 | Count Julian |  |
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ACT III.
SCENE I.
A Room in the Castle.Count Julian and Countess.
Countess.
Your sickly conscience feeds a traitor's life.
Is it not monstrous, we being what we are,
And he what he is, we should live in fear
Of him?
Count.
I pity him more than I fear.
Countess.
Julian, O! be a man. Pity the villain
Who tow'rds you stretches one base hand for gold,
And dare with th' other shake above your brow
The hissing brand of infamy!
Count.
O! Bertha,
What's infamy?
Countess.
My husband! My son's father!
Thyself of unstain'd ancestors the son!
Count.
No tie have I on earth but one,—to thee
And him,—the bond of guilt. Thou art my wife,
But ere thou wert, my father's son and I
Were brothers. Give me back my brother—
Countess.
Julian,
What talkst thou? Thou dost know thy brother died—
Count.
And thereby made me father to his son.
That boy were now a man.—O! I am not
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Unmade me which unbrother'd me; for since,
I have not hop'd, or lov'd, or had a wish
In common with my fellow-men; but life
Has been to me one dreary memory,
Which as I near my grave doth grow more clear,
As though the past were there to be the present.
Countess.
Thou did'st it not. Thou but consented to—
And—
Count.
What's the hand that strikes? As innocent
As is the steel it holds. O! I could wash
My hands. But thoughts that move th' opposeless will,
Take from its deeds the hues that colour them
Till what is done shall be undone.
Countess.
Brood not
My husband, ever thus upon the past.
Our very lives are built of right and wrong.
'Tis passion makes the motion of the world,
And thus bids darkness alternate with day.
The good thou'st done weighs heavier 'gainst the ill
Than in the account of common men, whose smiles
Reflect the world's esteem.
Count.
Thou art too subtle.
No more.—That letter answer as thou lik'st.
But Bertha,—he must not come hither. Once
Thou know'st he came. He must not come again.
(Exit.)
Countess,
alone.
I am rebuk'd by his dejected state;
And were there for the poison of remorse
No antidote, I should be sick at heart.—
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To wrong me. All a woman has to give
I gave,—my love. Boldly I launched my hopes.
O! the remembrance breaks upon my soul
Like the free far off sound of revelry
On the wall'd convict's ear,—He blasted them!
He for whose sake they grew,—who made them bloom,
And nursed them so with art, that nature seem'd
O'erfraught with ripeness:—he for whom I op'd
The treasure of a maid's first wishes, and
In my lone hours thought of with bridal thoughts.—
The breath of love that to my unseal'd breast
Had wasted such rich seed of joy and hope
Grew to a howling tempest. On the wreck
He'd made he smil'd.—Count Hermann, give me back
What thou took'st from me—and thy son shall live.
Death balk'd my vengeance. Both died: but left a son.—
Dare Klebel thus defy me? than am I
Joint victim of a deed whose consequence
Is burden'd with an everlasting fear.
He must be dealt with sternly. Treachery
He knows were self destruction, for the which
He has no stomach; and he shall know too,
That threats may be as dangerous.
(Exit.)
SCENE II.
Nurse,alone.
Her mother trusted me, and I am bound
By hearty promises to cherish her.
And yet, what can I further? When I've seen
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In Rudolf's company, I did rejoice.
'Twas a short-sighted joy. If she must wed him:—
O! in a loveless marriage her pure heart
Will break or wither:—if she must, her love
Had blest herself, and his so common nature
Perhaps had from its warmth some brightness caught.
She comes. With what a gait the light-limb'd child
Steps into womanhood.
(Enter Ada and falls on her neck.)
What hast thou Ada? Whence this gush of tears?
Ada.
I've heard such words.
Nurse.
From whom?
Ada.
My uncle.
Nurse.
(Eagerly.)
Ha!
What said he?
Ada.
Naught distinctly. 'Twas as if
His heart held audible converse with itself.
And what it utter'd were not meant for ears,
So terrible and wild the wo-fraught sounds.
And then he turn'd to me, and words he spake,
So full of love, so tender and so solemn,
That terror calm'd to awe: and then he left us.
Nurse.
Who heard him else?
Ada.
Rupert, the stranger, whom
He will not let depart, holding his ear
With speech most strangely mingled.
(Enter Countess.)
Leave us awhile— (to the nurse.)
(Exit Nurse.)
