University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

A Room in the Castle at Yveloc.
Eliduke alone.
Eli.
O cherub-featured fiend, unholy love,
Thou train'st my soul astray! Where can I fly,
The image of Estreldis more prevailing
In my soul's vision than things sensible
To the outward faculty? With the thin air
I suck in passion, and the still noontide
Seems heavy with her memory. Vaunted absence
Doth but digest this searching draught of passion
Into my changed soul's substance. That slow liking
In my green days I felt for Castabel
Was but a fire that under the hot sun
Of real love has smouldered into ashes
And died away. The words, “sweet Castabel,”
Bring but the smile upon Estreldis' lips.
From her endearments and the soft grasp of her arms
I shrink in terror, they accord so ill
With my changed heart. Oh, I can stand no more;
Beneath this load of love my virtue breaks!
I'll back to Cornwall. I am bound by oath,
And must not break it. Ay, that virtue's easy
That sits with inclination. It ill becomes me,
That to my virtuous wife intend this wrong,
To breathe the name of virtue. 'Tis like one
That with a bought kiss on his unwashed lips
Tastes his chaste mistress' breath. Alas, sweet wife!
Dear loving heart! kind angel Castabel!
I well remember, when I went away,
She kissed my lips, and said, “Dear love, be true!”
And I have been most false.

Rol.
(within).
In here, d'ye say?

Servant
(within).
That door, my lord.

Eli.
Here comes the noble Roland.
I dare not call him friend that go about
To make him hate me deadly.

Enter Roland.
Rol.
Good day, my lord;
You sent me word that you would speak with me.

Eli.
(aside).
And know not what to say.

Rol.
So sad? still sad?
Why do you keep this melancholy brow?

Eli.
I'll tell you why. What think you of my state?

Rol.
As of a man's who holds in his full grasp
All mortal heart can covet. Fame adorns you;
For, like a hunter, you have run her down,
And bear her spoils about you. Fortune aids you,
And through the currents of a soldier's life
Hath steered you into safety. You have riches,
Health, and, to crown the whole, a wondrous wife,
Whose sole possession should, lacking all else,
Out of the heart of misery pluck content.

Eli.
Let be awhile. I'll show you what my state is.
D'ye see this ring that sits upon my finger,
Wreathed of bright gold, and by the curious framer
Chased and embossed with various workmanship,—
What credits most his art,—yet this alone
Makes not its value. 'Tis this diamond,
Whose sparkling eye set in the front of it
Riches and graces the circumference.
I'm such a ring,
Bright in my reputation, wrought by Fortune;
But the rare gem, without whose clear adornment
All is but marr'd, the sole essential,
The jewel of my happiness, I lack.

Rol.
Why, that should be your wife.

Eli.
Should be, and is not.

Rol.
And is not!

Eli.
Oh, mistake me not; she is
All excellence, and I might safelier
Chide at the angels than find fault in her:
And yet she's not this jewel.

Rol.
Why, what is then?

Eli.
To win it, I must cast away my wife;
To win it, I must cast away mine honour,
Tread virtue down, your friendship and opinion
(Which I protest I hold most sovereign)
Break and throw by, bar up the gates of heaven,
Fellow with infamy, and be indeed
The co-mate of contempt and ignominy.

Rol.
I'm glad you lack it, then.

Eli.
And I for it
Would fling to air this idle reputation,
Forget my home, give up my dearest friends,
Barter mine honour, break mine honesty,
Go hand in hand with shame, and for this pottage
Would sell my dear inheritance in heaven;—
I would, and will.

Rol.
Why then you are not virtuous;
And yet I know you do but jest with me.

Eli.
Whom call you virtuous?

Rol.
Him whose good acts
Tread close on his intents,—these virtuous.
Good deeds with bad intent are wickedness,
And good intents unacted ciphers merely.

Eli.
But by the standard of his good intent
You shall mete out the man. Oh, what low aims
Distract the common world! Here sensual good
Stands throned,—a beast, a goddess. Idiot throngs,
Yet more insensate than their painted filth,
Barter their intellect for barren gold,
Prouder to handle earth than tread in heaven.
Here weakness lifts a puny passing arm,
Making a clutch at slippery command,
Ill 'titled power.
And there's another end fond men call virtuous,
A selfish striving for a seat in heaven;—
Casting the odds up;—“Here's an hour of pleasure;
Why that's soon over, and the self-denial
Will bring more bliss in heaven; let it go;”—
Driving a penny bargain with their God,
Sound-headed saints! Oh, there's a higher end,
A deeper spring of action, to please Heaven;
To fix our love, our hopes, our exultations
Only in the approving eye of God;
And he's most virtuous whose high-lifted soul
Fosters the loftiest thoughts and noblest ends;
He's the true man.

