Love and Intrigue

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Title: Love and Intrigue
A Play
Author: Frederich Schiller
Release Date: October 25, 2006 [EBook #6784]
Language: English
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LOVE AND INTRIGUE.
A TRAGEDY.
By Frederich Schiller
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
PRESIDENT VON WALTER, Prime Minister in the Court of a German Prince.
FERDINAND, his son; a Major in the Army; in love with Louisa Miller.
BARON VON KALB, Court Marshal (or Chamberlain).
WORM, Private Secretary to the President.
MILLER, the Town Musician, and Teacher of Music.
MRS. MILLER, his wife.
LOUISA, the daughter of Miller, in love with Ferdinand.
LADY MILFORD, the Prince's Mistress.
SOPHY, attendant on Lady Milford.
An old Valet in the service of the Prince.
Officers, Attendants, etc.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
MILLER--MRS. MILLER.
MILLER (walking quickly up and down the room). Once for all! The
affair is becoming serious. My daughter and the baron will soon be the
town-talk--my house lose its character--the president will get wind of
it, and--the short and long of the matter is, I'll show the younker the
door.
MRS MILLER. You did not entice him to your house--did not thrust your
daughter upon him!
MILLER. Didn't entice him to my house--didn't thrust the girl upon him!
Who'll believe me? I was master of my own house. I ought to have taken
more care of my daughter. I should have bundled the major out at once,
or have gone straight to his excellency, his papa, and disclosed all.
The young baron will get off merely with a snubbing, I know that well
enough, and all the blame will fall upon the fiddler.
MRS MILLER (sipping her coffee). Pooh! nonsense! How can it fall upon
you? What have people to do with you? You follow your profession, and
pick up pupils wherever you can find them.
MILLER. All very fine, but please to tell me what will be the upshot of
the whole affair? He can't marry the girl--marriage is out of the
question, and to make her his--God help us! "Good-by t'ye!" No, no--when
such a sprig of nobility has been nibbling here and there and everywhere,
and has glutted himself with the devil knows what all, of course it will
be a relish to my young gentleman to get a mouthful of sweet water. Take
heed! Take heed! If you were dotted with eyes, and could place a
sentinel for every hair of your head, he'll bamboozle her under your very
nose; add one to her reckoning, take himself off, and the girl's ruined
for life, left in the lurch, or, having once tasted the trade, will carry
it on. (Striking his forehead.) Oh, horrible thought!
MRS MILLER. God in his mercy protect us!
MILLER. We shall want his protection. You may well say that. What
other object can such a scapegrace have? The girl is handsome--well
made--can show a pretty foot. How the upper story is furnished matters
little. That's blinked in you women if nature has not played the niggard
in other respects. Let this harum-scarum but turn over this chapter--ho!
ho! his eyes will glisten like Rodney's when he got scent of a French
frigate; then up with all sail and at her, and I don't blame him for it--
flesh is flesh. I know that very well.
MRS MILLER. You should only read the beautiful billy-doux which the
baron writes to your daughter. Gracious me! Why it's as clear as the
sun at noonday that he loves her purely for her virtuous soul.
MILLER. That's the right strain! We beat the sack, but mean the ass's
back. He who wishes to pay his respects to the flesh needs only a kind
heart for a go-between. What did I myself? When we've once so far
cleared the ground that the affections cry ready! slap! the bodies follow
their example, the appetites are obedient, and the silver moon kindly
plays the pimp.
MRS MILLER. And then only think of the beautiful books that the major
has sent us. Your daughter always prays out of them.
MILLER (whistles). Prays! You've hit the mark. The plain, simple food
of nature is much too raw and indigestible for this maccaroni gentleman's
stomach. It must be cooked for him artificially in the infernal
pestilential pitcher of your novel-writers. Into the fire with the
rubbish! I shall have the girl taking up with--God knows what all--about
heavenly fooleries that will get into her blood, like Spanish flies, and
scatter to the winds the handful of Christianity that cost her father so
much trouble to keep together. Into the fire with them I say! The girl
will take the devil's own nonsense into her head; amidst the dreams of
her fool's paradise she'll not know her own home, but forget and feel
ashamed of her father, the music-master; and, lastly, I shall lose a
worthy, honest son-in-law who might have nestled himself so snugly into
my connections. No! damn it! (Jumps up in a passion.) I'll break the
neck of it at once, and the major--yes, yes, the major! shall be shown
where the carpenter made the door. (Going.)
MRS MILLER. Be civil, Miller! How many a bright shilling have his
presents----
MILLER (comes back, and goes up to her). The blood money of my daughter?
To Beelzebub with thee, thou infamous bawd! Sooner will I vagabondize
with my violin and fiddle for a bit of bread--sooner will I break to
pieces my instrument and carry dung on the sounding-board than taste a
mouthful earned by my only child at the price of her soul and future
happiness. Give up your cursed coffee and snuff-taking, and there will
be no need to carry your daughter's face to market. I have always had my
bellyful and a good shirt to my back before this confounded scamp put his
nose into my crib.
MRS MILLER. Now don't be so ready to pitch the house out of window. How
you flare up all of a sudden. I only meant to say that we shouldn't
offend the major, because he is the son of the president.
MILLER. There lies the root of the mischief. For that reason--for that
very reason the thing must be put a stop to this very day! The
president, if he is a just and upright father, will give me his thanks.
You must brush up my red plush, and I will go straight to his excellency.
I shall say to him,--"Your excellency's son has an eye to my daughter; my
daughter is not good enough to be your excellency's son's wife, but too
good to be your excellency's son's strumpet, and there's an end of the
matter. My name is Miller."
SCENE II.
Enter SECRETARY WORM.
MRS MILLER. Ah! Good morning, Mr. Seckertary! Have we indeed the
pleasure of seeing you again?
WORM. All on my side--on my side, cousin Miller! Where a high-born
cavalier's visits are received mine can be of no account whatever.
MRS MILLER. How can you think so, Mr. Seckertary? His lordship the
baron, Major Ferdinand, certainly does us the honor to look in now and
then; but, for all that, we don't undervalue others.
MILLER (vexed). A chair, wife, for the gentleman! Be seated, kinsman.
WORM (lays aside hat and stick, and seats himself). Well, well--and how
then is my future--or past--bride? I hope she'll not be--may I not have
the honor of seeing--Miss Louisa?
MRS MILLER. Thanks for inquiries, Mr. Seckertary, but my daughter is not
at all proud.
MILLER (angry, jogs her with his elbow). Woman!
MRS MILLER. Sorry she can't have that honor, Mr. Seckertary. My
daughter is now at mass.
WORM. I am glad to hear it,--glad to hear it. I shall have in her a
pious, Christian wife!
MRS MILLER (smiling in a stupidly affected manner). Yes--but, Mr.
Seckertary----
MILLER (greatly incensed, pulls her ears). Woman!
MRS MILLER. If our family can serve you in any other way--with the
greatest pleasure, Mr. Seckertary----
WORM (frowning angrily). In any other way? Much obliged! much
obliged!--hm! hm! hm!
MRS MILLER. But, as you yourself must see, Mr. Seckertary----
MILLER (in a rage, shaking his fist at her). Woman!
MRS MILLER. Good is good, and better is better, and one does not like to
stand between fortune and one's only child (with vulgar pride). You
understand me, Mr. Seckertary?
WORM. Understand. Not exac---. Oh, yes. But what do you really mean?
MRS MILLER. Why--why--I only think--I mean--(coughs). Since then
Providence has determined to make a great lady of my daughter----
WORM (jumping from his chair). What's that you say? what?
MILLER. Keep your seat, keep your seat, Mr. Secretary! The woman's an
out-and-out fool! Where's the great lady to come from? How you show
your donkey's ears by talking such stuff.
MRS MILLER. Scold as long as you will. I know what I know, and what the
major said he said.
MILLER (snatches up his fiddle in anger). Will you hold your tongue?
Shall I throw my fiddle at your head? What can you know? What can he
have said? Take no notice of her clack, kinsman! Away with you to your
kitchen! You'll not think me first cousin of a fool, and that I'm
looking out so high for the girl? You'll not think that of me, Mr.
Secretary?
WORM. Nor have I deserved it of you, Mr. Miller! You have always shown
yourself a man of your word, and my contract to your daughter was as good
as signed. I hold an office that will maintain a thrifty manager; the
president befriends me; the door to advancement is open to me whenever I
may choose to take advantage of it. You see that my intentions towards
Miss Louisa are serious; if you have been won over by a fop of rank----
MRS MILLER. Mr. Seckertary! more respect, I beg----
MILLER. Hold your tongue, I say. Never mind her, kinsman. Things
remain as they were. The answer I gave you last harvest, I repeat
to-day. I'll not force my daughter. If you suit her, well and good;
then it's for her to see that she can be happy with you. If she shakes
her head--still better--be it so, I should say--then you must be content
to pocket the refusal, and part in good fellowship over a bottle with her
father. 'Tis the girl who is to live with you--not I. Why should I, out
of sheer caprice, fasten a husband upon the girl for whom she has no
inclination? That the evil one may haunt me down like a wild beast in my
old age--that in every drop I drink--in every bit of bread I bite, I
might swallow the bitter reproach: Thou art the villain who destroyed his
child's happiness!
MRS MILLER. The short and the long of it is--I refuse my consent
downright; my daughter's intended for a lofty station, and I'll go to law
if my husband is going to be talked over.
MILLER. Shall I break every bone in your body, you millclack?
WORM (to MILLER). Paternal advice goes a great way with the daughter,
and I hope you know me, Mr. Miller?
MILLER. Plague take you! 'Tis the girl must know you. What an old
crabstick like me can see in you is just the very last thing that a
dainty young girl wants. I'll tell you to a hair if you're the man for
an orchestra--but a woman's heart is far too deep for a music-master.
And then, to be frank with you--you know that I'm a blunt,
straightforward fellow--you'll not give thank'ye for my advice. I'll
persuade my daughter to no one--but from you Mr. Sec--I would dissuade
her! A lover who calls upon the father for help--with permission--is not
worth a pinch of snuff. If he has anything in him, he'll be ashamed to
take that old-fashioned way of making his deserts known to his
sweetheart. If he hasn't the courage, why he's a milksop, and no Louisas
were born for the like of him. No! he must carry on his commerce with
the daughter behind the father's back. He must manage so to win her
heart, that she would rather wish both father and mother at Old Harry
than give him up--or that she come herself, fall at her father's feet,
and implore either for death on the rack, or the only one of her heart.
That's the fellow for me! that I call love! and he who can't bring
matters to that pitch with a petticoat may--stick the goose feather in
his cap.
WORM (seizes hat and stick and hurries out of the room). Much obliged,
Mr. Miller!
