The Count of Narbonne Part 1

The Count of Narbonne.

by Robert Jephson.

REMARKS.

This tragedy was brought upon the stage in 1780; it was extremely admired, and exceedingly attractive.

Neither "The Winter's Tale", nor "Henry VIII" by Shakspeare, were at that time performed at either of the theatres; and the town had no immediate comparison to draw between the conjugal incidents in "The Count of Narbonne," and those which occur in these two very superior dramas.

The Cardinal Wolsey of Shakspeare, is, by Jephson, changed into a holy and virtuous priest; but his importance is, perhaps, somewhat diminished by a discovery, which was intended to heighten the interest of his character; but which is introduced in too sudden, and romantic a manner, to produce the desired consequence upon a well-judging auditor.

One of the greatest faults, by which a dramatist can disappoint and fret his auditor, is also to be met with in this play.--Infinite discourse is exchanged, numberless plans formed, and variety of pa.s.sions agitated, concerning a person, who is never brought upon the stage--Such is the personal nonent.i.ty of Isabel, in this tragedy, and yet the fable could not proceed without her.--Alphonso, so much talked of, yet never seen, is an allowable absentee, having departed to another world; and yet, whether such invisible personages be described as alive, or dead, that play is the most interesting, which makes mention of no one character, but those which are introduced to the sight of the audience.

The lover of romances, whose happy memory, unclouded by more weighty recollections, has retained a wonderful story, by the late Lord Orford, called, "The Castle of Otranto," will here, it is said, find a resemblance of plot and incidents, the acknowledged effect of close imitation.

Lord Orford, (at that time Mr. Horace Walpole,) attended some rehearsals of this tragedy, upon the very account, that himself was the founder of the fabric.

The author was of no mean reputation in the literary world, for he had already produced several successful dramas. "The Count of Narbonne"

proved to be his last, and his best composition.----Terror is here ably excited by descriptions of the preternatural--Horror, by the portraiture of guilt; and compa.s.sion, by the view of suffering innocence.--These are three pa.s.sions, which, divided, might each const.i.tute a tragedy; and all these powerful engines of the mind and heart, are here, most happily combined to produce that end,--and each forms a lesson of morality.

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.

_A Hall._

_Enter the COUNT, speaking to an OFFICER; FABIAN following._

_Count._ Not to be found! is this your faithful service?

How could she pa.s.s unseen? By h.e.l.l, 'tis false!

Thou hast betray'd me.

_Offi._ n.o.ble sir! my duty----

_Count._ Your fraud, your negligence--away, reply not.

Find her within this hour; else, by my life, The gates of Narbonne shall be clos'd against thee; Then make the world thy country.

[_Exit OFFICER._

Fabian, stay!

Misfortunes fall so thick upon my head, They will not give me time to think--to breathe.

_Fab._ Heaven knows, I wish your peace; but am to learn, What grief more fresh than my young lord's decease, A sorrow but of three days past, can move you.

_Count._ O bitter memory! gone, gone for ever!

The pillar of my house, my only son!

_Fab._ 'Twas terrible indeed.

_Count._ Ay, was it not?

And then the manner of it! think on that!

Disease, that robb'd me of two infant sons, Approaching slow, bade me prepare to lose them; I saw my lilies drooping; and, accustom'd To see them dying, bore to see them dead: But, Oh my Edmund!--Thou remember'st, Fabian, How blithe he went to seek the forest's sport!

_Fab._ 'Would I could not remember!

_Count._ That cursed barb, (My fatal gift) that dash'd him down the cliff, Seem'd proud of his gay burden.--Breathless, mangled, They bore him back to me. Fond man! I hoped This day, this happy match with Isabel Had made our line perpetual; and, this day, The unfruitful grave receives him. Yes, 'tis fate!

That dreadful denunciation 'gainst my house, No prudence can avert, nor prayers can soften.

_Fab._ Think not on that; some visionary's dream.

What house, what family could e'er know peace, If such enthusiast's ravings were believ'd, And phrensy deem'd an insight of the future?

But may I dare to ask, is it of moment To stir your anger thus, that Isabel Has left the castle?

_Count._ Of the deepest moment: My best hope hangs on her; some future time, I may instruct thee why.--These cares unhinge me: Just now, a herald from her angry father Left me this dire election--to resign My t.i.tles, and this ample signory, (Worthy a monarch's envy) or to meet him, And try my right by arms. But pr'ythee tell, (Nor let a fear to wound thy master's pride Restrain thy licens'd speech) hast thou e'er heard My father Raymond----(cast not down thine eye) By any indirect or b.l.o.o.d.y means, Procur'd that instrument, Alphonso's will, That made him heir to Narbonne?

_Fab._ My best lord, At all times would I fain withhold from you, Intelligence unwelcome, but most now.

At seasons such as this, a friendly tongue Should utter words like balm; but what you ask--

_Count._ I ask, to be inform'd of. Hast thou known me From childhood, up to man, and canst thou fear I am so weak of soul, like a thin reed, To bend and stagger at such puny blast?

No; when the tempest rages round my head, I give my branches wider to the air, And strike my root more deeply.--To thy tale: Away with palliatives and compliments;-- Speak plainly.

_Fab._ Plainly, then, my lord, I have heard What, for the little breath, I have to draw, I would not, to the black extent of rumour, Give credit to.--But you command me speak--

_Count._ Thy pauses torture me.--Can I hear worse Than this black scroll contains? this challenge here, From Isabella's father, haughty G.o.dfrey?

In broad, and unambiguous words, he tells me, My father was a murderer, and forg'd Alphonso's testament.

_Fab._ From Palestine, That tale crept hither; where, foul slander says, The good Alphonso, not, as we believe, Died of a fever, but a venom'd draught, Your father, his companion of the cross, Did with his own hand mingle; his hand too, a.s.sisted by some cunning practisers, Model'd that deed, which, barring G.o.dfrey's right, And other claims from kindred, nam'd Count Raymond Lord of these fair possessions.

_Count._ Ha! I have it; 'Tis G.o.dfrey's calumny; he has coin'd this lie; And his late visit to the Holy Land, No doubt, has furnish'd likelihood of proof, To give his fiction colour.

_Fab._ Sure, 'tis so.

_Count._ He, too, has forg'd this idle prophecy, (To shake me with false terrors) this prediction, Which, but to think of, us'd to freeze my veins; "That no descendant from my father's loins, Should live to see a grandson; nor Heaven's wrath Cease to afflict us, till Alphonso's heir Succeeded to his just inheritance."

Hence superst.i.tion mines my tottering state, Loosens my va.s.sals' faith, and turns their tears, Which else would fall for my calamities, To gloomy pause, and gaping reverence: While all my woes, to their perverted sense, Seem but the marvellous accomplishment Of revelation, out of nature's course.

_Fab._ Reason must so interpret. Good my lord, What answer was return'd to G.o.dfrey's challenge?

_Count._ Defiance.

_Fab._ Heaven defend you!

_Count._ Heaven defend me!