 | Count Julian |  |
56
ACT V.
SCENE I.
Room in the Castle. Morning.Rupert,
alone.
They were not baseless then those visions, and
What seem'd importunate imaginings,
Were suppliant children of true memory.—
Here was I cradled.—Yesterday, a guest,
Chance-thrown within these haughty towers;—now,
Their wondering master; while houseless and stript
Wake they who this night slept securely 'neath them.—
What are our wills, if thus from wealth to want,
From life to death we're toss'd? Our boldest thoughts,—
Like aims to thwart the elemental courses,—
Recoil to crush us, when their purposes
Are counter to the mind whence th' elements
Their movement and our brains their action draw.
But what is counter?—I am little read
In th' occult book of life; yet I believe,
We then are safest, when our thought bear least
The burthen of our own necessities;
But if within ourselves our wishes end,
The heart will fester in its uncropt grossness.
Can we not make our life a constant giving,
And by the purging flow so clean thus keep us,
57
Quite unassailable?—If this could be?—
O! uncle, what a chastisement is thine!
I'll lay the fiends, that hissing from th' abyss
Whence I was snatcht, have stung thee near to madness.
The planner of the monstrous deed, will she
Feel too releas'd to learn 'twas left undone?
And Rudolf?—But with him I'll share what most
He values. Happily he prizes not
The richest treasure.—Hither he comes.
(Enter Rudolf.)
Rudolf.
Well, Rupert; still no tidings from your father?
Rupert.
Aye, and of strangest import.
Rudolf.
He desires
Your quick return?
Rupert.
Not so.
Rudolf.
He's a kind father,
To let you play so long and he at work.
Rupert.
Kind is he truly; and were I to waste
In trivial sport time which on him lay heavy
With labour's yoke, I should approve myself
A spendthrift of his bounty. I have told you,
That not by birth our present lot we have,—
Rudolf.
And I believe it, on my word I do.—
But come, I've order'd horses, and myself
A league or so will hold you company,
Your father, I am sure, misses you much.
Rupert.
I look to see him here.
Rudolf.
(Aside.)
I am a fool
To think with hints to pierce this rustic's hide.
None but a gentleman can understand
58
That for the service you have done me, Rupert,
I ever shall be mindful, you may judge
From proof you have already of my nature,
Having here treated you, an unknown stranger,
As you had been my equal. This should end,
Being unsuited to our differing ranks.
'Tis fit that you return now to your home.
Here is a well-fill'd purse, and here a ring,
Which keep as token of my recollection
Of our first meeting.
Rupert.
That should give the token
Its worth is wanting. For the gold, if I
Were poor, I could not take it. Deeds there are
From man to man which, till you coin the soul,
Cannot be made of marketable value.
For my intent here to remain, to-morrow
I'll give you reasons shall content you fully.
(Going.)
Rudolf.
Intent—to-morrow!—Young man, yet a word.
Within the hour see that you quit the castle.
This I command: your part is to obey.
The mischief done by kindness I'll undo.
Rupert.
Count Rudolf, if by birth you claim to rule me,
Know, I'm your equal.
Rudolf.
Ha!—I will believe you.
Now answer with your sword the wrong you've done me.
(Draws.)
Rupert.
If I have wrong'd you, I submit myself
Unto your will to take due reparation.
In one scale set the wrong: I on the other
59
My body, limb by limb, until stern Justice,
Holding the balance, shall cry out, ‘Enough,
The wrong is lifted.’—But my sword I wear
For other service.
Rudolf.
Nimble-tongu'd impostor,
The blade I drew as 'gainst a worthy foe
I'll use it as a rod for chastisement.
(Strikes him.)
Rupert.
(Quickly drawing.)
Now parry for your life.
(They fight.)
Nurse.
(Rushing in.)
Help! Help! within there,
Help! Help!
(Attendants run in and part them.)
Rudolf, you know not what you do.
Rupert.
Some other time.
Rudolf.
(Aside to Rupert.)
Meet me a half hour hence.