MILLER (going after him slowly). For what? for what? You haven't taken
anything, Mr. Secretary! (Comes back.) He won't hear, and off he's
gone. The very sight of that quill-driver is like poison and brimstone
to me. An ugly, contraband knave, smuggled into the world by some lewd
prank of the devil--with his malicious little pig's eyes, foxy hair, and
nut-cracker chin, just as if Nature, enraged at such a bungled piece of
goods, had seized the ugly monster by it, and flung him aside. No!
rather than throw away my daughter on a vagabond like him, she may--God
forgive me!
MRS MILLER. The wretch!--but you'll be made to keep a clean tongue in
your head!
MILLER. Ay, and you too, with your pestilential baron--you, too, must
put my bristles up. You're never more stupid than when you have the most
occasion to show a little sense. What's the meaning of all that trash
about your daughter being a great lady? If it's to be cried out about
the town to-morrow, you need only let that fellow get scent of it. He is
one of your worthies who go sniffing about into people's houses, dispute
upon everything, and, if a slip of the tongue happen to you, skurry with
it straight to the prince, mistress, and minister, and then there's the
devil to pay.
SCENE III.
Enter LOUISA with a book in her hand.
LOUISA. Good morning, dear father!
MILLER (affectionately). Bless thee, my Louisa! I rejoice to see thy
thoughts are turned so diligently to thy Creator. Continue so, and his
arm will support thee.
LOUISA. Oh! I am a great sinner, father! Was he not here, mother?
MRS MILLER. Who, my child?
LOUISA. Ah! I forgot that there are others in the world besides him--my
head wanders so. Was he not here? Ferdinand?
MILLER (with melancholy, serious voice). I thought my Louisa had
forgotten that name in her devotions?
LOUISA (after looking at him steadfastly for some time). I understand
you, father. I feel the knife which stabs my conscience; but it comes
too late. I can no longer pray, father. Heaven and Ferdinand divide my
bleeding soul, and I fear--I fear--(after a pause). Yet no, no, good
father. The painter is best praised when we forget him in the
contemplation of his picture. When in the contemplation of his
masterpiece, my delight makes me forget the Creator,--is not that,
father, the true praise of God?
MILLER (throws himself in displeasure on a chair). There we have it!
Those are the fruits of your ungodly reading.
LOUISA (uneasy, goes to the window). Where can he be now? Ah! the
high-born ladies who see him--listen to him----I am a poor forgotten
maiden. (Startles at that word, and rushes to her father.) But no, no!
forgive me. I do not repine at my lot. I ask but little--to think on
him--that can harm no one. Ah! that I might breathe out this little
spark of life in one soft fondling zephyr to cool his cheek! That this
fragile floweret, youth, were a violet, on which he might tread, and I
die modestly beneath his feet! I ask no more, father! Can the proud,
majestic day-star punish the gnat for basking in its rays?
MILLER (deeply affected, leans on the arm of his chair, and covers his
face). My child, my child, with joy would I sacrifice the remnant of my
days hadst thou never seen the major.
LOUISA (terrified.) How; how? What did you say? No, no! that could not
be your meaning, good father. You know not that Ferdinand is mine! You
know not that God created him for me, and for my delight alone! (After a
pause of recollection.) The first moment that I beheld him--and the
blood rushed into my glowing cheeks--every pulse beat with joy; every
throb told me, every breath whispered, "'Tis he!" And my heart,
recognizing the long-desired one, repeated "'Tis he!" And the whole
world was as one melodious echo of my delight! Then--oh! then was the
first dawning of my soul! A thousand new sentiments arose in my bosom,
as flowers arise from the earth when spring approaches. I forgot there
was a world, yet never had I felt that world so dear to me! I forgot
there was a God, yet never had I so loved him!
MILLER (runs to her and clasps her to his bosom). Louisa! my beloved, my
admirable child! Do what thou wilt. Take all--all--my life--the baron--
God is my witness--him I can never give thee! [Exit.
LOUISA. Nor would I have him now, father! Time on earth is but a
stinted dewdrop in the ocean of eternity. 'Twill swiftly glide in one
delicious dream of Ferdinand. I renounce him for this life! But then,
mother--then when the bounds of separation are removed--when the hated
distinctions of rank no longer part us--when men will be only men--I
shall bring nothing with me save my innocence! Yet often has my father
told me that at the Almighty's coming riches and titles will be
worthless; and that hearts alone will be beyond all price. Oh! then
shall I be rich! There, tears will be reckoned for triumphs, and purity
of soul be preferred to an illustrious ancestry. Then, then, mother,
shall I be noble! In what will he then be superior to the girl of his
heart?
MRS. MILLER (starts from her seat). Louisa! the baron! He is jumping
over the fence! Where shall I hide myself?
LOUISA (begins to tremble). Oh! do not leave me, mother!
MRS MILLER. Mercy! What a figure I am. I am quite ashamed! I cannot
let his lordship see me in this state!
[Exit.
SCENE IV.
LOUISA--FERDINAND. (He flies towards her--she falls back into her
chair, pale and trembling. He remains standing before her--they
look at each other for some moments in silence. A pause.)
FERDINAND. So pale, Louisa?
LOUISA (rising, and embracing him). It is nothing--nothing now that you
are here--it is over.
FERDINAND (takes her hand and raises it to his lips). And does my Louisa
still love me? My heart is yesterday's; is thine the same? I flew
hither to see if thou wert happy, that I might return and be so too. But
I find thee whelmed in sorrow!
LOUISA. Not so, my beloved, not so!
FERDINAND. Confess, Louisa! you are not happy. I see through your soul
as clearly as through the transparent lustre of this brilliant. No spot
can harbor here unmarked by me--no thought can cloud your brow that does
not reach your lover's heart. Whence comes this grief? Tell me, I
beseech you! Ah! could I feel assured this mirror still remained
unsullied, there'd seem to me no cloud in all the universe! Tell me,
dear Louisa, what afflicts you?
LOUISA (looking at him with anxiety for a few moments). Ferdinand!
couldst thou but know how such discourse exalts the tradesman's
daughter----
FERDINAND (surprised). What say'st thou? Tell me, girl! how camest thou
by that thought? Thou art my Louisa! who told thee thou couldst be aught
else? See, false one, see, for what coldness I must chide thee! Were
indeed thy whole soul absorbed by love for me, never hadst thou found
time to draw comparisons! When I am with thee, my prudence is lost in
one look from thine eyes: when I am absent in a dream of thee! But thou
--thou canst harbor prudence in the sane breast with love! Fie on thee!
Every moment bestowed on this sorrow was a robbery from affection and
from me!
LOUISA (pressing his hand and shaking her head with a melancholy air).
Ferdinand, you would lull my apprehensions to sleep; you would divert my
eyes from the precipice into which I am falling. I can see the future!
The voice of honor--your prospects, your father's anger--my nothingness.
(Shuddering and suddenly drops his hands.) Ferdinand! a sword hangs over
us! They would separate us!
FERDINAND (jumps up). Separate us! Whence these apprehensions, Louisa?
Who can rend the bonds that bind two hearts, or separate the tones of one
accord? True, I am a nobleman--but show me that my patent of nobility is
older than the eternal laws of the universe--or my escutcheon more valid
than the handwriting of heaven in my Louisa's eyes? "This woman is for
this man?" I am son of the prime minister. For that very reason, what
but love can soften the curses which my father's extortions from the
country will entail upon me?
LOUISA. Oh! how I fear that father!
FERDINAND. I fear nothing--nothing but that your affection should know
bounds. Let obstacles rise between us, huge as mountains, I will look
upon them as a ladder by which to fly into the arms of my Louisa! The
tempest of opposing fate shall but fan the flame of my affection dangers
will only serve to make Louisa yet more charming. Then speak no more of
terrors, my love! I myself--I will watch over thee carefully as the
enchanter's dragon watches over buried gold. Trust thyself to me! thou
shalt need no other angel. I will throw myself between thee and fate--
for thee receive each wound. For thee will I catch each drop distilled
from the cup of joy, and bring thee in the bowl of love. (Embracing
affectionately.) This arm shall support my Louisa through life. Fairer
than it dismissed thee, shall heaven receive thee back, and confess with
delight that love alone can give perfection to the soul.
LOUISA (disengaging herself from him, greatly agitated). No more! I
beseech thee, Ferdinand! no more! Couldst thou know. Oh! leave me,
leave me! Little dost thou feel how these hopes rend my heart in pieces
like fiends! (Going.)
FERDINAND (detaining her). Stay, Louisa! stay! Why this agitation? Why
those anxious looks?
LOUISA. I had forgotten these dreams, and was happy. Now--now--from
this day is the tranquillity of my heart no more. Wild impetuous wishes
will torment my bosom! Go! God forgive thee! Thou hast hurled a
firebrand into my young peaceful heart which nothing can extinguish!
(She breaks from him, and rushes from the apartment, followed by
FERDINAND.)
SCENE V.--A Chamber in the PRESIDENT.'S House.
The PRESIDENT, with the grand order of the cross about his neck,
and a star at his breast--SECRETARY WORM.
PRESIDENT. A serious attachment, say you? No, no, Worm; that I never
can believe.
WORM. If your excellency pleases, I will bring proofs of my assertions.
PRESIDENT. That he has a fancy for the wench--flatters her--and, if you
will, pretends to love her--all this is very possible--nay--excusable
--but--and the daughter of a musician, you say?
WORM. Of Miller, the music-master.
PRESIDENT. Handsome? But that, of course.
WORM (with warmth). A most captivating and lovely blondine, who, without
saying too much, might figure advantageously beside the greatest beauties
of the court.
PRESIDENT (laughs). It's very plain, Worm, that you have an eye upon the
jade yourself--I see that. But listen, Worm. That my son has a passion
for the fair sex gives me hope that he will find favor with the ladies.
He may make his way at court. The girl is handsome, you say; I am glad
to think my son has taste. Can he deceive the silly wench by holding out
honorable intentions--still better; it will show that he is shrewd enough
to play the hypocrite when it serves his purpose. He may become prime
minister--if he accomplishes his purpose! Admirable! that will prove to
me that fortune favors him. Should the farce end with a chubby
grandchild--incomparable! I will drink an extra bottle of Malaga to the
prospects of my pedigree, and cheerfully pay the wench's lying-in
expenses.
WORM. All I wish is that your excellency may not have to drink that
bottle to drown your sorrow.
PRESIDENT (sternly). Worm! remember that what I once believe, I believe
obstinately--that I am furious when angered. I am willing to pass over
as a joke this attempt to stir my blood. That you are desirous of
getting rid of your rival, I can very well comprehend, and that, because
you might have some difficulty in supplanting the son, you endeavor to
make a cat's-paw of the father, I can also understand--I am even
delighted to find that you are master of such excellent qualifications in
the way of roguery. Only, friend Worm, pray don't make me, too, the butt
of your knavery. Understand me, have a care that your cunning trench not
upon my plans!
