 | Count Julian |  |
5
ACT I.
SCENE I.
A Room in the Castle.Ada. Nurse.
Ada.
You say Count Julian was not always thus?
Nurse.
When he was young no face was joyfuller.
Ada.
My books would teach me, how, what are at first
The dimpled shadows of a sunny smile,
Harden with years to delving wrinkles; and
I almost feel 'tis so. I laugh not, Nurse,
So much as I was wont.
Nurse.
Why dost thou not?
Ada.
I know not why. And yet, I would not think
My best of happiness is past. I'd rather
Take from the present than I'd lose my dreams
Of coming good by thinking them but cheats.
Nurse.
Think them not so; nor judge the world by what
This sad house shows.
Ada.
And if I would, I could not.
The vision of my broad-wing'd hopes I'll trust
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What if Count Rudolf too grow melancholy,
My glad imaginings will hardly keep
Their promises.
Nurse.
'Tis certain then he weds thee?
Ada.
My aunt has always told me so.
Nurse.
Has he
Yet spoken of his love?
Ada.
To me he has not,
But to the Countess often.
Nurse.
Would'st thou not
He spake himself?
Ada.
'Tis little that I have
To answer to his mother when she talks
Of marriage to me. My unpractis'd thoughts
Would scarce find words for him. I would he were
My brother.
Nurse.
O! I wish he were.
Ada.
Why, Nurse,
Thou say'st that with so sad a voice. It was
A childish thought.
Nurse.
Thou art a child no longer.
Ada.
Thou fright'st me. Do not speak so solemnly.
I still may be a child with thee; for thou
Didst always joy so in my childishness,
That ever when these gloomy walls have spoilt
My lonely play, I've sought thee to renew
Glad thoughts.
Nurse.
Sweet child! How thou dost drive away
All sadness from me. O! thus wert thou ever.
Thyself didst make the thoughts wherewith I met
Thy sportiveness or lulled thy little griefs.
I am thy servant only, Ada—
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Oh!
Thou art my mother. Thou hast nurs'd me, lov'd me,
Watch'd me to sleep; and when I've woke, thy eyes,
As though they'd known no rest, still gazed upon me,
Waiting to lead me through each playful day.
But tell me,—thou hast promis'd me thou would'st,—
What threw me on thy tending? What mischance,
Whose peril thy kind love has turn'd aside,
Made me an orphan e'er I'd known the voice
Of father, mother?
Nurse.
Thine was but, alas!
The lot of many, whose bereavement crowds
The world with misery. Thy father fell
In battle, and thy mother died of grief
For him.
Ada.
O! my poor mother!
Nurse.
Thou wert then
An unwean'd infant, sleeping by her side.
‘Margaret,’ she whisper'd me, ‘Thou'lt love my child?’
'Twas her last breath,—and when thou wok'st, thou cried'st,
To see me weeping over thee.
Ada.
And thou
Hast lov'd me, dearly as I'd been thine own.
Nurse.
The Countess, thy brave father's sister, was
Thy natural guardian. Hither she did bring thee
Under her husband's roof to rear thee up
And be a playmate to their son. Thou cam'st
Unto a mournful house.
Ada.
The sudden death
Of the Count's nephew—
Nurse.
Hist! thou must not speak
Of that.
8
Ha! wherefore not?
Nurse.
I know not wherefore; but
When once, years afterward, I spoke of it,
The Countess sternly chid me, bidding me
Be silent, with such chilling cloudiness,
That since, the recollection of that night
Has weigh'd upon my mind more gloomily.
Ada.
What night?
Nurse.
When the poor child was lost.
Ada.
Was lost?
Nurse.
One stormy evening he was miss'd. About
The battlements the wind drove sheets of rain,
Muffling the Castle bell, whose boding rattle
Summon'd the household. All that night and days
And weeks thereafter sought we for him vainly.
Since that the Count has ne'er been seen to smile.
But hither comes the Countess. What I've told thee
Bury it, Ada, in thy secret thoughts.
Enter Countess.
Countess.
My son not yet return'd? 'Tis not his wont
To stay abroad so long. The night falls fast
Upon the forest. Margaret, go, and learn
Whom he took with him to the hunt.
(Exit Nurse.)
I do
Dread ever some calamity when from
Their even course events turn off.
Ada.
Dear aunt,
Your fears are surely idle. Rudolf's prompt
And wary, and rides always well attended.
Nor time nor distance heeds the hunter. Hours
Leap through the day, the stag's fleet footsteps being
9
To turn him homeward. Then, with slacken'd pace,
He measures back in weariness the path
He sped o'er in the morning buoyantly.
Countess.
