Produced by Andrew Heath and David Widger
GODOLPHIN
By Edward Bulwer Lytton
(Lord Lytton)
TO COUNT ALFRED D’ORSAY.
MY DEAR COUNT D’ORSAY,
When the parentage of Godolphin was still unconfessed and unknown, you
were pleased to encourage his first struggles with the world: Now, will
you permit the father he has just discovered to re-introduce him to your
notice? I am sorry to say, however, that my unfilial offspring,
having been so long disowned, is not sufficiently grateful for being
acknowledged at last: he says that he belongs to a very numerous family,
and, wishing to be distinguished from his brothers, desires not only to
reclaim your acquaintance, but to borrow your name. Nothing less will
content his ambition than the most public opportunity in his power of
parading his obligations to the most accomplished gentleman of our time.
Will you, then, allow him to make his new appearance in the world under
your wing, and thus suffer the son as well as the father to attest the
kindness of your heart and to boast the honour of your friendship?
Believe me,
My dear Count d’Orsay,
With the sincerest regard,
Yours, very faithfully and truly,
E. B. L.
PREFACE TO GODOLPHIN.
In the Prefaces to this edition of my works, I have occasionally so
far availed myself of that privilege of self-criticism which the French
comic writer, Mons. Picord, maintains or exemplifies in the collection
of his plays,--as, if not actually to sit in judgment on my own
performances, still to insinuate some excuse for their faults by
extenuatory depositions as to their character and intentions. Indeed, a
writer looking back to the past is unconsciously inclined to think that
he may separate himself from those children of his brain which have long
gone forth to the world; and though he may not expatiate on the merits
his paternal affection would ascribe to them, that he may speak at
least of the mode in which they were trained and reared--of the hopes he
cherished, or the objects he entertained, when he finally dismissed them
to the opinions of others and the ordeal of Fate or Time.
For my part, I own that even when I have thought but little of the value
of a work, I have always felt an interest in the author’s account of its
origin and formation, and, willing to suppose that what thus affords
a gratification to my own curiosity, may not be wholly unattractive to
others, I shall thus continue from time to time to play the Showman to
my own machinery, and explain the principle of the mainspring and the
movement of the wheels.
This novel was begun somewhere in the third year of my authorship,
and completed in the fourth. It was, therefore, composed almost
simultaneously with Eugene Aram, and afforded to me at least some relief
from the gloom of that village tragedy. It is needless to observe how
dissimilar in point of scene, character, and fable, the one is from the
other; yet they are alike in this--that both attempt to deal with one
of the most striking problems in the spiritual history of man, viz.,
the frustration or abuse of power in a superior intellect originally
inclined to good. Perhaps there is no problem that more fascinates the
attention of a man of some earnestness at that period of his life, when
his eye first disengages itself from the external phenomena around him,
and his curiosity leads him to examine the cause and account for the
effect;--when, to cite reverently the words of the wisest, “He applies
his heart to know and to search, and to seek out wisdom and the reason
of things, and to know the wickedness of folly, even of foolishness and
madness.”
In Eugene Aram, the natural career of genius is arrested by a single
crime; in Godolphin, a mind of inferior order, but more fanciful
colouring, is wasted away by the indulgence of those morbid sentiments
which are the nourishment of egotism, and the gradual influence of the
frivolities which make the business of the idle. Here the Demon tempts
or destroys the hermit in his solitary cell. There, he glides amidst the
pomps and vanities of the world, and whispers away the soul in the voice
of his soft familiars, Indolence and Pleasure.