WORM. Pardon me, your excellency! If even--as you suspect--jealousy is
concerned, it is only with the eye, and not with the tongue.
PRESIDENT. It would be better to dispense with it altogether. What can
it matter to you, simpleton, whether you get your coin fresh from the
mint, or it comes through a banker? Console yourself with the example of
our nobility. Whether known to the bridegroom or not, I can assure you
that, amongst us of rank, scarcely a marriage takes place but what at
least half a dozen of the guests--or the footmen--can state the
geometrical area of the bridegroom's paradise.
WORM (bowing). My lord! Upon this head I confess myself a plebeian.
PRESIDENT. And, besides, you may soon have the satisfaction of turning
the laugh most handsomely against your rival. At this very moment it is
under consideration in the cabinet, that, upon the arrival of the new
duchess, Lady Milford shall apparently be discarded, and, to complete the
deception, form an alliance. You know, Worm, how greatly my influence
depends upon this lady--how my mightiest prospects hang upon the passions
of the prince. The duke is now seeking a partner for Lady Milford. Some
one else may step in--conclude the bargain for her ladyship, win the
confidence of the prince, and make himself indispensable, to my cost.
Now, to retain the prince in the meshes of my family, I have resolved
that my Ferdinand shall marry Lady Milford. Is that clear to you?
WORM. Quite dazzling! Your excellency has at least convinced me that,
compared with the president, the father is but a novice. Should the
major prove as obedient a son as you show yourself a tender father, your
demand may chance to be returned with a protest.
PRESIDENT. Fortunately I have never yet had to fear opposition to my
will when once I have pronounced, "It shall be so!" But now, Worm, that
brings us back to our former subject! I will propose Lady Milford to my
son this very day. The face which he puts upon it shall either confirm
your suspicions or entirely confute them.
WORM. Pardon me, my lord! The sullen face which he most assuredly will
put upon it may be placed equally to the account of the bride you offer
to him as of her from whom you wish to separate him. I would beg of you
a more positive test! Propose to him some perfectly unexceptionable
woman. Then, if he consents, let Secretary Worm break stones on the
highway for the next three years.
PRESIDENT (biting his lips). The devil!
WORM. Such is the case, you may rest assured! The mother--stupidity
itself--has, in her simplicity, betrayed all to me.
PRESIDENT (pacing the room, and trying to repress his rage). Good! this
very morning, then!
WORM. Yet, let me entreat your excellency not to forget that the major--
is my master's son----
PRESIDENT. No harm shall come to him, Worm.
WORM. And that my service in ridding you of an unwelcome
daughter-in-law----
PRESIDENT. Should be rewarded by me helping you to a wife? That too,
Worm!
WORM (bowing with delight). Eternally your lordship's slave. (Going.)
PRESIDENT (threatening him). As to what I have confided to you, Worm! If
you dare but to whisper a syllable----
WORM (laughs). Then your excellency will no doubt expose my forgeries!
[Exit.
PRESIDENT. Yes, yes, you are safe enough! I hold you in the fetters of
your own knavery, like a trout on the hook!
Enter SERVANT.
SERVANT. Marshal Kalb----
PRESIDENT. The very man I wished to see. Introduce him.
[Exit SERVANT.
SCENE VI.
MARSHAL KALB, in a rich but tasteless court-dress, with
Chamberlain's keys, two watches, sword, three-cornered
hat, and hair dressed a la Herisson. He bustles up to
the PRESIDENT, and diffuses a strong scent of musk through
the whole theatre--PRESIDENT.
MARSHAL. Ah! good morning, my dear baron! Quite delighted to see you
again--pray forgive my not having paid my respects to you at an earlier
hour--the most pressing business--the duke's bill of fare--invitation
cards--arrangements for the sledge party to-day--ah!--besides it was
necessary for me to be at the levee, to inform his highness of the state
of the weather.
PRESIDENT. True, marshal! Such weighty concerns were not to be
neglected!
MARSHAL. Then a rascally tailor, too, kept me waiting for him!
PRESIDENT. And yet ready to the moment?
MARSHAL. Nor is that all! One misfortune follows at the heels of the
other to-day! Only hear me!
PRESIDENT (absent). Can it be possible?
MARSHAL. Just listen! Scarce had I quitted my carriage, when the horses
became restive, and began to plunge and rear--only imagine!--splashed my
breeches all over with mud! What was to be done? Fancy, my dear baron,
just fancy yourself for a moment in my predicament! There I stood! the
hour was late! a day's journey to return--yet to appear before his
highness in this--good heavens! What did I bethink me of? I pretended
to faint! They bundle me into my carriage! I drive home like mad--
change my dress--hasten back--and only think!--in spite of all this I was
the first person in the antechamber! What say you to that?
PRESIDENT. A most admirable impromptu of mortal wit--but tell me, Kalb,
did you speak to the duke?
MARSHAL (importantly). Full twenty minutes and a half.
PRESIDENT. Indeed? Then doubtless you have important news to impart
to me?
MARSHAL (seriously, after a pause of reflection). His highness wears a
Merde d'Oye beaver to-day.
PRESIDENT. God bless me!--and yet, marshal, I have even greater news to
tell you. Lady Milford will soon become my daughter-in-law. That, I
think will be new to you?
MARSHAL. Is it possible! And is it already agreed upon?
PRESIDENT. It is settled, marshal--and you would oblige me by forthwith
waiting upon her ladyship, and preparing her to receive Ferdinand's
visit. You have full liberty, also, to circulate the news of my son's
approaching nuptials.
MARSHAL. My dear friend! With consummate pleasure! What can I desire
more? I fly to the baroness this moment. Adieu! (Embracing him.) In
less than three-quarters of an hour it shall be known throughout the
town. [Skips off.
PRESIDENT (smiling contemptuously). How can people say that such
creatures are of no use in the world? Now, then, Master Ferdinand must
either consent or give the whole town the lie. (Rings--WORM enters.)
Send my son hither. (WORM retires; the PRESIDENT walks up and down, full
of thought.)
SCENE VII.
PRESIDENT--FERDINAND.
FERDINAND. In obedience to your commands, sir----
PRESIDENT. Ay, if I desire the presence of my son, I must command it--
Ferdinand, I have observed you for some time past, and find no longer
that open vivacity of youth which once so delighted me. An unusual
sorrow broods upon your features; you shun your father; you shun society.
For shame, Ferdinand! At your age a thousand irregularities are easier
forgiven than one instant of idle melancholy. Leave this to me, my son!
Leave the care of your future happiness to my direction, and study only
to co-operate with my designs--come, Ferdinand, embrace me!
FERDINAND. You are most gracious to-day, father!
PRESIDENT. "To-day," you rogue? and your "to-day" with such a vinegar
look? (Seriously.) Ferdinand! For whose sake have I trod that
dangerous path which leads to the affections of the prince? For whose
sake have I forever destroyed my peace with Heaven and my conscience?
Hear me, Ferdinand--I am speaking to my son. For whom have I paved the
way by the removal of my predecessor? a deed which the more deeply gores
my inward feelings the more carefully I conceal the dagger from the
world! Tell me, Ferdinand, for whose sake have I done all this?
FERDINAND (recoiling with horror). Surely not for mine, father, not for
mine? Surely not on me can fall the bloody reflection of this murder?
By my Almighty Maker, it were better never to have been born than to be
the pretext for such a crime!
PRESIDENT. What sayest thou? How? But I will attribute these strange
notions to thy romantic brain, Ferdinand; let me not lose my temper--
ungrateful boy! Thus dost thou repay me for my sleepless nights? Thus
for my restless anxiety to promote thy good? Thus for the never-dying
scorpion of my conscience? Upon me must fall the burden of
responsibility; upon me the curse, the thunderbolt of the Judge. Thou
receivest thy fortune from another's hand--the crime is not attached to
the inheritance.
FERDINAND (extending his right hand towards heaven). Here I solemnly
abjure an inheritance which must ever remind me of a parent's guilt!
PRESIDENT. Hear me, sirrah! and do not incense me! Were you left to
your own direction you would crawl through life in the dust.
FERDINAND. Oh! better, father, far, far better, than to crawl about a
throne!
PRESIDENT (repressing his anger). So! Then compulsion must make you
sensible of your good fortune! To that point, which, with the utmost
striving a thousand others fail to reach, you have been exalted in your
very sleep. At twelve you received a commission; at twenty a command. I
have succeeded in obtaining for you the duke's patronage. He bids you
lay aside your uniform, and share with me his favor and his confidence.
He spoke of titles--embassies--of honors bestowed but upon few. A
glorious prospect spreads itself before you! The direct path to the
place next the throne lies open to you! Nay, to the throne itself, if
the actual power of ruling is equivalent to the mere symbol. Does not
that idea awaken your ambition?
FERDINAND. No! My ideas of greatness and happiness differ widely from
yours. Your happiness is but seldom known, except by the misery of
others. Envy, terror, hatred are the melancholy mirrors in which the
smiles of princes are reflected. Tears, curses, and the wailings of
despair, the horrid banquet that feasts your supposed elect of fortune;
intoxicated with these they rush headlong into eternity, staggering to
the throne of judgment. My ideas of happiness teach me to look for its
fountain in myself! All my wishes lie centered in my heart!
PRESIDENT. Masterly! Inimitable! Admirable! The first schooling I
have received these thirty years! Pity that the brain at fifty should be
so dull at learning! But--that such talent may not rust, I will place
one by your side on whom you can practise your harlequinade follies at
pleasure. You will resolve--resolve this very day--to take a wife.
FERDINAND (starting back amazed). Father!
PRESIDENT. Answer me not. I have made proposals, in your name, to Lady
Milford. You will instantly determine upon going to her, and declaring
yourself her bridegroom.
FERDINAND. Lady Milford! father?
PRESIDENT. I presume she is not unknown to you!
FERDINAND (passionately). To what brothel is she unknown through the
dukedom? But pardon me, dearest father! It is ridiculous to imagine
that your proposal can be serious. Would you call yourself father of
that infamous son who married a licensed prostitute?
PRESIDENT. Nay, more. I would ask her hand myself, if she would take a
man of fifty. Would not you call yourself that infamous father's son?
FERDINAND. No! as God lives! that would I not!
PRESIDENT. An audacity, by my honor! which I pardon for its excessive
singularity.
FERDINAND. I entreat you, father, release me from a demand which would
render it insupportable to call myself your son.
PRESIDENT. Are you distracted, boy? What reasonable man would not
thirst after a distinction which makes him, as one of a trio, the equal
and co-partner of his sovereign?