Ada, that thou hast been
In all the offices of love my child,
So swells my foster'd wish to call thee daughter
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Gav'st free consent to bless me with this right
Seems robbing us of rightful happiness.
I come to name thy nuptial day.
Ada.
Not now;
O! no, dear aunt, not now.
Countess.
And why not now?
Ada.
My thoughts are not familiar yet with marriage.
I'm still so young:—this is too sudden.
Countess.
Ada,
This modesty, the graceful badge of youth,
Would well become thee, had not habit smooth'd
The path for thee from maidenhood to wifehood.
Happier art thou than many of thy years
Who do with unaccustom'd strangers wed,
Rashly surrendering their virgin rights,
Induc'd by some one of the countless needs
To which our vext estate is liable;
Or greenly cheated by the wheedling shows
Of tongue or form, us women's bane. But thou,
No rude necessity hath wrench'd thy will
To hasty resolution; partial fortune
For thee has made conjunct all circumstances
Which do illuminate the marriage rite.
Thy vows will crown a whole life's expectation;
So that the future will but be the past
With deeper colours dy'd, the child's gay sports
Exalted to the joys of womanhood.
The titles, husband, wife, 'twixt thee and Rudolf
Will be the natural flowers of ripe affection.
Ada.
Wife—husband—
Countess.
Wherefore with such tristful mien
Dost thou re-sound these love-born epithets,—
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And echoes to that fruitful voice which through
Rude nature's everlasting discord sends
Perpetual music.
Ada.
Madam, I beseech you,
Hold me not bound by undeliberate words.
I cannot wed your son.
Countess.
Ha! child, dost know
What, who, and where thou art? Are reverence,
Authority and custom all extinct,
And girls' caprices in the world ascendant?
Thy breach of faith dost think will make a breach
In nature's rule?
Ada.
O! speak not to me thus.
I am not worth your anger.
Countess.
Ada, I
Have shar'd on thee my love. Thou wast so early
And dearly on my lonely stem engrafted,
That every pulse of my maternal heart,
Fully to thee as to my body's fruit,
Perfecting nourishment propell'd. To me
This double growth it was a double blessing;
For on the present joy hope built a higher;
And thou, my daily comfort, shone afar
A coming solace in that dim decline,
When disappointments, like deferred duns
Or sharks about a wreck, troup at the close.
In thee I was to triumph over fear,
And flout at cozening hope, made whole through thee
For multiplied defraudments. Wilt thou now,
When the rich hour is nigh to which slow time,
On wings storm-drench'd or faint with anxious toil,
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Down hurl me, snatching from my outstretch'd arms
All that my mother's heart long years hath yearn'd for.
Thou can'st not,—thou whom I have holp to climb
From infancy to exulting womanhood—
Me thou willt not hurl back, in one hard instant
Rending my breast with the tempestuous ebb
Of years! My gentle child, thou wilt not?—Speak.
Ada.
Mother! Thy child has need of thee. Look down
From thy calm resting place. Breathe on me here
The spirit of thy love. Make fruitful now
Thy blessing,—all Heav'n will'd me have on earth
From thee. Ye Heavens, who teach us pity, let
An orphan's prayer mount up to your high precincts
And touch a mother's ear.
Countess.
Look hither, Ada;
I am your mother.
Ada.
I'm alone.
Countess.
Dear child,
Have I not cherish'd thee? What hast thou wanted?
Ada.
I owe you much; more than I can requite.
I knew not how much till to-day.
Countess.
Thou can'st
Re-pay a hundred fold.
Ada.
And by the act
Make worthless what should give it value.
Countess.
Ada,
Thou'rt not what thou hast been.
Ada.
I am a woman;
And I should wrong my mother and myself,
Did I not know my rights of womanhood.
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Is faithlessness one of thy new found rights?
Ada.
Reproach me not: I merit no reproaches.
(Going.)
Countess.
Ada,—Ada! (Exit Ada.)
She has a will,—
I have one too. Margaret.
(Enter Nurse.)
Say to Count Rudolf,
I would speak with him in my chamber.
(Exit.)
Nurse.
(Alone.)
The air is black and thick about this house.
O! my soft child, must thou confront a tempest?
Well, I believe the good, they suffer least.
One friend too thou shalt have.
(Exit.)
SCENE III.
Hall of the Castle.Rupert,
alone.
My senses are alert: I do not dream.
