since it can never feel
Humiliation!—

COUNT COLVILLE.
He shall not refuse
To see you. I will summon him before you
As convict to the presence of his judge.

JULIA.
But I have nothing to reproach him with.
'Twas my tenacious firmness to abide
By that which I thought duty dictated,
That drove him from me. I am portionless!
The little cottage in the which I dwelt
With my infirm and venerable mother,
Forbade, from scantiness of room, a change
In our domestic habits, had her health
Permitted, which it did not, such a scheme.
The same infirmity, 'twas so extreme,
Alike forbade what oft Duke D'Ormond urged,
That, when united, we should to his aunt,
A mother then to him, propose to dwell,
Inmate in her hereditary home.
Not only, then, the circumstance that all
Her habits were conformed to long abode,
Even from early life, in this small dwelling;
Not only this forbade what else might seem
Means to augment her comfort, but still more
Such incapacity for personal change
Of place, was her's, that I could never bear
Even to hint to her of his proposal;
Lest from a generous wish, or ere she died
To see me in a safe protection placed,
She should insist on my conformity
To a change, in which I knew she could not share,
And thus to her a sacrifice. Though blind,
She loved this little spot. A happy wife
There lived she with her lord. It was a home
In which an only brother, long since dead,
And I, were educated; 'twas to her
As the whole world! Its scanty garden plot,
The hum of bees hived there, which still she heard
On a warm summer's day, the scent of flowers,
The honey-suckle which trailed round its porch,
Its orchard, field, and trees, her universe!—
I knew she could not long be spared to me.
Her sufferings, when alleviated best,
Were most acute; and I could best perform
That sacred task. I wished to lengthen out,—
By consecrating to her every moment,—
Her being to myself! A life I prized,
Not as that only of a tender mother,
But as that of a character endowed
With every attribute to excite at once
Reverence and tenderness: and latterly
She seemed to me, so exemplary was
Her resignation, so sublime her patience,
Not only spite of insuppressive pangs,
But even more so seemed she from these pangs,
A saint! Though wasting in her bodily frame,
A spirit raised above mortality,
And by anticipating heaven on earth
Beatified below. Could I leave her?—
I might have seen her,—such was D'Ormond's plea—
Each day. But who her evening hours could cheer?
Her long and solitary evening hours?—
Talk her, or haply sing her, to her sleep?—
Read to her? smooth her pillow? Lastly make
Morning seem morning with a daughter's welcome?
For morning's light ne'er visited her eyes!—
Well! I refused to quit her! D'Ormond grew
Absent, reserved, nay splenetic and petulant!
He left the Province, nor has he once sent
A kind enquiry so t'alleviate
His heavy absence.

COUNT COLVILLE.
You have done
Your duty.—I will be with you to-morrow
At any time that you may choose to appoint:
When we will to Duke D'Ormond's house proceed.

JULIA.
At noon, if it so please you. Now, good sir,
Accept the only boon which I can offer,
The fervent incense of a grateful heart.
I now retire. Next to the trust I have
In heaven's mercy, and protecting care,
The consciousness that you will be my friend
Will most alleviate the cruel hours
Of worn anxiety, that, till to-morrow,
It will be mine to spend; and most support
My drooping spirits, till the moment come
For th' interview so wished for, and so feared.
Farewell! Believe me bound to you for ever.

COUNT COLVILLE.
My blessing on you! May th' almighty arm
Protect you; and his gracious spirit pour
A healing balm into your wounded breast.