FERDINAND. You are quite an enigma to me, father! "A distinction," do
you call it? A distinction to share that with a prince, wherein he
places himself on a level with the meanest of his subjects? (The
PRESIDENT bursts into a loud laugh.) You may scoff--I must submit to it
in a father. With what countenance should I support the gaze of the
meanest laborer, who at least receives an undivided person as the portion
of his bride? With what countenance should I present myself before the
world? before the prince? nay, before the harlot herself, who seeks to
wash out in my shame the brandmarks of her honor?
PRESIDENT. Where in the world couldst thou collect such notions, boy?
FERDINAND. I implore you, father, by heaven and earth! By thus
sacrificing your only son you can never become so happy as you will make
him miserable! If my life can be a step to your advancement, dispose of
it. My life you gave me; and I will never hesitate a moment to sacrifice
it wholly to your welfare. But my honor, father! If you deprive me of
this, the giving me life was a mere trick of wanton cruelty, and I must
equally curse the parent and the pander.
PRESIDENT (tapping him on the shoulder in a friendly manner). That's as
it should be, my dear boy! Now I see that you are a brave and noble
fellow, and worthy of the first woman in the dukedom. You shall have
her. This very day you shall be affianced to the Countess of Ostheim.
FERDINAND (in new disorder). Is this, then, destined to be the hour of
my destruction?
PRESIDENT (regarding him with an eye of suspicion). In this union, I
imagine, you can have no objection on the score of honor?
FERDINAND. None, father, none whatever. Frederica of Ostheim would make
any other the happiest of men. (Aside, in the greatest agitation.) His
kindness rends in pieces that remnant of my heart which his cruelty left
unwounded.
PRESIDENT (his eye still fixed upon him). I expect your gratitude,
Ferdinand!
FERDINAND (rushes towards him and kisses his hands). Father, your
goodness awakens every spark of sentiment in my bosom. Father! receive
my warmest thanks for your kind intentions. Your choice is
unexceptionable! But I cannot--I dare not--pity me, father, I never can
love the countess.
PRESIDENT (draws back). Ha! ha! now I've caught you, young gentleman!
The cunning fox has tumbled into the trap. Oh, you artful hypocrite! It
was not then honor which made you refuse Lady Milford? It was not the
woman, but the nuptials which alarmed you! (FERDINAND stands petrified
for a moment; then recovers himself and prepares to quit the chamber
hastily.) Whither now? Stay, sir. Is this the respect due to your
father? (FERDINAND returns slowly.) Her ladyship expects you. The duke
has my promise! Both court and city believe all is settled. If thou
makest me appear a liar, boy! If, before the duke--the lady--the court
and city--thou shouldst make me appear a liar!--tremble, boy!--or when I
have gained information of certain circumstances--how now? Why does the
color so suddenly forsake your cheeks?
FERDINAND (pale and trembling). How? What? Nothing--it is nothing, my
father!
PRESIDENT (casting upon him a dreadful look). Should there be cause. If
I should discover the source whence this obstinacy proceeds! Boy! boy!
the very suspicion drives me distracted! Leave me this moment. 'Tis now
the hour of parade. As soon as the word is given, go thou to her
ladyship. At my nod a dukedom trembles; we shall see whether a
disobedient son dare dispute my will! (Going, returns.) Remember, sir!
fail not to wait on Lady Milford, or dread my anger!
[Exit.
FERDINAND (awakens, as if from a dream). Is he gone? Was that a
father's voice? Yes, I will go--I will see her--I will say such things
to her--hold such a mirror before her eyes. Then, base woman, shouldst
thou still demand my hand--in the presence of the assembled nobles, the
military, and the people--gird thyself with all the pride of thy native
Britain--I, a German youth, will spurn thee!
[Exit.
ACT II.
SCENE I.--A room in LADY MILFORD'S house. On the right of the stage
stands a sofa, on the left a pianoforte.
LADY MILFORD, in a loose but elegant negligee, is running her hand
over the keys of the pianoforte as SOPHY advances from the window.
SOPHY. The parade is over, and the officers are separating, but I see no
signs of the major.
LADY MILFORD (rises and walks up and down the room in visible agitation).
I know not what ails me to-day, Sophy! I never felt so before--you say
you do not see him! It is evident enough that he is by no means
impatient for this meeting--my heart feels oppressed as if by some heavy
crime. Go! Sophy, order the most spirited horse in the stable to be
saddled for me--I must away into the open air where I may look on the
blue sky and hear the busy hum of man. I must dispel this gloominess by
change and motion.
SOPHY. If you feel out of spirits, my lady, why not invite company! Let
the prince give an entertainment here, or have the ombre table brought to
you. If the prince and all his court were at my beck and call I would
let no whim or fancy trouble me!
LADY MILFORD (throwing herself on the couch). Pray, spare me. I would
gladly give a jewel in exchange for every hour's respite from the
infliction of such company! I always have my rooms tapestried with these
creatures! Narrow-minded, miserable beings, who are quite shocked if by
chance a candid and heartfelt word should escape one's lips! and stand
aghast as though they saw an apparition; slaves, moved by a single
puppet-wire, which I can govern as easily as the threads of my
embroidery! What can I have in common with such insipid wretches, whose
souls, like their watches, are regulated by machinery? What pleasure can
I have in the society of people whose answers to my questions I know
beforehand? How can I hold communion with men who dare not venture on an
opinion of their own lest it should differ from mine! Away with them--I
care not to ride a horse that has not spirit enough to champ the bit!
(Goes to the window.)
SOPHY. But surely, my lady, you except the prince, the handsomest, the
wittiest, and the most gallant man in all his duchy.
LADY MILFORD (returning). Yes, in his duchy, that was well said--and it
is only a royal duchy, Sophy, that could in the least excuse my weakness.
You say the world envies me! Poor thing! It should rather pity me!
Believe me, of all who drink of the streams of royal bounty there is none
more miserable than the sovereign's favorite, for he who is great and
mighty in the eyes of others comes to her but as the humble suppliant!
It is true that by the talisman of his greatness he can realize every
wish of my heart as readily as the magician calls forth the fairy palace
from the depths of the earth! He can place the luxuries of both Indies
upon my table, turn the barren wilderness to a paradise, can bid the
broad rivers of his land play in triumphal arches over my path, or expend
all the hard-earned gains of his subjects in a single feu-de-joie to my
honor. But can he school his heart to respond to one great or ardent
emotion? Can he extort one noble thought from his weak and indigent
brain? Alas! my heart is thirsting amid all this ocean of splendor; what
avail, then, a thousand virtuous sentiments when I am only permitted to
indulge in the pleasures of the senses.
SOFHY (regarding her with surprise). Dear lady, you amaze me! how long
is it since I entered your service?
LADY MILFORD. Do you ask because this is the first day on which you have
learnt to know me? I have sold my honor to the prince, it is true, but
my heart is still my own--a heart, dear Sophy, which even yet may be
worth the acceptance of an honorable man--a heart over which the
pestilential blast of courtly corruption has passed as the breath which
for a moment dims the mirror's lustre. Believe me my spirit would long
since have revolted against this miserable thraldom could my ambition
have submitted to see another advanced to my place.
SOPHY. And could a heart like yours so readily surrender itself to mere
ambition?
LADY MILFORD (with energy). Has it not already been avenged? nay, is it
not even at this very moment making me pay a heavy atonement (with
emphasis laying her hand on SOPHY'S shoulder)? Believe me, Sophy, woman
has but to choose between ruling and serving, but the utmost joy of power
is a worthless possession if the mightier joy of being slave to the man
we love be denied us.
SOPHY. A truth, dear lady, which I could least of all have expected to
hear from your lips!
LADY MILFORD. And wherefore, Sophy? Does not woman show, by her
childish mode of swaying the sceptre of power, that she is only fit to go
in leading-strings! Have not my fickle humors--my eager pursuit of wild
dissipation--betrayed to you that I sought in these to stifle the still
wilder throbbings of my heart?
SOPHY (starting back with surprise). This from you, my lady?
LADY MILFORD (continuing with increasing energy). Appease these
throbbings. Give me the man in whom my thoughts are centered--the man I
adore, without whom life were worse than death. Let me but hear from his
lips that the tears of love with which my eyes are bedewed outvie the
gems that sparkle in my hair, and I will throw at the feet of the prince
his heart and his dukedom, and flee to the uttermost parts of the earth
with the man of my love!
SOPHY (looking at her in alarm). Heavens! my lady! control your
emotion----
LADY MILFORD (in surprise). You change color! To what have I given
utterance? Yet, since I have said thus much, let me say still more--let
my confidence be a pledge of your fidelity,--I will tell you all.
SOPHY (looking anxiously around). I fear my lady--I dread it--I have
heard enough!
LADY MILFORD. This alliance with the major--you, like the rest of the
world, believe to be the result of a court intrigue--Sophy, blush not--be
not ashamed of me--it is the work of--my love!
SOPHY. Heavens! As I suspected!
LADY MILFORD. Yes, Sophy, they are all deceived. The weak prince--the
diplomatic baron--the silly marshal--each and all of these are firmly
convinced that this marriage is a most infallible means of preserving me
to the prince, and of uniting us still more firmly! But this will prove
the very means of separating us forever, and bursting asunder these
execrable bonds. The cheater cheated--outwitted by a weak woman. Ye
yourselves are leading me to the man of my heart--this was all I sought.
Let him but once be mine--be but mine--then, oh, then, a long farewell to
all this despicable pomp!
SCENE II.--An old valet of the DUKE'S, with a casket of jewels. The
former.
VALET. His serene highness begs your ladyship's acceptance of these
jewels as a nuptial present. They have just arrived from Venice.
LADY MILFORD (opens the casket and starts back in astonishment). What
did these jewels cost the duke?
VALET. Nothing!
LADY MILFORD. Nothing! Are you beside yourself? (retreating a step or
two.) Old man! you fix on me a look as though you would pierce me
through. Did you say these precious jewels cost nothing?
VALET. Yesterday seven thousand children of the land left their homes to
go to America--they pay for all.
LADY MILFORD (sets the casket suddenly down, and paces up and down the
room; after a pause, to the VALET). What distresses you, old man? you
are weeping!
VALET (wiping his eyes, and trembling violently). Yes, for these jewels.
My two sons are among the number.
LADY MILFORD. But they went not by compulsion?
VALET (laughing bitterly). Oh! dear no! they were all volunteers! There
were certainly some few forward lads who pushed to the front of the ranks
and inquired of the colonel at what price the prince sold his subjects
per yoke, upon which our gracious ruler ordered the regiments to be
marched to the parade, and the malcontents to be shot. We heard the
report of the muskets, and saw brains and blood spurting about us, while
the whole band shouted--"Hurrah for America!"
