Count Julian

by Walter Savage Landor

ACT II. SCENE 1.

Camp of Julian.

Julian and Covilla.

Jul. Obdurate! I am not as I appear.
Weep, my beloved child, Covilla weep
Into my bosom; every drop be mine
Of this most bitter soul-empoisoning cup:
Into no other bosom than thy father’s
Canst thou, or wouldst thou, pour it.

Cov. Cease, my lord,
My father, angel of my youth, when all
Was innocence and peace—

Jul. Arise, my love,
Look up to heaven—where else are souls like thine!
Mingle in sweet communion with its children,
Trust in its providence, its retribution,
And I will cease to mourn; for, O my child,
These tears corrode, but thine assuage the heart.

Cov. And never shall I see my mother too,
My own, my blessed mother!

Jul. Thou shalt see
Her and thy brothers.

Cov. No! I cannot look
On them, I cannot meet their lovely eyes,
I cannot lift mine up from under theirs.
We all were children when they went away,
They now have fought hard battles, and are men,
And camps and kings they know, and woes and crimes.
Sir, will they never venture from the walls
Into the plain? Remember, they are young,
Hardy and emulous and hazardous,
And who is left to guard them in the town?

Jul. Peace is throughout the land: the various tribes
Of that vast region, sink at once to rest,
Like one wide wood when every wind lies hush’d.

Cov. And war, in all its fury, roams o’er Spain!

Jul. Alas! and will for ages: crimes are loose
At which ensanguined War stands shuddering;
And calls for vengeance from the powers above,
Impatient of inflicting it himself.
Nature, in these new horrors, is aghast
At her own progeny, and knows them not.
I am the minister of wrath; the hands
That tremble at me, shall applaud me too,
And seal their condemnation.

Cov. O kind father,
Pursue the guilty, but remember Spain.

Jul. Child, thou wert in thy nursery short time since,
And latterly hast past the vacant hour
Where the familiar voice of history
Is hardly known, however nigh, attuned
In softer accents to the sickened ear;
But thou hast heard, for nurses tell these tales,
Whether I drew my sword for Witiza
Abandoned by the people he betrayed,
Tho’ brother to the woman who of all
Was ever dearest to this broken heart,
Till thou, my daughter, wert a prey to grief,
And a brave country brooked the wrongs I bore.
For I had seen Rusilla guide the steps
Of her Theodofred, when burning brass
Plunged its fierce fang into the founts of light,
And Witiza’s the guilt! when, bent with age,
He knew the voice again, and told the name,
Of those whose proffer’d fortunes had been laid
Before his throne, while happiness was there,
And strain’d the sightless nerve tow’rds where they stood
At the forced memory of the very oaths
He heard renewed from each—but heard afar,
For they were loud, and him the throng spurn’d off.

Cov. Who were all these?

Jul. All who are seen to-day.
On prancing steeds richly caparisoned
In loyal acclamation round Roderigo;
Their sons beside them, loving one another
Unfeignedly, thro’ joy, while they themselves
In mutual homage mutual scorn suppress.
Their very walls and roofs are welcoming
The King’s approach, their storied tapestry
Swells its rich arch for him triumphantly
At every clarion blowing from below.

Cov. Such wicked men will never leave his side.

Jul. For they are insects which see nought beyond
Where they now crawl; whose changes are complete,
Unless of habitation.

Cov. Whither go
Creatures, unfit for better, or for worse?

Jul. Some to the grave—where peace be with them—some
Across the Pyrenean mountains far,
Into the plains of France; suspicion there
Will hang on every step from rich and poor,
Grey quickly-glancing eyes will wrinkle round
And courtesy will watch them, day and night.
Shameless they are, yet will they blush, amidst
A nation that ne’er blushes: some will drag
The captive’s chain, repair the shattered bark,
Or heave it, from a quicksand, to the shore,
Among the marbles on the Lybian coast;
Teach patience to the lion in his cage,
And, by the order of a higher slave,
Hold to the elephant their scanty fare
To please the children while the parent sleeps.

Cov. Spaniards? must they, dear father, lead such lives?

Jul. All are not Spaniards who draw breath in Spain,
Those are, who live for her, who die for her,
Who love her glory and lament her fall.
O may I too—

Cov. —But peacefully, and late,
Live and die here!

Jul. I have, alas! myself
Laid waste the hopes where my fond fancy strayed,
And view their ruins with unaltered eyes.

Cov. My mother will at last return to thee.
Might I, once more, but—could I now! behold her.
Tell her—ah me! what was my rash desire?
No, never tell her these inhuman things,
For they would waste her tender heart away
As they waste mine; or tell where I have died,
Only to show her that her every care
Could not have saved, could not have comforted;
That she herself, clasping me once again
To her sad breast, had said, Covilla! go,
Go, hide them in the bosom of thy God.
Sweet mother! that far-distant voice I hear,
And, passing out of youth and out of life,
I would not turn at last, and disobey.