Of all my numerous novels, Pelham and Godolphin are the only ones
which take their absolute groundwork in what is called “The Fashionable
World.” I have sought in each to make the general composition in
some harmony with the principal figure in the foreground. Pelham
is represented as almost wholly unsusceptible to the more poetical
influences. He has the physical compound, which, versatile and joyous,
amalgamates easily with the world--he views life with the lenient
philosophy that Horace commends in Aristippus: he laughs at the
follies he shares; and is ever ready to turn into uses ultimately (if
indirectly) serious, the frivolities that only serve to sharpen his wit,
and augment that peculiar expression which we term “knowledge of the
world.” In a word, dispel all his fopperies, real or assumed, he is
still the active man of crowds and cities, determined to succeed,
and gifted with the ordinary qualities of success. Godolphin, on the
contrary, is the man of poetical temperament, out of his place alike
among the trifling idlers and the bustling actors of the world--wanting
the stimulus of necessity--or the higher motive which springs from
benevolence, to give energy to his powers, or definite purpose to his
fluctuating desires; not strong enough to break the bonds that confine
his genius--not supple enough to accommodate its movements to their
purpose. He is the moral antipodes to Pelham. In evading the struggles
of the world, he grows indifferent to its duties--he strives with no
obstacles--he can triumph in no career. Represented as possessing mental
qualities of a higher and a richer nature than those to which Pelham can
pretend, he is also represented as very inferior to him in constitution
of character, and he is certainly a more ordinary type of the
intellectual trifler.
The characters grouped around Godolphin are those with which such a
man usually associates his life. They are designed to have a certain
grace--a certain harmony with one form or the other of his twofold
temperament:--viz., either its conventional elegance of taste, or its
constitutional poetry of idea. But all alike are brought under varying
operations of similar influences; or whether in Saville, Constance,
Fanny, or Lucilla--the picture presented is still the picture of gifts
misapplied--of life misunderstood. The Preacher who exclaimed, “Vanity
of vanities! all is vanity,” perhaps solved his own mournful saying,
when he added elsewhere, “This only have I found, that God made men
upright--but they have sought out many inventions.”
This work was first published anonymously, and for that reason perhaps
it has been slow in attaining to its rightful station amongst its
brethren--whose parentage at first was openly acknowledged. If compared
with Pelham, it might lose, at the first glance, but would perhaps gain
on any attentive reperusal.
For although it must follow from the inherent difference in the design
of the two works thus referred to, that in Godolphin there can be
little of the satire or vivacity which have given popularity to its
predecessor, yet, on the other hand, in Godolphin there ought to be a
more faithful illustration of the even polish that belongs to luxurious
life,--of the satiety that pleasure inflicts upon such of its votaries
as are worthy of a higher service. The subject selected cannot adroit
the same facility for observation of things that lie on the surface--but
it may well lend itself to subtler investigation of character--allow
more attempt at pathos, and more appeal to reflection.
Regarded as a story, the defects of Godolphin most apparent to myself,
are in the manner in which Lucilla is re-introduced in the later
chapters, and in the final catastrophe of the hero. There is an
exaggerated romance in the one, and the admission of accident as a
crowning agency in the other, which my maturer judgment would certainly
condemn, and which at all events appear to me out of keeping with the
natural events, and the more patient investigation of moral causes and
their consequences, from which the previous interest of the tale is
sought to be attained. On the other hand, if I may presume to conjecture
the most probable claim to favour which the work, regarded as a
whole, may possess--it may possibly be found in a tolerably accurate
description of certain phases of modern civilisation, and in the
suggestion of some truths that may be worth considering in our
examination of social influences or individual conduct.
CHAPTER I.
THE DEATH-BED OF JOHN VERNON.--HIS DYING WORDS.--DESCRIPTION OF HIS
DAUGHTER, THE HEROINE.--THE OATH.
“Is the night calm, Constance?”
“Beautiful! the moon is up.”
“Open the shutters wider, there. It _is_ a beautiful night. How
beautiful! Come hither, my child.”
The rich moonlight that now shone through the windows streamed on little
that it could invest with poetical attraction. The room was small,
though not squalid in its character and appliances. The bed-curtains,
of a dull chintz, were drawn back, and showed the form of a man, past
middle age, propped by pillows, and bearing on his countenance the marks
of approaching death. But what a countenance it still was! The broad,
pale, lofty brow; the fine, straight, Grecian nose; the short, curved
lip; the full, dimpled chin; the stamp of genius in every line and
lineament;--these still defied disease, or rather borrowed from its very
ghastliness a more impressive majesty. Beside the bed was a table
spread with books of a motley character. Here an abstruse system of
Calculations on Finance; there a volume of wild Bacchanalian Songs; here
the lofty aspirations of Plato’s Phaedon; and there the last speech
of some County Paris on a Malt Tax: old newspapers and dusty pamphlets
completed the intellectual litter; and above them rose, mournfully
enough, the tall, spectral form of a half-emptied phial, and a
chamber-candlestick, crested by its extinguisher.