LADY MILFORD. And I heard nothing of all this! saw nothing!
VALET. No, most gracious lady, because you rode off to the bear-hunt
with his highness just at the moment the drum was beating for the march.
'Tis a pity your ladyship missed the pleasure of the sight--here, crying
children might be seen following their wretched father--there, a mother
distracted with grief was rushing forward to throw her tender infant
among the bristling bayonets--here, a bride and bridegroom were separated
with the sabre's stroke--and there, graybeards were seen to stand in
despair, and fling their very crutches after their sons in the New World
--and, in the midst of all this, the drums were beating loudly, that the
prayers and lamentations might not reach the Almighty ear.
LADY MILFORD (rising in violent emotion). Away with these jewels--their
rays pierce my bosom like the flames of hell. Moderate your grief, old
man. Your children shall be restored to you. You shall again clasp them
to your bosom.
VALET (with warmth). Yes, heaven knows! We shall meet again! As they
passed the city gates they turned round and cried aloud: "God bless our
wives and children--long life to our gracious sovereign. At the day of
judgment we shall all meet again!"
LADY MILFORD (walks up and down the room in great agitation). Horrible!
most horrible!--and they would persuade me that I had dried up all the
tears in the land. Now, indeed, my eyes are fearfully opened! Go--tell
the prince that I will thank him in person! (As the valet is going she
drops the purse into his hat.) And take this as a recompense for the
truth you have revealed to me.
VALET (throws the purse with contempt on the table). Keep it, with your
other treasures. [Exit.
LADY MILFORD (looking after him in astonishment). Sophy, follow him,
and inquire his name. His sons shall be restored to him. (SOPHY goes.
LADY MILFORD becomes absorbed in thought. Pause. Then to SOPHY as she
returns.) Was there not a report that some town on the frontier had
been destroyed by fire, and four hundred families reduced to beggary?
(She rings.)
SOPHY. What has made your ladyship just think of that? Yes--such was
certainly the fact, and most of these poor creatures are either compelled
to serve their creditors as bondsmen, or are dragging out their miserable
days in the depths of the royal silver mines.
Enter a SERVANT. What are your ladyship's commands?
LADY MILFORD (giving him the case of jewels). Carry this to my treasurer
without delay. Let the jewels be sold and the money distributed among
the four hundred families who were ruined by the fire.
SOPHY. Consider, my lady, the risk you run of displeasing his highness.
LADY MILFORD (with dignity). Should I encircle my brows with the curses
of his subjects? (Makes a sign to the servant, who goes away with the
jewel case.) Wouldst thou have me dragged to the earth by the dreadful
weight of the tears of misery? Nay! Sophy, it is better far to wear
false jewels on the brow, and to have the consciousness of a good deed
within the breast!
SOPHY. But diamonds of such value! Why not rather give some that are
less precious? Truly, my lady, it is an unpardonable act.
LADY MILFORD. Foolish girl! For this deed more brilliants and pearls
will flow for me in one moment than kings ever wore in their richest
diadems! Ay, and infinitely more beautiful!
SERVANT enters. Major von Walter!
SOPHY (running hastily to the help of LADY MILFORD, who seems fainting).
Heavens, my lady, you change color!
LADY MILFORD. The first man who ever made me tremble. (To the SERVANT.)
I am not well--but stay--what said the major?--how? O Sophy! I look
sadly ill, do I not?
SOPHY. I entreat you, my lady, compose yourself.
SERVANT. Is it your ladyship's wish that I should deny you to the major?
LADY MILFORD (hesitating). Tell him--I shall be happy to see him. (Exit
SERVANT.) What shall I say to him, Sophy? how shall I receive him? I
will be silent--alas! I fear he will despise my weakness. He will--ah,
me! what sad forebodings oppress my heart! You are going Sophy! stay,
yet--no, no--he comes--yes, stay, stay with me----
SOPHY. Collect yourself, my lady, the major----
SCENE III.--FERDINAND VON WALTER. The former.
FERDINAND (with a slight bow). I hope I do not interrupt your ladyship?
LADY MILFORD (with visible emotion). Not at all, baron--not in the
least.
FERDINAND. I wait on your ladyship, at the command of my father.
LADY MILFORD. Therein I am his debtor.
FERDINAND. And I am charged to announce to you that our marriage is
determined on. Thus far I fulfil the commission of my father.
LADY MILFORD (changing color and trembling). And not of your own heart?
FERDINAND. Ministers and panders have no concern with hearts.
LADY MILFORD (almost speechless with emotion). And you yourself--have
you nothing to add?
FERDINAND (looking at SOPHY). Much! my lady, much!
LADY MILFORD (motions to SOPHY to withdraw). May I beg you to take a
seat by my side?
FERDINAND. I will be brief, lady.
LADY MILFORD. Well!
FERDINAND. I am a man of honor!
LADY MILFORD. Whose worth I know how to appreciate.
FERDINAND. I am of noble birth!
LADY MILFORD. Noble as any in the land!
FERDINAND. A soldier!
LADY MILFORD (in a soft, affectionate manner). Thus far you have only
enumerated advantages which you share in common with many others. Why
are you so silent regarding those noble qualities which are peculiarly
your own?
FERDINAND (coldly). Here they would be out of place.
LADY MILFORD (with increasing agitation). In what light am I to
understand this prelude?
FERDINAND (slowly, and with emphasis). As the protest of the voice of
honor--should you think proper to enforce the possession of my hand!
LADY MILFORD (starting with indignation). Major von Walter! What
language is this?
FERDINAND (calmly). The language of my heart--of my unspotted name--and
of this true sword.
LADY MILFORD. Your sword was given to you by the prince.
FERDINAND. 'Twas the state which gave it, by the hands of the prince.
God bestowed on me an honest heart. My nobility is derived from a line
of ancestry extending through centuries.
LADY MILFORD. But the authority of the prince----
FERDINAND (with warmth). Can he subvert the laws of humanity, or stamp
glory on our actions as easily as he stamps value on the coin of his
realm? He himself is not raised above the laws of honor, although he may
stifle its whispers with gold--and shroud his infamy in robes of ermine!
But enough of this, lady!--it is too late now to talk of blasted
prospects--or of the desecration of ancestry--or of that nice sense of
honor--girded on with my sword--or of the world's opinion. All these I
am ready to trample under foot as soon as you have proved to me that the
reward is not inferior to the sacrifice.
LADY MILFORD (in extreme distress turning away). Major! I have not
deserved this!
FERDINAND (taking her hand). Pardon me, lady--we are without witnesses.
The circumstance which brings us together to-day--and only to-day--
justifies me, nay, compels me, to reveal to you my most secret feelings.
I cannot comprehend, lady, how a being gifted with so much beauty and
spirit--qualities which a man cannot fail to admire--could throw herself
away on a prince incapable of valuing aught beyond her mere person--and
yet not feel some visitings of shame, when she steps forth to offer her
heart to a man of honor!
LADY MILFORD (looking at him with an air of pride). Say on, sir, without
reserve.
FERDINAND. You call yourself an Englishwoman--pardon me, lady, I can
hardly believe you. The free-born daughter of the freest people under
heaven--a people too proud to imitate even foreign virtues--would surely
never have sold herself to foreign vices! It is not possible, lady, that
you should be a native of Britain, unless indeed your heart be as much
below as the sons of Britannia vaunt theirs to be above all others!
LADY MILFORD. Have you done, sir?
FERDINAND. Womanly vanity--passions--temperament--a natural appetite for
pleasure--all these might, perhaps, be pleaded in extenuation--for virtue
often survives honor--and many who once trod the paths of infamy have
subsequently reconciled themselves to society by the performance of noble
deeds, and have thus thrown a halo of glory round their evil doings--but
if this were so, whence comes the monstrous extortion that now oppresses
the people with a weight never before known? This I would ask in the
name of my fatherland--and now, lady, I have done!
LADY MILFORD (with gentleness and dignity). This is the first time,
Baron von Walter, that words such as these have been addressed to me--and
you are the only man to whom I would in return have vouchsafed an answer.
Your rejection of my hand commands my esteem. Your invectives against my
heart have my full forgiveness, for I will not believe you sincere, since
he who dares hold such language to a woman, that could ruin him in an
instant--must either believe that she possesses a great and noble heart--
or must be the most desperate of madmen. That you ascribe the misery of
this land to me may He forgive, before whose throne you, and I, and the
prince shall one day meet! But, as in my person you have insulted the
daughter of Britain, so in vindication of my country's honor you must
hear my exculpation.
FERDINAND (leaning on his sword). Lady, I listen with interest.
LADY MILFORD. Hear, then, that which I have never yet breathed to
mortal, and which none but yourself will ever learn from my lips. I am
not the low adventurer you suppose me, sir! Nay! did I listen to the
voice of pride, I might even boast myself to be of royal birth; I am
descended from the unhappy Thomas Norfolk, who paid the penalty of his
adherence to the cause of Mary, Queen of Scots, by a bloody death on the
scaffold. My father, who, as royal chamberlain, had once enjoyed his
sovereign's confidence, was accused of maintaining treasonable relations
with France, and was condemned and executed by a decree of the Parliament
of Great Britain. Our estates were confiscated, and our family banished
from their native soil. My mother died on the day of my father's
execution, and I--then a girl of fourteen--fled to Germany with one
faithful attendant. A casket of jewels, and this crucifix, placed in my
bosom by my dying mother, were all my fortune!
[FERDINAND, absorbed in thought, surveys LADY MILFORD with looks of
compassion and sympathy.
LADY MILFORD (continuing with increased emotion). Without a name--
without protection or property--a foreigner and an orphan, I reached
Hamburg. I had learnt nothing but a little French, and to run my fingers
over the embroidery frame, or the keys of my harpsichord. But, though I
was ignorant of all useful arts, I had learnt full well to feast off gold
and silver, to sleep beneath silken hangings, to bid attendant pages obey
my voice, and to listen to the honeyed words of flattery and adulation.
Six years passed away in sorrow and in sadness--the remnant of my scanty
means was fast melting away--my old and faithful nurse was no more--and--
and then it was that fate brought your sovereign to Hamburg. I was
walking beside the shores of the Elbe, wondering, as I gazed on its
waters, whether they or my sorrows were the deeper, when the duke crossed
my path. He followed me, traced me to my humble abode, and, casting
himself at my feet, vowed that he loved me. (She pauses, and, after
struggling with her emotion, continues in a voice choked by tears.) All
the images of my happy childhood were revived in hues of delusive
brightness--while the future lowered before me black as the grave. My
heart panted for communion with another--and I sank into the arms opened
to receive me! (Turning away.) And now you condemn me!