Rol.
You're wrong; for that's a gift,
Measured by the discerning hand of Heaven.
He's the true man
That, with whatever seed high Heaven hath sown him,
So tends and cultivates his springing soul,
So digs about it with true resolution,
So waters it with penitential tears,
That it spreads forth a worthy flower of action,
Best of his kind, though from a richer soil
A brighter blossom springs. He's the true man,
That, having weighed by his best faculties
What's worthiest in his poor estimation,
Fixes a steadfast eye on that alone,
And by its aid treads the thin verge of virtue
Over the giddy world. Imaginations
Wanting a steadfast purpose are but stars
To the vexed eye of the storm-shattered sailor
Left rudderless upon the wayward waves.
Noble desires, unless filled up by action,
Are but a shell of gold, hollow within.

Eli.
I'm wrong, my lord, indeed. Oh, less unworthy
Are sacrifices made with unwashed hands,
Than lofty thoughts and high imaginations
With an untutored heart. Such men there are
Who, bearing dazzling prospects on their tongues,—
Ay, in their hearts too,—yet in act fall from them,
And forge a weapon for the hands of fools
To strike at virtue.—Such a man am I!

Rol.
Either you jest, or else you fail in health,
And falling short of your high-pitched desire,
As all men must, your sick distempered fancy
Paints you in these bad colours, ill deserved.

Eli.
You'll not believe, because you are yourself
Pillared in honesty. I must to Cornwall.

Rol.
To Cornwall?

Eli.
Ay, my lord; bound by an oath.

Rol.
Some quarrel, then? Have you an enemy?

Eli.
Ay, and a fatal.

Rol.
And hath wronged you?

Eli.
Foully.

Rol.
Why, then I'll help you kill him.

Eli.
Draw, and do so!
Strike here! For I am my worst enemy,
And foully go about to wrong myself.

Rol.
You're mad, sure. Tell me! What's this heinous act
You feign to contemplate?

Eli.
If I should tell you,
You'd strike me dead.

Rol.
Listen to me, my lord!
If there be such an act as this you name,
And you in earnest to go through with it
(Which I'll not think until I see the proof of't
Written in shame upon you), we no longer
Are friends, but stand estranged. Nay, pardon me,
If your sad face makes me believe you serious,
That all the while are mocking.

Eli.
I am serious;
But if I do this act shall never more
Look in your eyes, or see my native land.
By this night's tide I quit the Bretagne shore,
Prepared, if't be for ever.

Rol.
And your wife?

Eli.
Why, think me dead, and marry her yourself!

Rol.
He's mad! I'll hear no more!

[Exit.
Eli.
Go, honest man!
And thou, lost slave of passion, to thy work!
I'll do it! I'll do't! Conscience, I hear thy voice,
That with an eloquent trumpet shak'st my soul.
“Thou dost betray thyself.” I know I do.
“And in this sin stiflest those aspirations
That outsoared common mortals' pitch of virtue.”
I know I do, and thence the greater villain.
There is no murderer so foul and stained
That he can match with me, and yet I'll do't!
Walter shall go with me; he is light-hearted;
Scoffs too at women, and makes light of love:
He will not read this act's enormity.
And yet I know not; I think Harry's death
Sticks in his throat yet. Well, I'll move him to't.
The sun drops down; I must aboard to-night.
Estreldis, from thy Cornish coast look over,
And thou shalt see, gilt with the rising sun,
A bark deep laden with love upon the sea.
Thy true affection shall— Stop! what if she
Should prove as false—as I to Castabel?
Ha!
Oh, room for my swoln heart! I suffocate!
Terrible retribution and most fitting,
If I, that have used falsehood to obtain her,
Should find her false to me! I think she will be.
Yet she believes me true. Alas! if she
Should find how false a beast she hath preferred
Into her heart, I should indeed become
The castaway of scorn.

[Exit.