Nay, sleep my passive brain did never throng
With thoughts and images so manifold
As now perplex my open faculties;
Nor ardent dawn e'er melted from my soul
A lovelier vision than circumfluent here
Makes lustrous my free mind. This verdant earth,
It is a cloud, whereon with winged feet
I float tow'ds Heav'n, and all my senses seem
The inlets to unearthly harmonies.
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To their widest compass your quick ministering powers,
That I my craving heart may feed with beauty
Out-lustering all that Fancy's richest forage
In her abounding realms e'er captur'd. How
Each of her comings, like the orient sun,
Outruns the expectation; and her going
Leaves after it a radiance which bedims
All other splendours, till she re-appears
With fresher wonders circled.
(Enter Ada.)
Thou look'st sad.
A stain of tears is on thy cheek. O! if
Or word or act of mine,—nay, all whence springs
The motion of my tongue or arm might help
To smooth one print of sorrow from thy heart,
I would believe my life by Heav'n had been
Specially shap'd, and with fresh thankfulness
My parents I would thank for their soft nurture.
(Ada advances to him and falls on his neck.)
Ye Powers, that swaying with your unseen hands
Our daily life, have blest me with this moment,
Make me to know its blessedness. O! let
Your choicest influence shine on my heart.
Lend me your strength. Purge from my soul all foulness,
That faithfully it image this bright being
That in it lies here now and evermore.
Look up; whilst thou upon my bosom restedst,
Was I in Heav'n, praying for worth to cherish thee.
Ada.
Thou lov'st me.
Rupert.
Can this extacy be spoken?
The currents of my being stream tow'rds thee.
The past comes dancing back to look at thee.
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I did not know that one could be so happy.
Rupert.
It is so full this bliss, so rich, so clear,
That unsubstantial seem all bygone joys.
Till now I have but wrought in lifeless dreams.
I wake, as our first sire from his first sleep,
To find the earth alive with thee. Thou peoplest
My soul.
Ada.
They are not strange to me thy features.
How aptly have my eyes already learnt them,
As something they had note of. I do think
Thou hast been nestled in my folded heart,
Which now being blown, thou hast walk'd forth, and stand'st
Without me, yet part of myself.
Rupert.
My thoughts
Grow rich upon thy voice. By its dear sound
My soul is stirr'd, as oaks by Heaven's breathing,
When from the freshen'd leaf, life answering life,
Swells joyous Nature's vernal melody.
Ada.
Where didst thou learn such flattering speech?
Rupert.
From thee.
Beholding thee, my raptur'd senses strive,
Like the quick echo wak'd by music's joy,
To give thee back some fragments of thy beauty.
(Enter Nurse, hurriedly.)
Nurse.
Ada, I've sought thee everywhere.
Ada.
Me! wherefore?
Ah! quick, and let thy words unloose the trouble
That struggles in thy looks.
Nurse.
'Tis for thy ear—
Ada.
My ears are his, my senses all, my heart;
Myself am his: he is my plighted husband.
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Ha!
Ada.
Give thy wonder scope, but not thy censure.
Nurse.
Can I unteach my heart?—Yet this seems sudden.
Ada.
And so it is. Still:—Nay, why should it not be?
How sudden was the act that brought him hither?
The half its virtue was its suddenness;
Wanting the which, the other half had lain
An unspent treasure in his breast; and so,
About our roof the wonted gloom had thicken'd,
Which now as by Heaven's fulgent bow is spann'd,
He being our sun, that with his gushing light,
Swiftly in our hearts gladness paints himself.
How sudden in their birth the world's best beauties,
The colours and the fragrancies that steep
The tranced senses in their loveliness.
The morn, how rapidly it decks the earth;
The day's majestic fall, how quick it blooms:
And e'er the swelling thoughts have loos'd the spell
Of this great wonder, yet another's born,
And sudden night its mystic life reveals.
And sorrow too,—death's viewless messengers
Speed it with arrowy haste. A sudden shriek,
Riving a warrior's widow's heart, and I
Was parentless. Ev'n now, thyself, whose smiles
Upon my life have shed an hourly blessing,
Com'st hurrying to me, of a pang the bringer.
O! shall my grief be sudden, and not my joy?
Nurse.
Thy will was ever so direct and free,
That I will not believe it wanders now.
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The Countess has commanded me to make
Immediate preparation for your marriage—
Ada.
Thou com'st not from her now?
Nurse.
This instant, and
Now seek Count Rudolf.