A light step approached the bedside, and opposite the dying man
now stood a girl, who might have seen her thirteenth year. But her
features--of an exceeding, and what may be termed a regal beauty--were
as fully developed as those of one who had told twice her years; and not
a trace of the bloom or the softness of girlhood could be marked on her
countenance. Her complexion was pale as the whitest marble, but clear,
and lustrous; and her raven hair, parted over her brow in a fashion
then uncommon, increased the statue-like and classic effect of her noble
features. The expression of her countenance seemed cold, sedate, and
somewhat stern; but it might, in some measure, have belied her heart;
for, when turned to the moonlight, you might see that her eyes were
filled with tears, though she did not weep; and you might tell by the
quivering of her lip, that a little hesitation in replying to any remark
from the sufferer arose from her difficulty in commanding her emotions.
“Constance,” said the invalid, after a pause, in which he seemed to
have been gazing with a quiet heart on the soft skies, that, blue
and eloquent with stars, he beheld through the unclosed
windows:--“Constance, the hour is coming; I feel it by signs which I
cannot mistake. I shall die this night.”
“Oh, God!--my father!--my dear, dear father!” broke from Constance’s
lips; “do not speak thus--do not--I will go to Doctor ----”
“No, child, no!--I loathe--I detest the thought of help. They denied it
me while it was yet time. They left me to starve or to rot in gaol, or
to hang myself! They left me like a dog, and like a dog I will die! I
would not have one iota taken from the justice--the deadly and dooming
weight of my dying curse.” Here violent spasms broke on the speech of
the sufferer; and when, by medicine and his daughter’s attentions, he
had recovered, he said, in a lower and calmer key:--“Is all quiet
below, Constance? Are all in bed? The landlady--the servants--our
fellow-lodgers?”
“All, my father.”
“Ay; then I shall die happy. Thank Heaven, you are my only nurse and
attendant. I remember the day when I was ill after one of their rude
debauches. Ill!--a sick headache--a fit of the spleen--a spoiled
lapdog’s illness! Well: they wanted me that night to support one of
their paltry measures--their parliamentary measures. And I had a prince
feeling my pulse, and a duke mixing my draught, and a dozen earls
sending their doctors to me. I was of use to them then! Poor me! Read
me that note, Constance--Flamborough’s note. Do you hesitate? Read it, I
say!”
Constance trembled and complied.
“My dear Vernon,
“I am really au desespoir to hear of your melancholy state;--so sorry I
cannot assist you: but you know my embarrassed circumstances. By the
by, I saw his Royal Highness yesterday. ‘Poor Vernon!’ said he; ‘would
a hundred pounds do him any good?’ So we don’t forget you, mon cher.
Ah! how we missed you at the Beefsteak! Never shall we know again so
glorious a bon vivant. You would laugh to hear L---- attempting to echo
your old jokes. But time presses: I must be off to the House. You know
what a motion it is! Would to Heaven you were to bring it on instead
of that ass T----. Adieu! I wish I could come and see you; but it would
break my heart. Can I send you any books from Hookham’s?
“Yours ever,
“FLAMBOROUGH.”
“This is the man whom I made Secretary of State,” said Vernon. “Very
well!--oh, it’s very well,--very well indeed. Let me kiss thee, my girl.
Poor Constance! You will have good friends when I am dead! they will be
proud enough to be kind to Vernon’s daughter, when Death has shown them
that Vernon is a loss. You are very handsome. Your poor mother’s eyes
and hair--my father’s splendid brow and lip; and your figure, even
now so stately! They will court you: you will have lords and great men
enough at your feet; but you will never forget this night, nor the agony
of your father’s death-bed face, and the brand they have burned in his
heart. And now, Constance, give me the Bible in which you read to me
this morning: that will do:--stand away from the light and fix your eyes
on mine, and listen as if your soul were in your ears.
“When I was a young man, toiling my way to fortune through the
labours of the Bar,--prudent, cautious, indefatigable, confident of
success,--certain lords, who heard I possessed genius, and thought
I might become their tool, came to me, and besought me to enter
parliament. I told them I was poor--was lately married--that my public
ambition must not be encouraged at the expense of my private fortunes.