FERDINAND (greatly agitated, follows her and leads her back). Lady!
heavens! what do I hear! What have I done? The guilt of my conduct is
unveiled in all its deformity! It is impossible you should forgive me.
LADY MILFORD (endeavoring to overcome her emotion). Hear me on! The
prince, it is true, overcame my unprotected youth, but the blood of the
Howards still glowed within my veins, and never ceased to reproach me;
that I, the descendant of royal ancestors, should stoop to be a prince's
paramour! Pride and destiny still contended in my bosom, when the duke
brought me hither, where scenes the most revolting burst upon my sight!
The voluptuousness of the great is an insatiable hyena--the craving of
whose appetite demands perpetual victims. Fearfully had it laid this
country waste separating bridegroom and bride--and tearing asunder even
the holy bonds of marriage. Here it had destroyed the tranquil happiness
of a whole family--there the blighting pest had seized on a young and
inexperienced heart, and expiring victims called down bitter imprecations
on the heads of the undoers. It was then that I stepped forth between
the lamb and the tiger, and, in a moment of dalliance, extorted from the
duke his royal promise that this revolting licentiousness should cease.
FERDINAND (pacing the room in violent agitation). No more, lady! No
more!
LADY MILFORD. This gloomy period was succeeded by one still more gloomy.
The court swarmed with French and Italian adventurers--the royal sceptre
became the plaything of Parisian harlots, and the people writhed and bled
beneath their capricious rule. Each had her day. I saw them sink before
me, one by one, for I was the most skilful coquette of all! It was then
that I seized and wielded the tyrant's sceptre whilst he slumbered
voluptuously in my embrace--then, Walter, thy country, for the first
time, felt the hand of humanity, and reposed in confidence on my bosom.
(A pause, during which she gazes upon him with tenderness.) Oh! 'that
the man, by whom, of all others, I least wish to be misunderstood, should
compel me to turn braggart and parade my unobtrusive virtues to the glare
of admiration! Walter, I have burst open the doors of prisons--I have
cancelled death-warrants and shortened many a frightful eternity upon the
galleys. Into wounds beyond my power to heal I have at least poured
soothing balsam. I have hurled mighty villains to the earth, and oft
with the tears of a harlot saved the cause of innocence from impending
ruin. Ah! young man, how sweet were then my feelings! How proudly did
these actions teach my heart to support the reproaches of my noble blood!
And now comes the man who alone can repay me for all that I have
suffered--the man, whom perhaps my relenting destiny created as a
compensation for former sorrows--the man, whom with ardent affection, I
already clasped in my dreams.
FERDINAND (interrupting her). Hold, lady, hold! You exceed the bounds of
our conference! You undertook to clear yourself from reproach, and you
make me a criminal! Spare me, I beseech you! Spare a heart already
overwhelmed by confusion and remorse!
LADY MILFORD (grasping his hand). You must hear me, Walter! hear me now
or never. Long enough has the heroine sustained me; now you must feel
the whole weight of these tears! Mark me, Walter! Should an
unfortunate--impetuously, irresistibly attracted towards you--clasp you
to her bosom full of unutterable, inextinguishable love--should this
unfortunate--bowed down with the consciousness of shame--disgusted with
vicious pleasures--heroically exalted by the inspiration of virtue--throw
herself--thus into your arms (embracing him in an eager and supplicating
manner); should she do this, and you still pronounce the freezing word
"Honor!" Should she pray that through you she might be saved--that
through you she might be restored to her hopes of heaven! (Turning away
her head, and speaking in a hollow, faltering voice.) Or should she, her
prayer refused, listen to the voice of despair, and to escape from your
image plunge herself into yet more fearful depths of infamy and vice----
FERDINAND (breaking from her in great emotion). No, by heaven! This is
more than I can endure! Lady, I am compelled--Heaven and earth compels
me--to make the honest avowal of my sentiments and situation.
LADY MILFORD (hastening from him). Oh! not now! By all that is holy I
entreat you--spare me in this dreadful moment when my lacerated heart
bleeds from a thousand wounds. Be your decision life or death--I dare
not--I will not hear it!
FERDINAND. I entreat you, lady! I insist! What I have to say will
mitigate my offence, and warmly plead your forgiveness for the past. I
have been deceived in you, lady. I expected--nay, I wished to find you
deserving my contempt. I came determined to insult you, and to make
myself the object of your hate. Happy would it have been for us both had
my purpose succeeded! (He pauses; then proceeds in a gentle and
faltering voice.) Lady, I love!--I love a maid of humble birth--Louisa
Miller is her name, the daughter of a music-master. (LADY MILFORD turns
away pale and greatly agitated.) I know into what an abyss I plunge
myself; but, though prudence bids me conceal my passion, honor overpowers
its precepts. I am the criminal--I first destroyed the golden calm of
Louisa's innocence--I lulled her heart with aspiring hopes, and
surrendered it, like a betrayer, a prey to the wildest of passions. You
will bid me remember my rank--my birth--my father--schemes of
aggrandisement. But in vain--I love! My hopes become more fervent as
the breach widens between nature and the mere conventions of society--
between my resolution and worldly prejudices! We shall see whether love
or interest is victorious. (LADY MILFORD during this has retired to the
extreme end of the apartment, and covers her face with both hands.
FERDINAND approaches her.) Have you aught to answer, lady?
LADY MILFORD (in a tone of intense suffering). Nothing! Nothing! but
that you destroy yourself and me--and, with us yet a third.
FERDINAND. A third?
LADY MILFORD. Never can you marry Louisa; never can you be happy with
me. We shall all be the victims of your father's rashness. I can never
hope to possess the heart of a husband who has been forced to give me his
hand.
FERDINAND. Forced, lady? Forced? And yet given? Will you enforce a
hand without a heart? Will you tear from a maiden a man who is the whole
world to her? Will you tear a maiden from a man who has centered all his
hopes of happiness on her alone? Will you do this, lady? you who but a
moment before were the lofty, noble-minded daughter of Britain?
LADY MILFORD. I will because I must! (earnestly and firmly). My
passions, Walter, overcome my tenderness for you. My honor has no
alternative. Our union is the talk of the whole city. Every eye, every
shaft of ridicule is bent against me. 'Twere a stain which time could
never efface should a subject of the prince reject my hand! Appease your
father if you have the power! Defend yourself as you best may! my
resolution is taken. The mine is fired and I abide the issue.
[Exit. FERDINAND remains in speechless astonishment for some
moments; then rushes wildly out.
SCENE IV.--Miller's House.
MILLER meeting LOUISA and MRS. MILLER.
MILLER. Ay! ay! I told you how it would be!
LOUISA (hastening to him with anxiety). What, father? What?
MILLER (running up and down the room). My cloak, there. Quick, quick!
I must be beforehand with him. My cloak, I say! Yes, yes! this was just
what I expected!
LOUISA. For God's sake, father! tell me?
MRS. MILLER. What is the matter, Miller? What alarms you?
MILLER (throwing down his wig). Let that go to the friezer. What is the
matter, indeed? And my beard, too, is nearly half an inch long. What's
the matter? What do you think, you old carrion. The devil has broke
loose, and you may look out for squalls.
MRS. MILLER. There, now, that's just the way! When anything goes wrong
it is always my fault.
MILLER. Your fault? Yes, you brimstone fagot! and whose else should it
be? This very morning when you were holding forth about that confounded
major, did I not say then what would be the consequence? That knave,
Worm, has blabbed.
MRS. MILLER. Gracious heavens! But how do you know?
MILLER. How do I know? Look yonder! a messenger of the minister is
already at the door inquiring for the fiddler.
LOUISA (turning pale, and sitting down). Oh! God! I am in agony!
MILLER. And you, too, with that languishing air? (laughs bitterly).
But, right! Right! There is an old saying that where the devil keeps a
breeding-cage he is sure to hatch a handsome daughter.
MRS. MILLER. But how do you know that Louisa is in question? You may
have been recommended to the duke; he may want you in his orchestra.
MILLER (jumping up, and seizing his fiddlestick). May the sulphurous
rain of hell consume thee! Orchestra, indeed! Ay, where you, you old
procuress, shall howl the treble whilst my smarting back groans the base
(Throwing himself upon a chair.) Oh! God in heaven!
LOUISA (sinks on the sofa, pale as death). Father! Mother! Oh! my
heart sinks within me.
MILLER (starting up with anger). But let me only lay hands on that
infernal quill-driver! I'll make him skip--be it in this world or the
next; if I don't pound him to a jelly, body and soul; if I don't write
all the Ten Commandments, the seven Penitential Psalms, the five books of
Moses, and the whole of the Prophets upon his rascally hide so distinctly
that the blue hieroglyphics shall be legible at the day of judgment--if I
don't, may I----
MRS. MILLER. Yes, yes, curse and swear your hardest! That's the way to
frighten the devil! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, gracious heavens! What
shall we do? Who can advise us? Speak, Miller, speak; this silence
distracts me! (She runs screaming up and down the room.)
MILLER. I will instantly to the minister! I will open my mouth boldly,
and tell him all from beginning to end. You knew it before me, and ought
to have given me a hint of what was going on! The girl might yet have
been advised. It might still have been time to save her! But, no!
There was something for your meddling and making, and you must needs add
fuel to the fire. Now you have made your bed you may lie on it. As you
have brewed so you may drink; I shall take my daughter under my arm and
be off with her over the borders.
SCENE V.
MILLER, MRS. MILLER, LOUISA, FERDINND.
(All speaking together).
FERDINAND (rushes in, terrified, and out of breath). Has my father
been here?
LOUISA (starts back in horror). His father? Gracious heaven!
MRS. MILLER (wringing her hands). The minister here? Then it's all
over with us!
MILLER (laughs bitterly). Thank God! Thank God! Now comes our
benefit!
FERDINAND (rushing towards LOUISA, and clasping her in his arms). Mine
thou art, though heaven and hell were placed between us!
LOUISA. I am doomed! Speak, Ferdinand! Did you not utter that dreaded
name? Your father?
FERDINAND. Be not alarmed! the danger has passed! I have thee again!
again thou hast me! Let me regain my breath on thy dear bosom. It was a
dreadful hour!
LOUISA. What was a dreadful hour? Answer me, Ferdinand! I die with
apprehension!
FERDINAND (drawing back, gazing upon her earnestly, then in a solemn
tone). An hour, Louisa, when another's form stepped between my heart and
thee--an hour in which my love grew pale before my conscience--when
Louisa ceased to be all in all to Ferdinand!
[LOUISA sinks back upon her chair, and conceals her face.