Ada.
Scarce an hour is past
Since I, with th' earnestness of fast intent,
Told her I could not wed her son.
Nurse.
Already
She has the dispensation from the church.
Ada.
Am I a slave?—She would not.—She shall not.
Rather than this I'd hack my features, spoil me:
Drugs will I drink to shrivel up my flesh:
My wealth I'll give to beggars. I'll deform me
Into abhorr'd proportions, but I'll shun
This hated contract. O'er myself I have
Some power still. I'll use it so, to make me
Be loath'd where now I'm cherish'd.
Rupert.
Thou should'st be
A hero's bride. Dares Danger so approach thee?
Ha! how like a flush'd demon does he gleam,
His rugged visage glistening in thy brightness!
O! my heart beats t' embrace him. When we part,
Or, back to his grim den shall he flee howling,
Or, where he glares glare grimmer with my blood.
O! think not I'm a braggart. But that thou
Shouldst suffer violence,—the thought thereof
So fires my will, that deeds seem naught but slaves
To resolution. Yet, it cannot be.
The elements will stir against the outrage.
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And thunder not an interdict. A being
Select,—so beautiful, so delicate.
The hunger-madded wolf would give her way,
His savageness subdued by her sweet aspect.
Nurse.
Thy soul shines in thy speech. Ada, take heart:
Thou toldst me of thy uncle's tender words,—
Rupert.
I heard them: all his soul was on his tongue,
Which trembled with its load. Aye, he will shield her.
Nurse.
Who comes this way? 'Tis Rudolf.
Rupert.
I'll confront him—
Ada.
Nay, I beseech you, leave me with him: I
Would speak with him alone.—Nay, grant me this.
(Exit Rupert.)
(Enter Rudolf.)
Rudolf.
Musing, my gentle cousin?
Nurse.
The Countess, sir,
Desires your presence in her chamber.
Rudolf.
Say,
I will be with her straight.
(Exit Nurse.)
Good morrow, Ada;
You seem to hold some treasure in your thoughts
Which you would count alone.
(Going.)
Ada.
Rudolf, did I
E'er do thee injury?
Rudolf.
Thou! Injury!
Ada.
Did I e'er thwart thy aims, or balk thee, or
In aught come twixt thee and thy purposes?
Rudolf.
Thou wouldst be answer'd: Well, my answers leap
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Thou never didst, in word, deed, look, or thought,
(For that I'll swear to too,) harm, thwart or cross me;
But hast been ever eager to o'erfill
My wishes, and my griefs to lighten,—aye,—
And now I'll bruise thy conscience,—I protest,
My mischief oft has thriven on thy goodness.
Ada.
And thou to me wast always kind. Thou would'st not
Do me a harm.
Rudolf.
Now by my soul I would not.
Ada.
Thou know'st thy mother's wishes for our marriage.
Rudolf.
Aye; and she thinks this is enough to know.
But I,—
Ada.
But thou; thou thinkst 'tis not enough.
Fie on thee Cousin Rudolf; thou believ'st
That I could plot against thy freedom? I,
Who even in thy sports, thou say'st, ne'er crosst thee?
Rudolf.
Well, thou'rt a faithful girl. The Countess, Ada,
Has set her mind on this.
Ada.
Thou art a man.
Rudolf.
That's true.
Ada.
Thou hast the privilege of choice.
Rudolf.
And so I have.
Ada.
Were it that thy desires
Went with thy mother's, this were not to choose;
For thou no other maid than me hast seen
Since thou art come to manhood.
Rudolf.
'Tis most true,
Most true. How well thou reasonest 'gainst thyself.
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Nay, not against myself, but for us both.
Rudolf.
I marvel I have never seen it thus.
To be more than a child and less than man
Were a most weak condition. If I'm ripe
For marriage, my maturity is strong
For self-direction. What's a man bereft
Of manhood's rights? Better to be a beast,
And want the might of reason, than to hold it
For others' empire. Thou'lt stand by me Ada?
Ada.
Most steadfastly.
Rudolf.
Now to my mother. I
Will speak to her as fits my manhood.
(Exit.)
Ada.
(Alone.)
The earth seems firmer now; the sky looks fairer.
Desert me not, ye wholesome ministers,
That sweep on heaven-furnish'd wings about us.
Be still attendant in my loneliness.
Hover around my perilous way.
(Exit.)
| Count Julian | |