 | Count Julian |  |
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.
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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?
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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?
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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.)
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(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
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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.)
| Count Julian | |