To reason, Ada, thy suggestion's sound,
And for a brief half hour at least I will
Subject to it perforce a mother's fears,
Albeit unus'd to reason's mastery.
'Tis meet that thou should'st comfort me, my Ada,
For through thee comes in part my anxiousness.
Ada.
What mean you, aunt?
Countess.
Why is of late my son
So much addicted to these out-door sports?
Ada.
If not from nimbleness and strength of youth
That seek to spend themselves in manly games,
I know not truly.
Countess.
'Tis not this alone,
Dear Ada, that thus sends my Rudolf daily
Abroad for entertainment. Blood that stirs
The quickest yields most gently to love's influence;
And when a true affection meets cold answer—
Ada.
I am not cold to Rudolf, aunt. For if
I were 't would be a thankless disobedience
To thy desires 'gainst both my love and duty.
Countess.
Sweet Ada, thou art apt as gentle, and
In thee is apprehension quick to light
Compliant will. Therefore, let thy consent
(Whose ready willingness gives my long wishes
A keener edge at once and livelier hope)
Be grac'd with such concurring speech and bearing,
That the thick doubts that now perplex my son
May melt, and leave free to the lightsome joys
Of trusting love his heart.
10
I will in all
Obey you, madam.
(A hunting horn heard.)
Countess.
'Tis Rudolf's horn, and never
Was welcomer its ever welcome sound.
Its blast, methinks, is livelier than is wont.
Or is it but my ear, attun'd, my Ada,
By thy sweet words that gives to it a music.
SCENE II.
Countess. Ada. Rudolf and Rupert.(Enter Rudolf followed by Rupert.)
Countess.
Shall I not chide thee, Rudolf?
Rudolf.
That I'm late?
Thank first this my brave comrade, that I'm here
With life.
Countess, Ada.
With life?
Rudolf.
Aye, and as much as you
Do hold its worth, so much you owe to him.
Countess.
A mother's thankfulness words cannot speak.
I will but use them, gallant youth, to tell thee,
My thanks shall be in deeds. Command me. What
I have or can, whereby to thee or thine,
Service or comfort may be done, shall be
And is at your disposal. Speak, my son,
The manner of thy danger and deliverance.
Rudolf.
That can I in few words, and yet the telling
Be not so brief as was the acting self.
My followers, their horses spent, were far
11
Urg'd my tir'd steed towards a tangled copse,
Wherein, holding my two best hounds at bay,
A huge boar, panting and blood-sprinkled, stood.
As from my lifted arm sped the true spear,
That for a twelve month had not miss'd its aim,
My hunter falter'd and sank under me.
Untouch'd the madden'd beast shook from his head
The faithful dogs, and furious made at me,
Arm'd only with my sword; when, from a hand
Unseen, a javelin hurl'd, pierc'd his broad flank,
And I, 'stead of the deadly animal,
Met my deliverer.
Ada.
It was bravely done.
Rudolf.
Aye, Ada, and most skilfully.
Countess.
I ne'er
Shall cease to thank you.
Rupert.
Madam, thank me not.
The shaft I shot but as a sportsman. Thanks,
If any, should be to your son from me,
In that he for me sprang the game I sought.
A moment's pause perhaps had chang'd our lots,
Made him the saver, me the sav'd. Such is
The fortune of the chase.
Countess.
As 'tis of life,
Where not our deeds alone, but e'en our wills
Are shap'd oft to their own confounding, and
We're made or marr'd by spiritual circumvention.
Yet thence more precious is the good we snatch.
Wherefore to thee as of our present joy
The instrument we give welcome and thanks
Which time shall ripen. But I do forget
12
Our care will be more grateful than our presence.
They long to praise us for our good housewifery.
(Exeunt Countess and Ada.)
Rudolf.
And now, my more than brother of the chase,
With such refreshment as our this day's toil
Has earn'd,—bracing our strength with liberal cheer,
And smoothing our worn limbs with hunters' sleep,—
Prepare we for the morrow. 'Tis a season
When every day not given to the forest
Is lost to life. The messenger I sent
Has ere this brought his tidings to your home.
Uncumber'd therefore with an anxious thought,
You now are master of your hours. Let's in.
Rupert.
I'll follow you.
(Exit Rudolf.)
(Rupert alone.)
How easily my eye
Takes in the large proportions of these walls.
Such as I've built them in my wondering mind,
Listening unto my father's lov'd discourse
Of halls and towers, fill now my grasping sight
The broad divisions and high parapets
Of this deep-founded castle. Rather seems
Its frowning form the shadow of my thoughts
Than the true fabric which it is. And this
Majestic lady, in whose courtesy
Relives in words the chisel'd grace about her,
With that fair still companion, shedding round
Her beauty tranquilly,—like a fresh star
New hung in Heaven,—scarcely are they strange
Unto my outward sight, so busily
My fancy has been plied with radiant visions.