ACT II. SCENE 2.

Sisabert enters.

Sis. Uncle, and is it true, say, can it be,
That thou art leader of these faithless Moors?
That thou impeachest thy own daughter’s fame
Thro’ the whole land, to seize upon the throne
By the permission of these recreant slaves?
What shall I call thee? art thou, speak Count Julian,
A father, or a soldier, or a man?

Jul. All—or this day had never seen me here.

Sis. O falsehood! worse than woman’s!

Cov. Once, my cousin,
Far gentler words were uttered from your lips;
If you loved me, you loved my father first,
More justly and more steddily, ere love
Was passion and illusion and deceit.

Sis. I boast not that I never was deceived,
Covilla, which beyond all boasts were base,
Nor that I never loved; let this be thine.
Illusions! just to stop us, not delay,
Amuse, not occupy!—too true! when love
Scatters its brilliant foam, and passes on
To some fresh object in its natural course,
Widely and openly and wanderingly,
’Tis better! narrow it, and it pours its gloom
In one fierce cataract that stuns the soul.
Ye hate the wretch ye make so, while ye choose
Whoever knows you best and shuns you most.

Cov. Shun me then: be beloved, more and more.
Honour the hand that showed you honour first,
Love—O my father! speak, proceed, persuade,
Thy voice alone can utter it—another.

Sis. Ah lost Covilla! can a thirst of power
Alter thy heart, thus, to abandon mine,
And change my very nature at one blow.

Cov. I told you, dearest Sisabert, ’twas vain
To urge me more, to question, or confute.

Sis. I know it—for another wears the crown
Of Witiza my father; who succeeds
To king Roderigo will succeed to me.
Yet thy cold perfidy still calls me dear,
And o’er my aching temples breathes one gale
Of days departed to return no more.

Jul. Young man, avenge our cause.

Sis. What cause avenge?

Cov. If I was ever dear to you, hear me.
Not vengeance; Heaven will give that signal soon.
O Sisabert, the pangs I have endured
On your long absence—

Sis. Will be now consoled.
Thy father comes to mount my father’s throne;
But though I would not an usurper king,
I prize his valour and defend his crown:
No stranger, and no traitor, rules o’er me,
Or unchastized inveigles humbled Spain.
Covilla, gavest thou no promises?
Nor thou, Don Julian? Seek not to reply—
Too well I know, too justly I despise,
Thy false excuse, thy coward effrontery;
Yes, when thou gavest them across the sea,
An enemy wert thou to Mahomet,
And no appellant to his faith or leagues.

Jul. ’Tis well: a soldier hears, throughout, in silence.
I urge no answer: to those words, I fear,
Thy heart with sharp compunction will reply.

[Sisabert, to Covilla.

Sis. Then I demand of thee, before thou reign,
Answer me, while I fought against the Frank
Who dared to sue thee? blazon’d in the court,
Trailed not thro’ darkness, were our nuptial bands;
No: Egilona join’d our hands herself,
The peers applauded, and the king approved.

Jul. Hast thou yet seen that king since thy return?

Cov. Father! O father!

Sis. I will not implore
Of him or thee what I have lost for ever,
These were not, when we parted, thy alarms;
Far other, and far worthier of thy heart
Were they! which Sisabert could banish then!
Fear me not, now, Covilla! thou hast changed,
I am changed too—I lived but where thou livedst,
My very life was portioned off from thine.
Upon the surface of thy happiness
Day after day, I gazed, I doated—there
Was all I had, was all I coveted,
So pure, serene, and boundless, it appear’d:
Yet, for we told each other every thought,
Thou knowest well, if thou rememberest,
At times I fear’d; as tho’ some demon sent
Suspicion without form into the world,
To whisper unimaginable things;
Then thy fond arguing banished all but hope,
Each wish, and every feeling, was with thine,
Till I partook thy nature, and became
Credulous, and incredulous, like thee.
We, who have met so alter’d, meet no more.

[Takes her hand.

Mountains and seas! ye are not separation—
Death! thou dividest, but unitest too,
In everlasting peace and faith sincere.
Confiding love! where is thy resting-place!
Where is thy truth, Covilla! where? [32]—go, go,
I should adore thee and believe thee still.

[Sisabert goes.

Cov. O Heaven! support me, or desert me quite,
And leave me lifeless this too trying hour!
He thinks me faithless.

Jul. He must think thee so.

