The Young Duke

  CHAPTER IV.

  _Satiety._

  THE newspapers continued to announce the departures of new visitors tothe Duke of St. James, and to dilate upon the protracted and princelyfestivity of Pen Bron-nock. But while thousands were envying his lot,and hundreds aspiring to share it, what indeed was the condition of ourhero?

  A month or two had rolled on and if he had not absolutely tastedenjoyment, at least he had thrown off reflection; but as the autumn woreaway, and as each day he derived less diversion or distraction from therepetition of the same routine, carried on by different actors, hecould no longer control feelings which would be predominant, and thosefeelings were not such as perhaps might have been expected from one whowas receiving the homage of an admiring world. In a word, the Duke ofSt. James was the most miserable wretch that ever lived.

  'Where is this to end?' he asked himself. 'Is this year to close, tobring only a repetition of the past? Well, I have had it all, and whatis it? My restless feelings are at last laid, my indefinite appetitesare at length exhausted. I have known this mighty world, and where amI? Once, all prospects, all reflections merged in the agitating, thetremulous and panting lust with which I sighed for it. Have I beendeceived? Have I been disappointed? Is it different from what Iexpected? Has it fallen short of my fancy? Has the dexterity of mymusings deserted me? Have I under-acted the hero of my reveries? HaveI, in short, mismanaged my debut? Have I blundered? No, no, no! Far, farhas it gone beyond even my imagination, and _my_ life has, if no other,realised its ideas!

  'Who laughs at me? Who does not burn incense before my shrine? Whatappetite have I not gratified? What gratification has proved bitter? Myvanity! Has it been, for an instant, mortified? Am I not acknowledgedthe most brilliant hero of the most brilliant society in Europe? Intenseas is my self-love, has it not been gorged? Luxury and splendour were myyouthful dreams, and have I not realised the very romance of indulgenceand magnificence? My career has been one long triumph. My palaces, andmy gardens, and my jewels, my dress, my furniture, my equipages, myhorses, and my festivals, these used to occupy my meditations, when Icould only meditate; and have my determinations proved a delusion? Askthe admiring world.

  'And now for the great point to which all this was to tend, which allthis was to fascinate and subdue, to adorn, to embellish, to delight,to honour. Woman! Oh! when I first dared, among the fields of Eton,to dwell upon the soft yet agitating fancy, that some day my existencemight perhaps be rendered more intense, by the admiration of thesemaddening but then mysterious creatures; could, could I have dreamt ofwhat has happened? Is not this the very point in which my career hasmost out-topped my lofty hopes?

  'I have read, and sometimes heard, of _satiety_. It must then be satietythat I feel; for I do feel more like a doomed man, than a young noblefull of blood and youth. And yet, satiety; it is a word. What then? Aword is breath, and am I wiser? Satiety! Satiety! Satiety! Oh! give mehappiness! Oh! give me love!

  'Ay! there it is, I feel it now. Too well I feel that happiness mustspring from purer fountains than self-love. We are not born merely forourselves, and they who, full of pride, make the trial, as I have done,and think that the world is made for them, and not for mankind, mustcome to as bitter results, perhaps as bitter a fate; for, by Heavens! Iam half tempted at this moment to fling myself from off this cliff, andso end all.

  'Why should I live? For virtue, and for duty; to compensate for allmy folly, and to achieve some slight good end with my abused andunparalleled means. Ay! it is all vastly rational, and vastly sublime,but it is too late. I feel the exertion above me. I am a lost man.

  'We cannot work without a purpose and an aim. I had mine, although itwas a false one, and I succeeded. Had I one now I might succeed again,but my heart is a dull void. And Caroline, that gentle girl, will notgive me what I want; and to offer her but half a heart may break hers,and I would not bruise that delicate bosom to save my dukedom. Thosesad, silly parents of hers have already done mischief enough; but I willsee Darrell, and will at least arrange that. I like him, and will makehim my friend for her sake. God! God! why am I not loved! A word fromher, and all would change. I feel a something in me which could put allright. I have the will, and she could give the power.

  'Now see what a farce life is! I shall go on, Heaven knows how! I cannotlive long. Men like me soon bloom and fade. What I may come to, I dreadto think. There is a dangerous facility in my temper; I know it well,for I know more of myself than people think; there is a dangerousfacility which, with May Dacre, might be the best guaranty of virtue;but with all others, for all others are at the best weak things, will ascertainly render me despicable, perhaps degraded. I hear the busy devilwhispering even now. It is my demon. Now, I say, see what a farce lifeis! I shall die like a dog, as I have lived like a fool; and then myepitaph will be in everybody's mouth. Here are the consequences ofself-indulgence: here is a fellow, forsooth, who thought only of thegratification of his vile appetites; and by the living Heaven, am I notstanding here among my hereditary rocks, and sighing to the ocean, to bevirtuous!

  'She knew me well, she read me in a minute, and spoke more truth at thatlast meeting than is in a thousand sermons. It is out of our power toredeem ourselves. Our whole existence is a false, foul state, totallyinimical to love and purity, and domestic gentleness, and calm delight.Yet are we envied! Oh! could these fools see us at any other time exceptsurrounded by our glitter, and hear of us at any other moment save inthe first bloom of youth, which is, even then, often wasted; could theybut mark our manhood, and view our hollow marriages, and disappointedpassions; could they but see the traitors that we have for sons, thedaughters that own no duty; could they but watch us even to our grave,tottering after some fresh bauble, some vain delusion, which, to thelast, we hope may prove a substitute for what we have never foundthrough life, a contented mind, they would do something else but envyus.

  'But I stand prating when I am wanted. I must home. Home! O sacred word!and then comes night! Horrible night! Horrible day! It seems to me I amupon the eve of some monstrous folly, too ridiculous to be a crime, andyet as fatal. I have half a mind to go and marry the Bird of Paradise,out of pure pique with myself, and with the world.'