13
SCENE III.
Enter Count Julian.Count.
(At first not perceiving Rupert.)
My heart can still be glad. O! what a joy,
To feel that I've known joy again. How sweet
Is this revisiting. Thanks—thanks. Yet not
That my sole child is sav'd to me. O! I
Were thankful rather for bereavement. Loss
Takes from my weight which favour heaps. But therefore,
That my shrunk heart hath leapt with its prime life,
And goodness yet hath power to touch me.—Ha!
Arrest this day, young man, in thy time's flight:
Dam up the rushing past with this day's work,
That thence its head thy life-stream's current take.
Make it the parent of thy other days,
That each with a transmitted virtue be
Impregnate. Learn thy might from the one deed.
Thou'st sav'd a human life. On thy arm hung,
With its infinity of consequence,
A fellow's being. Heaven's will seconding,
Thou re-bestow'dst its dearest gift.
Herein thou'rt rarely biest; in opportunity,
And that thou used'st it. In the strong will
That swayed thee to this act of nobleness
There is a potency to make occasions
For good. O! cherish it. And when the fiends
That, hell-commissioned, tend on mortal footsteps,
Watching to bend into a deadly fall
Each faltering, shall lay their poisonous fangs
14
With its erecting virtue bracing thee
Shake loose their blighting hold.—Take a father's thanks.
Rupert.
A father's thankfulness so magnifies
My simple act, that what I've done to me
Now seems less than it should have been. The worth
Your liberal interpretation wakes,
Chides my slow deed which halts so far behind it.
Count.
It is the proper quality of virtue
Unto itself to be unknown. The thought
That stirs to weigh the action's excellence,
Beclouds the very fontal head of good,
That thence no clear flow issues, but a foul,
Incapable to hold the light-dy'd image
Of heaven-descending goodness. When th' effect
Is parcel of the deed, with one same act
The doer gives and grasps; and in th' encounter
Of these two opposites, Virtue, that knows
No double bent, confounded, vanishes.
Rupert.
My ear to its best heedfulness is won,
Hearing respoke the wisdom it is used to,
As with discursive speech and pithy comments
My father sweetens each day's toil-earn'd rest.
Count.
What gives to ag'd discourse its pregnancy
Is mostly the neglected seed, which tells
Of many flowers unpluckt. Thus, early loss
Is sometimes after gain, and age's strength,
Which is in counsel, draws a nourishment
From manhood's impotence. Much of our wisdom
Is but the rattle of deserted shells
Whose kernels scap'd us. We're the fools of Fate,
And even our best knowledge often is
15
Ah! trust not Fate. Would'st ask a Giant aid thee
To heap a load thyself must single bear?
(Enter Ada.)
Ha! Well—what will'st thou?
Ada.
(To Rupert.)
Sir, you're waited for.
The board is spread; and even now you're chid
For absence, in my cousin's thought, who deems,
That from true woodmen, no less quick obedience
Is to the smoking table's summons due,
Than to th' impatient horn, that e'er the sun
Hath touch'd the ready portals of the East,
Hurries from his still bed the dreamy morning.
Rupert.
So happy is the day to me, that I
Forget to note time's ordinate divisions.
Count.
Like Heav'n-approved blessings may its spirit
Hover protective o'er thee. Ada, thou
Dost know our sum of obligation: let
Our welcome freely speak acknowledgment,
And predenote our bounty.
Ada.
Your commands,
My uncle, shall have full obedience. They
Do make free passage to my inclinations.
For with the thought that but for this brave stranger
A wo unspeakable now rent our house,
Gushes the wish to heap upon his head
Of what we through him still possess,—our all
Of happiness,—as much as openest hands
And joyful'st spirits can impart, and he
Receive.
Count.
My child, 'tis well.
(Exit.)
16
My act, e'en now
Common and insignificant, has caught
A beauty from thy words; and art thou what
Thou look'st, must have a value; for a soul
Thus fair could by naught worthless be so touch'd.
Ada.
What suddenly thus moves you?
Rupert.
I have heard,
There is a creed, that this our corporal frame
Is only one of many tenements,
Wherein th' eternal spirit for a time
Resides, in transitory lodgment; and
That in each state of thrall, although subdued
Unto its habitation's quality,
Yet has its glimpses of a former being.
More momentary and untraceable
Than earthly memories, a flash, that strove
To snatch me to the past, but now, as I
Beheld thee, did enwrap my brain in light.
'Tis gone, and vainly in thy visage, whence
It seem'd to break, I seek its birth to trace.
But to your cousin's summons; I shall mar
My welcome, if we further stretch his patience.
| Count Julian | |