Cov. O tell him, tell him all, when I am dead—
He will die, too, and we shall meet again.
He will know all when these sad eyes are closed.
Ah cannot he before! must I appear
The vilest!—O just Heaven! can it be thus?
I am—all earth resounds it—lost, despised,
Anguish and shame unutterable seize me.
’Tis palpable—no phantom, no delusion,
No dream that wakens with overwhelming horror;
Spaniard and Moor fight on this ground alone,
And tear the arrow from my bleeding breast
To pierce my father’s, for alike they fear.

Jul. Invulnerable now, and unassail’d
Are we, alone perhaps of human kind,
Nor life allures us more, nor death alarms.

Cov. Fallen, unpitied, unbelieved, unheard!
I should have died long earlier: gracious God!
Desert me to my sufferings, but sustain
My faith in, thee! O hide me from the world,
And from thyself, my father, from thy fondness,
That opened in this wilderness of woe
A source of tears that else had burst my heart,
Setting me free for ever—then perhaps
A cruel war had not divided Spain,
Had not o’erturned her cities and her altars,
Had not endanger’d thee! O haste afar
Ere the last dreadful conflict that decides
Whether we live beneath a foreign sway—

Jul. Or under him whose tyranny brought down
The curse upon his people. O child! child!
Urge me no further, talk not of the war,
Remember not our country.

Cov. Not remember!
What have the wretched else for consolation,
What else have they who pining feed their woe?
Can I, or should I, drive from memory
All that was dear and sacred, all the joys
Of innocence and peace; when no debate
Was in the convent, but what hymn, whose voice,
To whom among the blessed it arose,
Swelling so sweet; when rang the vesper-bell
And every finger ceased from the guitar,
And every tongue was silent through our land;
When, from remotest earth, friends met again
Hung on each other’s neck, and but embraced,
So sacred, still, and peaceful, was the hour.
Now, in what climate of the wasted world,
Not unmolested long by the profane,
Can I pour forth in secrecy to God
My prayers and my repentance? where beside
Is the last solace of the parting soul?
Friends, brethren, parents—dear indeed, too dear,
Are they, but somewhat still the heart requires
That it may leave them lighter, and more blest.

Jul. Wide are the regions of our far-famed land:
Thou shalt arrive at her remotest bounds,
See her best people, choose some holiest house—
Whether where Castro [35] from surrounding vines
Hears the hoarse ocean roar among his caves,
And, thro’ the fissure in the green church-yard,
The wind wail loud the calmest summer day;
Or where Santona leans against the hill,
Hidden from sea and land by groves and bowers.

Cov. O! for one moment, in those pleasant scenes
Thou placest me, and lighter air I breathe;
Why could I not have rested, and heard on!
Thy voice dissolves the vision quite away,
Outcast from virtue, and from nature too!

Jul. Nature and virtue!—they shall perish first.
God destined them for thee, and thee for them,
Inseparably and eternally!
The wisest and the best will prize thee most,
And solitudes and cities will contend
Which shall receive thee kindliest; sigh not so—
Violence and fraud will never penetrate
Where piety and poverty retire,
Intractable to them, and valueless,
And look’d at idly, like the face of heaven,
If strength be wanted for security,
Mountains the guard, forbidding all approach
With iron-pointed and uplifted gates,
Thou wilt be welcome too in Aguilar—[36]
Impenetrable, marble-turreted,
Surveying from aloft the limpid ford,
The massy fane, the sylvan avenue—
Whose hospitality I proved myself,
A willing leader in no impious war
When fame and freedom urged me—or mayst dwell
In Reÿnosas dry and thriftless dale,
Unharvested beneath October moons,
Amongst those frank and cordial villagers.
They never saw us, and, poor simple souls!
So little know they whom they call the great—
Would pity one another less than us
In injury, disaster, or distress.

Cov. But they would ask each other whence our grief,
That they might pity?

Jul. Rest then just beyond,
In the secluded scenes where Ebro springs
And drives not from his fount the fallen leaf,
So motionless and tranquil its repose.

Cov. Thither let us depart, and speedily.

Jul. I cannot go: I live not in the land
I have reduced beneath such wretchedness:
And who could leave the brave, whose lives and fortunes
Hang on his sword?

Cov. Me canst thou leave, my father?
Ah. yes, for it is past; too well thou seest
My life and fortunes rest not upon thee.
Long, happily,—could it be gloriously!—
Still mayst thou live, and save thy country still!

Jul. Unconquerable land! unrivalled race!
Whose bravery, too enduring, rues alike
The power and weakness of accursed kings—
How cruelly hast thou neglected me!
Forcing me from thee, never to return,
Nor in thy pangs and struggles to partake!
I hear a voice—’tis Egilona—come,
Recall thy courage, dear unhappy girl,
Let us away.