Without the castle gate. We'll seek a spot
Where we shall be unhinder'd.
Rupert.
I'll not fail you.
(Exeunt severally.)
SCENE II.
A Room in the Castle.Count Julian and Countess.
Countess.
'Tis nature's ordinance, that plenteous age
Should lend its wisdom to unfurnish'd youth.
Count.
Let not your wishes flatter you to think
That wisdom which but feeds their staunchless hunger.
Countess.
But here the fitness is so palpable.
60
Not so, not so. We know not what is fit.
We have one only duty, you and I—
To suffer, and be thankful that our days
So much are lengthen'd, that long misery
May suage the poison in our fester'd souls.
Countess.
Yet are we parents. Rudolf is our son,
Ada our ward: they claim from us some duties.
Count.
Leave them to God. He bids the thunder hush;
He holds the earth due on in its swift path;
He fails not to replenish the vast sun
With procreant life:—think you he will neglect them?
Once we made bold to clutch his rushing wheel.
O day of wo! With clean unshackled hands
We reap'd a smiting curse—Hold in—hold in—
Lest we infect our dearest with our pangs.
Countess.
I will protect my child. He is not strong
For guidance or defence. He has not had
The dues of education from his father.
Count.
O! I am not a man to teach a son.
I dare not trust my thoughts to mould my will:—
I have no will: I have but only fears.
Countess.
The past is past: let is be past: 'tis not.
Shall one hour's act make slaves of all our years?
I will command each day. If wrath's above me,
I'll bide it: let it fall. But while I've life
I'll live. I still will do. Naught done shall shake me.
I was myself then when I did that deed:
Now I'm myself and mistress of the hour.
Count.
Have done—have done.—Bertha, I have a hope.
Countess.
What hope?
61
Klebel.
Countess.
Klebel?
Count.
What answer made he?
Will he come? I must see him.
Countess.
Klebel's dead.
Count.
Ha!—No: dead!—He's not dead: he would not die.
That were too much.—Ah!—
Countess.
And with my fear
Is buried all my hate of him.—Rouse ye
From this unmanly stupor. I'm a woman,
And therefore privileg'd to whine; yet I
Should scorn myself, if having chose my part,
I blench'd at ghosts of the successful act.
Count.
Bertha, by our first loves, I do conjure thee—
Tell me,—now truly tell me,—is he dead?
Countess.
If a base villain's mocking threats can stir me
To quit me of a life which perils mine;
If gold can hire sure hands to do my bidding:
And poison's function be not spent, he is.
Count.
Monster, hide thee, lest nature's visage pale
At sight of so much sin, and all things feminine
Deny their sex in horror of thy deeds.
Thou art some hideous demon banish'd Hell
For thy too devilish doings.—O! just Heaven,
Wherefore was I with such a creature mated?
Till her I knew I was a crimeless man.
Why was her body not bespotted foul
In concord with her hearts' black loathsomeness,
That men might shun her as of God accurs'd?
62
Language has not yet coin'd the words to name thee.
In the wide universe thou stood'st alone,
Till with thy serpent wiles thou snaredst me.
Since that malignant hour my soul has wither'd;
Nature's sweet sap has ceas'd to flow within me,
My senses apoplext, and shifting thought,
Which brings to healthy man from outward things
Such various food, to cheer and fortify,
In me is fixt in inward contemplation,
Till my drear mind is mad by staring at
Its own deformity. Now hear me, Heaven!
Is't true there's virtue in the upright's blessing—
Let then be potent too the wicked's curse.
Countess.
Ah! Do not curse me.
Count.
Grant me one full moment.
Let the lost vigor of my deathlike life
Centre in th' instant, my long-palsied tongue
Burst its blank silence with core-blighting words,
While in her ear I howl a husband's curse.
Hurl me as here I stand into Hell's deep,
If in one gaze I may coil my life's torture,
And parting strike her with a blasting look.
—Ah! What have I done?—She is my wife:
Our breath has mingled in confiding sleep:
We've joy'd together o'er an infant's birth.
