Lucile | Page 5

one brief page from the summer romance Of her courtship." . . . Egad!
a romance, for my part, I'd forego every page of, and not break my
heart!
ALFRED.

Continue.
JOHN (reading).
"And spare you one day from your place At her feet." . . . Pray forgive
me the passing grimace. I wish you had MY place! (reads) "I trust you
will feel I desire nothing much. Your friend," . . . Bless me! "Lucile?"
The Countess de Nevers?
ALFRED.
Yes.
JOHN.
What will you do?
ALFRED.
You ask me just what I would rather ask you.
JOHN.
You can't go.
ALFRED
I must.
JOHN.
And Matilda?
ALFRED.
Oh, that You must manage!
JOHN.

Must I? I decline it, though, flat. In an hour the horses will be at the
door, And Matilda is now in her habit. Before I have finished my
breakfast, of course I receive A message for "dear Cousin John!" . . . I
must leave At the jeweller's the bracelet which YOU broke last night; I
must call for the music. "Dear Alfred is right: The black shawl looks
best: WILL I change it? Of course I can just stop, in passing, to order
the horse. Then Beau has the mumps, or St. Hubert knows what; WILL
I see the dog-doctor?" Hang Beau! I will NOT.
ALFRED.
Tush, tush! this is serious.
JOHN.
It is.
ALFRED.
Very well, You must think--
JOHN.
What excuse will you make, tho'?
ALFRED.
Oh, tell Mrs. Darcy that . . . lend me your wits, Jack! . . . The deuce!
Can you not stretch your genius to fit a friend's use? Excuses are
clothes which, when ask'd unawares, Good Breeding to Naked
Necessity spares, You must have a whole wardrobe, no doubt.
JOHN.
My dear fellow, Matilda is jealous, you know, as Othello.
ALFRED.
You joke.

JOHN.
I am serious. Why go to Luchon?
ALFRED.
Don't ask me. I have not a choice, my dear John. Besides, shall I own a
strange sort of desire, Before I extinguish forever the fire Of youth and
romance, in whose shadowy light Hope whisper'd her first fairy tales,
to excite The last spark, till it rise, and fade far in that dawn Of my days
where the twilights of life were first drawn By the rosy, reluctant
auroras of Love; In short, from the dead Past the gravestone to move;
Of the years long departed forever to take One last look, one final
farewell; to awake The Heroic of youth from the Hades of joy, And
once more be, though but for an hour, Jack--a boy!
JOHN.
You had better go hang yourself.
ALFRED.
No! were it but To make sure that the Past from the Future is shut, It
were worth the step back. Do you think we should live With the living
so lightly, and learn to survive That wild moment in which to the grave
and its gloom We consign'd our heart's best, if the doors of the tomb
Were not lock'd with a key which Fate keeps for our sake? If the dead
could return or the corpses awake?
JOHN.
Nonsense!
ALFRED.
Not wholly. The man who gets up A fill'd guest from the banquet, and
drains off his cup, Sees the last lamp extinguish'd with cheerfulness,
goes Well contented to bed, and enjoys its repose. But he who hath
supp'd at the tables of kings, And yet starved in the sight of luxurious

things; Who hath watch'd the wine flow, by himself but half tasted;
Heard the music, and yet miss'd the tune; who hath wasted One part of
life's grand possibilities:--friend, That man will bear with him, be sure,
to the end, A blighted experience, a rancor within: You may call it a
virtue, I call it a sin.
JOHN.
I see you remember the cynical story Of that wicked old piece
Experience--a hoary Lothario, whom dying, the priest by his bed
(Knowing well the unprincipled life he had led, And observing, with no
small amount of surprise, Resignation and calm in the old sinner's eyes)
Ask'd if he had nothing that weigh'd on his mind: "Well, . . . no," . . .
says Lothario, "I think not. I find, On reviewing my life, which in most
things was pleasant, I never neglected, when once it was present, An
occasion of pleasing myself. On the whole, I have naught to regret;" . . .
and so, smiling, his soul 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