They answered, that they pledged themselves those fortunes should be
their care. I yielded; I deserted my profession; I obeyed their wishes;
I became famous--and a ruined man! They could not dine without me;
they could not sup without me; they could not get drunk without me; no
pleasure was sweet but in my company. What mattered it that, while
I ministered to their amusement, I was necessarily heaping debt upon
debt--accumulating miseries for future years--laying up bankruptcy, and
care, and shame, and a broken heart, and an early death? But listen,
Constance! Are you listening?--attentively?--Well! note now, I am a just
man. I do not blame my noble friends, my gentle patrons, for this. No:
if I were forgetful of my interests, if I preferred their pleasure to my
happiness and honour, that was my crime, and I deserve the punishment!
But, look you,--time went by, and my constitution was broken; debts came
upon me; I could not pay; men mistrusted my word; my name in the country
fell: With my health, my genius deserted me; I was no longer useful
to my party; I lost my seat in parliament; and when I was on a
sick-bed--you remember it, Constance--the bailiffs came, and tore me
away for a paltry debt--the value of one of those suppers the Prince
used to beg me to give him. From that time my familiars forsook me!--not
a visit, not a kind act, not a service for him whose day of work was
over! ‘Poor Vernon’s character was gone! Shockingly involved--could
not perform his promises to his creditors--always so extravagant--quite
unprincipled--must give him up!’
“In those sentences lies the secret of their conduct. They did not
remember that _for_ them, _by_ them, the character was gone, the
promises broken, the ruin incurred! They thought not how I had served
them; how my best years had been devoted to advance them--to ennoble
their cause in the lying page of History! All this was not thought of:
my life was reduced to two epochs--that of use to them--that not. During
the first, I was honoured; during the last, I was left to starve--to
rot! Who freed me from prison?--who protects me now? One of my
‘party’--my ‘noble friends’--my ‘honourable, right honourable friends’?
No! a tradesman whom I once served in my holyday, and who alone, of all
the world, forgets me not in my penance. You see gratitude, friendship,
spring up only in middle life; they grow not in high stations!
“And now, come nearer, for my voice falters, and I would have these
words distinctly heard. Child, girl as you are--you I consider pledged
to record, to fulfil my desire--my curse! Lay your hand on mine: swear
that through life to death,--swear! You speak not! repeat my words after
me:”--Constance obeyed:--“through life to death; through good, through
ill, through weakness, through power, you will devote yourself to
humble, to abase that party from whom your father received ingratitude,
mortification, and death! Swear that you will not marry a poor
and powerless man, who cannot minister to the ends of that solemn
retribution I invoke! Swear that you will seek to marry from amongst the
great; not through love, not through ambition, but through hate, and
for revenge! You will seek to rise that you may humble those who have
betrayed me! In the social walks of life you will delight to gall their
vanities in state intrigues, you will embrace every measure that can
bring them to their eternal downfall. For this great end you will pursue
all means. What! you hesitate? Repeat, repeat, repeat!--You will lie,
cringe, fawn, and think vice not vice, if it bring you one jot nearer to
Revenge! With this curse on my foes, I entwine my blessing, dear, dear
Constance, on you,--you, who have nursed, watched, all but saved me!
God, God bless you, my child!” And Vernon burst into tears.
It was two hours after this singular scene, and exactly in the third
hour of morning, that Vernon woke from a short and troubled sleep.
The grey dawn (for the time was the height of summer) already began
to labour through the shades and against the stars of night. A raw and
comfortless chill crept over the earth, and saddened the air in the
death-chamber. Constance sat by her father’s bed, her eyes fixed upon
him, and her cheek more wan than ever by the pale light of that crude
and cheerless dawn. When Vernon woke, his eyes, glazed with death,
rolled faintly towards her, fixing and dimming in their sockets as they
gazed;--his throat rattled. But for one moment his voice found vent; a
ray shot across his countenance as he uttered his last words--words that
sank at once and eternally to the core of his daughter’s heart--words
that ruled her life, and sealed her destiny: “Constance, remember--the
Oath--Revenge!”