Lucile. Earl of Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton Lytton
Took its flight from this world.
ALFRED.
Well, Regret or Remorse,
Which is best?
JOHN.
Why, Regret.
ALFRED.
No; Remorse, Jack, of course:
For the one is related, be sure, to the other.
Regret is a spiteful old maid: but her brother,
Remorse, though a widower certainly, yet
HAS been wed to young Pleasure. Dear Jack, hang Regret!
JOHN.
Bref! you mean, then, to go?
ALFRED.
Bref! I do.
JOHN.
One word … stay!
Are you really in love with Matilda?
ALFRED.
Love, eh?
What a question! Of course.
JOHN.
WERE you really in love
With Madame de Nevers?
ALFRED.
What; Lucile? No, by Jove,
Never REALLY.
JOHN.
She's pretty?
ALFRED.
Decidedly so.
At least, so she was, some ten summers ago.
As soft, and as sallow as Autumn—with hair
Neither black, nor yet brown, but that tinge which the air
Takes at eve in September, when night lingers lone
Through a vineyard, from beams of a slow-setting sun.
Eyes—the wistful gazelle's; the fine foot of a fairy;
And a hand fit a fay's wand to wave—white and airy;
A voice soft and sweet as a tune that one knows.
Something in her there was, set you thinking of those
Strange backgrounds of Raphael … that hectic and deep
Brief twilight in which southern suns fall asleep.
JOHN.
Coquette?
ALFRED.
Not at all. 'Twas her one fault. Not she!
I had loved her the better, had she less loved me.
The heart of a man's like that delicate weed
Which requires to be trampled on, boldly indeed,
Ere it give forth the fragrance you wish to extract.
'Tis a simile, trust me, if not new, exact.
JOHN.
Women change so.
ALFRED.
Of course.
JOHN.
And, unless rumor errs,
I believe, that last year, the Comtesse de Nevers*
Was at Baden the rage—held an absolute court
Of devoted adorers, and really made sport
Of her subjects.
* O Shakespeare! how couldst thou ask "What's in a name?"
'Tis the devil's in it, when a bard has to frame
English rhymes for alliance with names that are French:
And in these rhymes of mine, well I know that I trench
All too far on that license which critics refuse,
With just right, to accord to a well-brought-up Muse.
Yet, tho' faulty the union, in many a line,
'Twixt my British-born verse and my French heroine,
Since, however auspiciously wedded they be,
There is many a pair that yet cannot agree,
Your forgiveness for this pair, the author invites,
Whom necessity, not inclination, unites.
ALFRED.
Indeed!
JOHN.
When she broke off with you
Her engagement, her heart did not break with it?
ALFRED.
Pooh!
Pray would you have had her dress always in black,
And shut herself up in a convent, dear Jack?
Besides, 'twas my fault the engagement was broken.
JOHN.
Most likely. How was it?
ALFRED.
The tale is soon spoken.
She bored me. I show'd it. She saw it. What next?
She reproach'd. I retorted. Of course she was vex'd.
I was vex'd that she was so. She sulk'd. So did I.
If I ask'd her to sing, she look'd ready to cry.
I was contrite, submissive. She soften'd. I harden'd.
At noon I was banish'd. At eve I was pardon'd.
She said I had no heart. I said she had no reason.
I swore she talk'd nonsense. She sobb'd I talk'd treason.
In short, my dear fellow, 'twas time, as you see,
Things should come to a crisis, and finish. 'Twas she
By whom to that crisis the matter was brought.
She released me. I linger'd. I linger'd, she thought,
With too sullen an aspect. This gave me, of course,
The occasion to fly in a rage, mount my horse,
And declare myself uncomprehended. And so
We parted. The rest of the story you know.
JOHN.
No, indeed.
ALFRED.
Well, we parted. Of course we could not
Continue to meet, as before, in one spot.
You conceive it was awkward? Even Don Ferdinando
Can do, you remember, no more than he can do.
I think that I acted exceedingly well,
Considering the time when this rupture befell,
For Paris was charming just then. It deranged
All my plans for the winter. I ask'd to be changed—
Wrote for Naples, then vacant—obtain'd it—and so
Join'd my new post at once; but scarce reach'd it, when lo!
My first news from Paris informs me Lucile
Is ill, and in danger. Conceive what I feel.
I fly back. I find her recover'd, but yet
Looking pale. I am seized with a contrite regret;
I ask to renew the engagement.
JOHN.
And she?
ALFRED.
Reflects, but declines. We part, swearing to be
Friends ever, friends only. All that sort of thing!