I do unsay my words: would I could pray.—
Bertha, we will not part: but let us go.
The earth is tir'd of us: our graves are ready
They're side by side. Come, come, we're waited for.
(Exit.)
63
(Alone.)
I had not thought to see this day. Ah me!
Bend, O! bend, my proud will, lest I be crush'd.
There have been instants when a spot of light
Has twinkled fore me beckoning as 'twould save,
But quickly it was swallow'd in thick gloom.
O! whence should come to me a gleam of hope?
I've forfeited humanity's first right.
Have I a soul?—The soul they say dies not.
Then may it purge itself.—I will begin.
Henceforth I'll be as though this stubborn body
With all its greedy wants were not.—Ill try.
(As in going off she raises her eyes they rest on Klebel who has just entered.)
Klebel!
Klebel.
Is this your welcome of a friend?
Countess.
Rather than here would we had met in Hell.
Klebel.
That's not a place for us to speak of.
Countess.
(Aside.)
Villain.
Klebel.
I am not come t' upbraid you. We'll leave quarrelling
To those who've naught to lose. Yet 'twas not grateful.
Countess.
You shall be satisfied; but leave me now.
Klebel.
You know me for a man will not be balkt.
Countess.
But a few moments, and I'll meet you here.
Klebel.
Let them be few, for I must hence to-night.
(Exit.)
Countess.
(Alone.)
Who dares to call me guilty?
I but heave
64
To fend me 'gainst man's selfish God-arm'd might.
What a soft fool was I just now. Bold villain,
I thank thee—thou hast made me whole again.
But say thy prayers.—O! how the prompt spirits leap,
When the brac'd mind is set for utmost action.
Wo to who stay me. I sway Ruin's scythe.
I'll mount Death's horse and gallop to my end.
Spring to my side again, Hate, Fear, Revenge,
And lash me if I flag. And ye, black Powers,
That prowl the earth scenting for mischief, aid me.
Wher'ere on this huge rack we call the earth,
Strong men, o'ercome by fortune, gasp in death,
With desperate deeds unfinish'd, haste ye, and beg them
Make me the heir to all their frustrate hopes,
That piling their great wrongs on mine, I may
Stride to my purpose dress in grimmest terrors.—
Enough of words: acts now.
(Exit.)
SCENE III.
The Same.Enter Ada.
Mad—mad:—O! dear old man. O! such a sight
I shall be swallow'd in this great wreck's whirl.
The earth had just begun to smile,—and now
A gulf yawns near me. What shuddering accents
Break from his soul:—I dare not listen to them.
(Enter Rupert.)
Ah! Rupert!
65
My dear Ada! what hast thou?
Ada.
My uncle!
Rupert.
Well, how fares he?
Ada.
Worse and worse.
O! his soul bleeds to death: naught can now stanch it.
His mind is rushing out, and with it come
Such terrible revelations. Even to you
I cannot speak of what his frenzy utter'd.
Rupert.
Thou need'st not: I know all. Be comforted.
The root of his long ill I'll pluck away:
I'll quell his raging fever with a word.
His nephew, whose plann'd murder racks his soul,
Was from th' assassin's clutches snatcht, and lives.
Ada.
O! blessed word. O! Joy has chose thy tongue
For his bright harbinger.
Rupert.
Still swell thy joy,
For know,—what I've just learnt,—I am that nephew.
Ada.
Thou!
Rupert.
For our joy at this discovery
We will hereafter find rich utterance.
Time presses now, and I have much to act.
Ada.
The Countess, knows she of all this?
Rupert.
Not yet.
Nor must not for a time, till are devis'd
Sure means to baffle her worst will. Now part we,
I'll seek you soon again.
Ada.
O! day of wonders.
(Exit.)
Rupert.
(Alone.)
And now to Rudolf; 'tis our time of meeting.
66
How apt the parting; else had my chaf'd blood
Wreakt a remorseful vengeance for that insult.
He's weak of fence, and when I have disarm'd him—
Which easily I shall, he cannot choose
But hear me.