(FERDINAND stands before her in speechless agitation, then turns away
from her suddenly and exclaims). Never, never! Baroness, 'tis
impossible! you ask too much! Never can I sacrifice this innocence at
your shrine. No, by the eternal God! I cannot recall my oath, which
speaks to me from thy soul--thrilling eyes louder than the thunders of
heaven! Behold, lady! Inhuman father, look on this! Would you have me
destroy this angel? Shall my perfidy kindle a hell in this heavenly
bosom? (turning towards her with firmness). No! I will bear her to thy
throne, Almighty Judge! Thy voice shall declare if my affection be a
crime. (He grasps her hand, and raises her from the sofa.) Courage, my
beloved!--thou hast conquered--and I come forth a victor from the
terrible conflict!
LOUISA. No, no, Ferdinand, conceal nothing from me! Declare boldly the
dreadful decree! You named your father! You spoke of the baroness! The
shivering of death seizes my heart! 'Tis said she is about to be
married!
FERDINAND (quite overcome, throws himself at her feet). Yes, and to me,
dear unfortunate. Such is my father's will!
LOUISA (after a deep pause, in a tremulous voice, but with assumed
resignation). Well! Why am I thus affrighted? Has not my dear father
often told me that you never could be mine? But I was obstinate, and
believed him not. (A second pause; she falls weeping into her father's
arms.) Father, thy daughter is thine own again! Father, forgive me!
'Twas not your child's fault that the dream was so heavenly--the waking
so terrible!
MILLER. Louisa! Louisa! O merciful heaven! she has lost her senses!
My daughter! My poor child! Curses upon thy seducer! Curses upon the
pandering mother who threw thee in his way!
MRS. MILLER (weeping on LOUISA'S neck). Daughter, do I deserve this
curse? God forgive you, major! What has this poor lamb done that you
bring this misery upon her?
FERDINAND (with resolution). I will unravel the meshes of these
intrigues. I will burst asunder these iron chains of prejudice. As a
free-born man will I make my choice, and crush these insect souls with
the colossal force of my love! [Going.
LOUISA (rises trembling from the sofa, and attempts to follow him).
Stay, oh, stay! Whither are you going? Father! Mother! He deserts us
in this fearful hour!
MRS. MILLER (hastens towards him, and detains him). The president is
coming hither? He will ill-use my child! He will ill-use us all,--and
yet, major, you are going to leave us.
MILLER (laughs hysterically). Leave us. Of course he is! What should
hinder him? The girl has given him all she had. (Grasping FERDINAND
with one hand, and LOUISA with the other.) Listen to me, young
gentleman. The only way out of my house is over my daughter's body. If
you possess one single spark of honor await your father's coming; tell
him, deceiver, how you stole her young and inexperienced heart; or, by
the God who made me! (thrusting LOUISA towards him with violence and
passion) you shall crush before my eyes this trembling worm whom love for
you has brought to shame and infamy!
FERDINAND (returns, and walks to and fro in deep thought). 'Tis true,
the President's power is great--parental authority is a mighty word--even
crimes claim respect when concealed within its folds. He may push that
authority far--very far! But love goes beyond it. Hear me, Louisa; give
me thy hand! (clasping it firmly). As surely as I hope for Heaven's
mercy in my dying hour, I swear that the moment which separates these
hands shall also rend asunder the thread that binds me to existence!
LOUISA. You terrify me! Turn from me! Your lips tremble! Your eyes
roll fearfully!
FERDINAND. Nay, Louisa! fear nothing! It is not madness which prompts
my oath! 'tis the choicest gift of Heaven, decision, sent to my aid at
that critical moment, when an oppressed bosom can only find relief in
some desperate remedy. I love thee, Louisa! Thou shalt be mine! 'Tis
resolved! And now for my father!
[He rushes out, and is met by the PRESIDENT.
SCENE VI.
MILLER, MRS. MILLER, LOUISA, FERDINAND, PRESIDENT, with SERVANTS.
PRESIDENT (as he enters). So! here he is! (All start in terror.)
FERDINAND (retiring a few paces). In the house of innocence!
PRESIDENT. Where a son learns obedience to his father!
FERDINAND. Permit me to----
PRESIDENT (interrupting him, turns to MILLER). The father, I presume?
MILLER. I am Miller, the musician.
PRESIDENT (to MRS. MILLER). And you, the mother?
MRS. MILLER. Yes, alas! her unfortunate mother!
FERDINAND (to MILLER.) Father, take Louisa to her chamber--she is
fainting.
PRESIDENT. An unnecessary precaution! I will soon arouse her. (To
LOUISA.) How long have you been acquainted with the President's son?
LOUISA (with timidity). Of the President's son I have never thought.
Ferdinand von Walter has paid his addresses to me since November last.
FERDINAND. And he adores her!
PRESIDENT (to LOUISA). Has he given you any assurance of his love?
FERDINAND. But a few minutes since, the most solemn, and God was my
witness.
PRESIDENT (to his son angrily). Silence! You shall have opportunity
enough of confessing your folly. (To LOUISA.) I await your answer.
LOUISA. He swore eternal love to me.
FERDINAND. And I will keep my oath.
PRESIDENT (to FERDINAND). Must I command your silence? (To LOUISA).
Did you accept his rash vows?
LOUISA (with tenderness). I did, and gave him mine in exchange.
FERDINAND (resolutely). The bond is irrevocable----
PRESIDENT (to FERDINAND). If you dare to interrupt me again I'll teach
you better manners. (To LOUISA, sneeringly.) And he paid handsomely
every time, no doubt?
LOUISA. I do not understand your question.
PRESIDENT (with an insulting laugh). Oh, indeed! Well, I only meant to
hint that--as everything has its price--I hope you have been more
provident than to bestow your favors gratis--or perhaps you were
satisfied with merely participating in the pleasure? Eh? how was it?
FERDINAND (infuriated). Hell and confusion! What does this mean?
LOUISA (to FERDINAND, with dignity and emotion). Baron von Walter, now
you are free!
FERDINAND. Father! virtue though clothed in a beggar's garb commands
respect!
PRESIDENT (laughing aloud). A most excellent joke! The father is
commanded to honor his son's strumpet!
LOUISA. Oh! Heaven and earth! (Sinks down in a swoon.)
FERDINAND (drawing his sword). Father, you gave me life, and, till now,
I acknowledged your claim on it. That debt is cancelled. (Replaces his
sword in the scabbard, and points to LOUISA.) There lies the bond of
filial duty torn to atoms!
MILLER (who has stood apart trembling, now comes forward, by turns
gnashing his teeth in rage, and shrinking back in terror). Your
excellency, the child is the father's second self. No offence, I hope!
Who strikes the child hits the father--blow for blow--that's our rule
here. No offence, I hope!
MRS. MILLER. God have mercy on us! Now the old man has begun--we shall
all catch it with a vengeance!
PRESIDENT (who has not understood what MILLER said). What? is the old
pander stirred up? We shall have something to settle together presently,
Mr. Pander!
MILLER. You mistake me, my lord. My name is Miller, at your service for
an adagio--but, as to ladybirds, I cannot serve you. As long as there is
such an assortment at court, we poor citizens can't afford to lay in
stock! No offence, I hope!
MRS. MILLER. For Heaven's sake, man, hold your tongue! would you ruin
both wife and child?
FERDINAND (to his father). You play but a sorry part here, my lord, and
might well have dispensed with these witnesses.
MILLER (coming nearer, with increasing confidence). To be plain and
above board--No offence, I hope--your excellency may have it all your own
way in the Cabinet--but this is my house. I'm your most obedient, very
humble servant when I wait upon you with a petition, but the rude,
unmannerly intruder I have the right to bundle out--no offence, I hope!
PRESIDENT (pale with anger, and approaching MILLER). What? What's that
you dare to utter?
MILLER (retreating a few steps). Only a little bit of my mind sir--no
offence, I hope!
PRESIDENT (furiously). Insolent villain! Your impertinence shall
procure you a lodging in prison. (To his servants). Call in the
officers of justice! Away! (Some of the attendants go out. The
PRESIDENT paces the stage with a furious air.) The father shall to
prison; the mother and her strumpet daughter to the pillory! Justice
shall lend her sword to my rage! For this insult will I have ample
amends. Shall such contemptible creatures thwart my plans, and set
father and son against each other with impunity? Tremble, miscreants! I
will glut my hate in your destruction--the whole brood of you--father,
mother, and daughter shall be sacrificed to my vengeance!
FERDINAND (to MILLER, in a collected and firm manner). Oh! not so! Fear
not, friends! I am your protector. (Turning to the PRESIDENT, with
deference). Be not so rash, father! For your own sake let me beg of you
no violence. There is a corner of my heart where the name of father has
never yet been heard. Oh! press not into that!
PRESIDENT. Silence, unworthy boy! Rouse not my anger to greater fury!
MILLER (recovering from a stupor). Wife, look you to your daughter! I
fly to the duke. His highness' tailor--God be praised for reminding me
of it at this moment--learns the flute of me--I cannot fail of success.
(Is hastening off.)
PRESIDENT. To the duke, will you? Have you forgotten that I am the
threshold over which you must pass, or failing, perish? To the duke, you
fool? Try to reach him with your lamentations, when, reduced to a living
skeleton, you lie buried in a dungeon five fathoms deep, where light and
sound never enter; where darkness goggles at hell with gloating eyes!
There gnash thy teeth in anguish; there rattle thy chains in despair, and
groan, "Woe is me! This is beyond human endurance!"
SCENE VII.
Officers of Justice--the former.
FERDINAND (flies to LOUISA, who, overcome with fear, faints in his arms.)
Louisa!--Help, for God's sake! Terror overpowers her!
[MILLER, catching up his cane and putting on his hat,
prepares for defense. MRS. MILLER throws herself on her
knees before the PRESIDENT.
PRESIDENT (to the officers, showing his star). Arrest these offenders in
the duke's name. Boy, let go that strumpet! Fainting or not--when once
her neck is fitted with the iron collar the mob will pelt her till she
revives.
MRS. MILLER. Mercy, your excellency! Mercy! mercy!
MILLER (snatching her from the ground with violence). Kneel to God, you
howling fool, and not to villains--since I must to prison any way!
PRESIDENT (biting his lips.) You may be out in your reckoning,
scoundrel! There are still gallows to spare! (To the officers.) Must I
repeat my orders?
[They approach LOUISA--FERDINAND places himself before her.
FERDINAND (fiercely). Touch her who dare! (He draws his sword and
flourishes it.) Let no one presume to lay a finger on her, whose life is
not well insured. (To the PRESIDENT.) As you value your own safety,
father, urge me no further!
PRESIDENT (to the officers in a threatening voice). At your peril,
cowards! (They again attempt to seize LOUISA.)
FERDINAND. Hell and furies! Back, I say! (Driving them away.) Once
more, father, I warn you--have some thought for your own safety! Drive
me not to extremity!
PRESIDENT (enraged to the officers). Scoundrels! Is this your
obedience? (The officers renew their efforts.)
