 | Count Julian |  |
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 | |