University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Park, near the Castle; Evening.
Count Julian,
alone.
For me there is no greeting on God's earth.
They know me, and their lustral beauties veil
At my approach, the bounteous shows that make
Man's home a Paradise to th' innocent.
The sweetening changes dance their endless round;
But from their choral ring they banish me,
Doom'd to behold all things, loos'd by time's touch,
Sweep on in ceaseless motion, moveless I,
By my own act enfetter'd to one thought.
Ye stars, from your immeasurable fields,
Where orderly ye now enrank yourselves
To work your heavenly tasks, do ye espy me?
Ye look as ye were whispering of my shame.
Or have ye 'mongst yourselves unwholesome mates,
Whose shining fronts are soil'd by noisome breath,
That, swelling in their bosoms, shatters them,
Hurling them forth, self-wrench'd from their high seats,
To grope in irrecoverable gloom,
Disorb'd, as I am.—Thou art exorable,
O! thou, who fram'dst our brains so fearfully.
Thou would'st not give man vigour for a crime
For which were no atonement. O! thy ban
Take from my tortur'd soul. Darkness and light
Sway equally in thy sun-furnish'd world.
Night leagu'd with tempest cannot crush the day.
There is no day in me. O! my pent soul,
It is a mouthless den, where swarms a brood
Of murk-engender'd thoughts, that sting and howl
About their prison-walls. Command thy law
To do its mighty hests; that not forever
The sea of light break baffled on my heart.
Let in thy mercy.—I can bear no more.—
My brain will burst.

(During the latter part of this soliloquy Ada and Rupert have entered.)
Ada.
My heart will break with his. O! let's away.
'Twere cruelty to add our little griefs
To the great sum of his. O! but for pity,
My blood at this dread sight would chill and stop.
Some other time we'll speak to him; not now.

Rupert.
For his sake stir not. 'Twere worst cruelty
To leave him thus. See how he struggles.

Count Julian.
Down,
Down: lower, lower: on,—no pause, no pause.
I'm heavy enough; I'm made to sink: down, down.
I'll thank you too.—'Tis very dark,—O! O!

Rupert.
I am a man made of the clay that he is.—
O! Ada, speak to him. His soul will smother
In its own hell.

Ada.
Uncle!

Count Julian.
That voice,—sweet voice?

Ada.
Uncle—Uncle!

Count.
(Staring at Rupert.)
Ha!—Brother—Brother—

Ada.
Uncle, 'tis I, your Ada.

Count.
Ada!
Where are we?

Ada.
In the park, sir: this is Rupert.

Count.
Aye—yes—I know him now.

Ada.
You were asleep,
Here on the bench.

Count.
Asleep!—and you have wak'd me?

Ada.
Yes, sir: I've come to ask a favour of you.

Count.
Of me? Can I do any one a service?

Ada.
One that will make me love you even more
Than now I do. Count Rudolf and myself
Have long been in my aunt's desires contracted;
And now that we are both of age;—you frown:—

Count.
It must not be: it must not be: no, no.
Not you to son of mine.

Ada.
O! my dear uncle;
'Twas this I came to ask of you, that you
Will not consent to what the Countess orders.

Count.
Against your wish? Ha! violence again!
Summon them hither both.I am Count Julian.
This castle is not theirs, nor this domain.
'Tis Hell's;—but I'm the tenant,—that I am.
You know it not:—there's one that knows it: two, two.
Ada, beware that woman.

Rupert.
Pray you, sir,
Let us go in: the night is damp.

Count.
Ah! Rupert!
My noble boy: 'twas you sav'd Rudolf's life.
I cannot thank you for it: yet, 'tis well.
You did your best. 'Twas a great deed.—
How was it? Have you more such? Give me one.
O! could I save a life, I'd laugh again.
What joy you made that day in Heaven.
I cannot give: God will not let me give:
He has forbid it, long ago. But could I,
I'd give to thee my blessing.—When you wed,
Your wife be poor in wishes, that from you
Her longings she may learn; and rich in love,
That elsewhere than in you she may not seek
To mend her wishes' poverty. Be she
Of bounded dispositions, that her thoughts
Your o'er-aspiring thoughts may check; and yet,
Of liberal mind, that if at any time
Into yourself too much you turn your gifts,
Her warmth may thaw the selfish mood; her strength
Not spent to lead your will, but husbanded
To temper it.—Ada, thy husband be
One capable to know thee as thou art,
And knowing thee, loves thee for being thyself.
Such love such knowledge following, will prove
Worth equal thy deserts, if such there be.
And what a victory were such a mating!
But thou unfitly match'd! O! 'twere a discord
To grate on angels' ears, and a defeat
Of Nature's cunningest design.—
Let us go in: the night is damp. Come, come.
Let us go in.

(Exeunt.)