(Exit.)
SCENE IV.
Enter Klebel.Would I were hence. I like not her last look.
'Twas a rash step to come. O! what gross dolts,
To lend ourselves the tools of others' passions.
We who're at best the victims of our own.
Dare she, she'll slake her hate in my heart's blood.
Herein I lack of her fierce quality,
Else had I prosper'd better.—Ha! Count Rudolf.
(Enter Rudolf.)
Rudolf.
The bold intruder:—if alive he 'scape—
Klebel.
Ah! my fears. (As Rudolf is going off he seizes his arm)
Whither so fast, Count Rudolf?
Rudolf.
Villain, unhand me.
Klebel.
Villain! on this spot
Who dares to call me villain?
Rudolf.
Wretch, what mean you?
Klebel.
If I'm a villain with what fouler word
Shall I your mother stamp?
Rudolf.
My mother!
Klebel.
Aye.
Of that dark crime the lesser part was mine;
The uglier half was hers.
67
Shameless liar!
Thy slanderous tongue has hiss'd its last black lie.
Hence from the earth to seek thy mates in hell.
Klebel.
Hold back—thou'rt young—thou know'st not what a fury
Governs a desperate man.
Rudolf.
But thou shalt know
What wrath wakes in a slander'd mother's son.
(They fight, Rudolf falls behind the scenes.)
O! I'm slain.
Klebel.
(Staggering in.)
Blood at last.—I'm sorely wounded.
O! what an end!
(Sinks on the ground.)
Countess.
(Behind the scenes.)
Where, where is he?
Klebel.
Ha! 'tis she.
Countess.
(Rushes in with Rudolf's sword in her hand.)
Ha! Caitiff—blood-hound—Hast thou but one life?
A hundred could not feed my vast revenge.
Take thy last pang from me, thou faithless dog.
(Stabs him.)
Klebel.
My curses on you.—I have breath—to tell you—
The child—I spar'd him—he lives.
Rudolf.
(Behind the scenes.)
Mother! O! Mother!
Countess.
Ah! (Rushes out.)
68
SCENE V.
Enter Rupert, Ada, Nurse, Albrecht, and Attendants.Rupert.
Rudolf slain!—who lies here?
Albrecht.
'Tis he, 'tis Klebel.
Nurse.
Klebel!
Albrecht.
It must be he that slew Count Rudolf,
And has in turn from him receiv'd his death.
Klebel.
From the Countess. (Dies.)
Albrecht.
Ha!— (He approaches Klebel.)
He'll never speak again.
(A shriek heard behind the scenes.)
Rupert.
Whence came that cry?
(Enter a female Attendant.)
Attendant.
O! horror! O! the Countess!
Rupert.
What of her?
Attendant.
She is dead, Ere we could stay her
She struck her bosom with a sword she held,
And falling on Count Rudolf's corpse, she died.
Rupert.
In this Heav'n speaks its doom with awful voice.
Death strikes here like a wrath-enchaf'd avenger,
Amazing our weak souls with ghastly sights!—
Unto these prostrate ones we will perform,
With thoughts unquestioning, our human duties:
And then, the rites of sepulture discharg'd,
Of these raz'd walls we'll make to them a tomb:
That jocund life the blood-stain'd spot may shun
And gloomy silence dwell here evermore.
69
Count Julian.
The child—the child—where, where?
Rupert.
Here, Uncle, here.
Count Julian.
(Perceives the body of Klebel and goes up to it inquiringly.)
Klebel!
Rupert.
O! Uncle, wilt thou not embrace me?
Count Julian.
(Turns to Rupert with a look of recognition.)
Ha, ha, ha. (Totters up to Rupert and dies at his feet.)
Rupert.
His heart is still.—Too soon for my forgiveness.
Speed it with his flown spirit to that dread court
Where he will stand for judgment; and if there
A mortal's wish may find admittance, let it,
Eternal Judge, plead with his penitence.
(Curtain falls.)
| Count Julian | |