FERDINAND. Well, if it must be so (attacking and wounding several of
them), Justice forgive me!
PRESIDENT (exasperated to the utmost). Let me see whether I, too, must
feel your weapon! (He seizes LOUISA and delivers her to an officer.)
FERDINAND (laughing bitterly). Father! father! Your conduct is a
galling satire upon Providence, who has so ill understood her people as
to make bad statesmen of excellent executioners!
PRESIDENT (to the officers). Away with her!
FERDINAND. Father, if I cannot prevent it, she must stand in the
pillory--but by her side will also stand the son of the president. Do
you still insist?
PRESIDENT. The more entertaining will be the exhibition. Away with her!
FERDINAND. I will pledge the honor of an officer's sword for her. Do
you still insist?
PRESIDENT. Your sword is already familiar with disgrace. Away! away!
You know my will.
FERDINAND (wrests LOUISA from the officer and holds her with one arm,
with the other points his sword at her bosom.) Father, rather than
tamely see my wife branded with infamy I will plunge this sword into her
bosom. Do you still insist?
PRESIDENT. Do it, if the point be sharp enough!
FERDINAND (releases LOUISA, and looks wildly towards heaven). Be thou
witness, Almighty God, that I have left no human means untried to save
her! Forgive me now if I have recourse to hellish means. While you are
leading her to the pillory (speaking loudly in the PRESIDENT'S ear), I
will publish throughout the town a pleasant history of how a president's
chair may be gained! [Exit.
PRESIDENT (as if thunder-struck). How? What said he? Ferdinand!
Release her instantly! (Rushes after his son.)
ACT III.
SCENE I.
Room at the President's. Enter PRESIDENT and WORM.
PRESIDENT. That was an infernal piece of business!
WORM. Just what I feared, your excellency. Opposition may inflame the
enthusiast, but never converts him.
PRESIDENT. I had placed my whole reliance upon the success of this
attempt. I made no doubt but if the girl were once publicly disgraced,
he would be obliged as an officer and a gentleman to resign her.
WORM. An admirable idea!--had you but succeeded in disgracing her.
PRESIDENT. And yet--when I reflect on the matter coolly--I ought not to
have suffered myself to be overawed. It was a threat which he never
could have meant seriously.
WORM. Be not too certain of that! There is no folly too gross for
excited passion! You say that the baron has always looked upon
government with an eye of disapprobation. I can readily believe it. The
principles which he brought with him from college are ill-suited to our
atmosphere. What have the fantastic visions of personal nobility and
greatness of soul to do in court, where 'tis the perfection of wisdom to
be great and little by turns, as occasion demands? The baron is too
young and too fiery to take pleasure in the slow and crooked paths of
intrigue. That alone can give impulse to his ambition which seems
glorious and romantic!
PRESIDENT (impatiently). But how will these sagacious remarks advance
our affairs?
WORM. They will point out to your excellency where the wound lies, and
so, perhaps, help you to find a remedy. Such a character--pardon the
observation--ought never to have been made a confidant, or should never
have been roused to enmity. He detests the means by which you have risen
to power! Perhaps it is only the son that has hitherto sealed the lips
of the betrayer! Give him but a fair opportunity for throwing off the
bonds imposed upon him by nature! only convince him, by unrelenting
opposition to his passion, that you are no longer an affectionate father,
and that moment the duties of a patriot will rush upon him with
irresistible force! Nay, the high-wrought idea of offering so
unparalleled a sacrifice at the shrine of justice might of itself alone
have charms sufficient to reconcile him to the ruin of a parent!
PRESIDENT. Worm! Worm! To what a horrible abyss do you lead me!
WORM. Never fear, my lord, I will lead you back in safety! May I speak
without restraint?
PRESIDENT (throwing himself into a seat). Freely, as felon with felon.
WORM. Forgive me, then. It seems to me that you have to ascribe all
your influence as president to the courtly art of intrigue; why not
resort to the same means for attaining your ends as a father? I well
remember with what seeming frankness you invited your predecessor to a
game at piquet, and caroused half the night with him over bumpers of
Burgundy; and yet it was the same night on which the great mine you had
planned to annihilate him was to explode. Why did you make a public
exhibition of enmity to the major? You should by no means have let it
appear that you knew anything of his love affair. You should have made
the girl the object of your attacks and have preserved the affection of
your son; like the prudent general who does not engage the prime of the
enemy's force but creates disaffection among the ranks?
PRESIDENT. How could this have been effected?
WORM. In the simplest manner--even now the game is not entirely lost!
Forget for a time that you are a father. Do not contend against a
passion which opposition only renders more formidable. Leave me to
hatch, from the heat of their own passions, the basilisk which shall
destroy them.
PRESIDENT. I am all attention.
WORM. Either my knowledge of human character is very small, or the major
is as impetuous in jealousy as in love. Make him suspect the girl's
constancy,--whether probable or not does not signify. One grain of
leaven will be enough to ferment the whole mass.
PRESIDENT. But where shall we find that grain?
WORM. Now, then, I come to the point. But first explain to me how much
depends upon the major's compliance. How far is it of consequence that
the romance with the music-master's daughter should be brought to a
conclusion and the marriage with Lady Milford effected?
PRESIDENT. How can you ask me, Worm? If the match with Lady Milford is
broken off I stand a fair chance of losing my whole influence; on the
other hand, if I force the major's consent, of losing my head.
WORM (with animation). Now have the kindness to listen to me. The major
must be entangled in a web. Your whole power must be employed against
his mistress. We must make her write a love-letter, address it to a
third party, and contrive to drop it cleverly in the way of the major.
PRESIDENT. Absurd proposal! As if she would consent to sign her own
death-warrant.
WORM. She must do so if you will but let me follow my own plan. I know
her gentle heart thoroughly; she has but two vulnerable sides by which
her conscience can be attacked; they are her father and the major. The
latter is entirely out of the question; we must, therefore, make the most
of the musician.
PRESIDENT. In what way?
WORM. From the description your excellency gave me of what passed in his
house nothing can be easier than to terrify the father with the threat of
a criminal process. The person of his favorite, and of the keeper of the
seals, is in some degree the representative of the duke himself, and he
who offends the former is guilty of treason towards the latter. At any
rate I will engage with these pretences to conjure up such a phantom as
shall scare the poor devil out of his seven senses.
PRESIDENT. But recollect, Worm, the affair must not be carried so far as
to become serious.
WORM. Nor shall it. It shall be carried no further than is necessary to
frighten the family into our toils. The musician, therefore, must be
quietly arrested. To make the necessity yet more urgent, we may also
take possession of the mother;--and then we begin to talk of criminal
process, of the scaffold, and of imprisonment for life, and make the
daughter's letter the sole condition of the parent's release.
PRESIDENT. Excellent! Excellent! Now I begin to understand you!
WORM. Louisa loves her father--I might say even to adoration! The
danger which threatens his life, or at least his freedom--the reproaches
of her conscience for being the cause of his misfortunes--the
impossibility of ever becoming the major's wife--the confusion of her
brain, which I take upon myself to produce--all these considerations make
our plan certain of success. She must be caught in the snare.
PRESIDENT. But my son--will he not instantly get scent of it? Will it
not make him yet more desperate?
WORM. Leave that to me, your excellency! The old folks shall not be set
at liberty till they and their daughter have taken the most solemn oath
to keep the whole transaction secret, and never to confess the deception.
PRESIDENT. An oath! Ridiculous! What restraint can an oath be?
WORM. None upon us, my lord, but the most binding upon people of their
stamp. Observe, how dexterously by this measure we shall both reach the
goal of our desires. The girl loses at once the affection of her lover,
and her good name; the parents will lower their tone, and, thoroughly
humbled by misfortune, will esteem it an act of mercy, if, by giving her
my hand, I re-establish their daughter's reputation.
PRESIDENT (shaking his head and smiling). Artful villain! I confess
myself outdone--no devil could spin a finer snare! The scholar excels
his master. The next question is, to whom must the letter be addressed--
with whom to accuse her of having an intrigue?
WORM. It must necessarily be some one who has all to gain or all to lose
by your son's decision in this affair.
PRESIDENT (after a moment's reflection). I can think of no one but the
marshal.
WORM (shrugs his shoulders). The marshal! He would certainly not be my
choice were I Louisa Miller.
PRESIDENT. And why not? What a strange notion! A man who dresses in
the height of fashion--who carries with him an atmosphere of eau de mille
fleurs and musk--who can garnish every silly speech with a handful of
ducats--could all this possibly fail to overcome the delicacy of a
tradesman's daughter? No, no, my good friend, jealousy is not quite so
hard of belief. I shall send for the marshal immediately. (Rings.)
WORM. While your excellency takes care of him, and of the fiddler's
arrest, I will go and indite the aforesaid letter.
PRESIDENT (seats himself at his writing-table). Do so; and, as soon as
it is ready, bring it hither for my perusal.
[Exit WORM.
[The PRESIDENT, having written, rises and hands the paper
to a servant who enters.
See this arrest executed without a moment's delay, and let Marshal von
Kalb be informed that I wish to see him immediately.
SERVANT. The marshal's carriage has just stopped at your lordship's
door.
PRESIDENT. So much the better--as for the arrest, let it be managed with
such precaution that no disturbance arise.
SERVANT. I will take care, my lord.
PRESIDENT. You understand me? The business must be kept quite secret.
SERVANT. Your excellency shall be obeyed.
[Exit SERVANT.
SCENE II.
The PRESIDENT--MARSHALL KALB.
MARSHAL (hastily). I have just looked in, en passant, my dear friend!
How are you? How do you get on? We are to have the grand opera Dido
to-night! Such a conflagration!--a whole town will be in flames!--you
will come to the blaze of course--eh?
PRESIDENT. I have conflagration enough in my own house, one that
threatens the destruction of all I possess. Be seated, my dear marshal.
You arrive very opportunely to give me your advice and assistance in a
certain business which will either advance our fortunes or utterly ruin
us both!
MARSHAL. Don't alarm me so, my dear friend!
PRESIDENT. As I said before, it must exalt or ruin us entirely! You
know my project respecting the major and Lady Milford--you are not
ignorant how necessary this union is to secure both our fortunes!
Marshal, our plans threaten to come to naught. My son refuses to marry
her!
MARSHAL. Refuses! Refuses to marry her? But, my goodness! I have
published the news through the whole town. The union is the general
topic of conversation.
PRESIDENT. Then you will be talked of by all the town as a spreader of
false reports,--in short, Ferdinand loves another.
MARSHAL. Pooh! you are joking! As if that were an obstacle?
PRESIDENT. With such an enthusiast a most insurmountable one!
MARSHAL. Can he be mad enough to spurn his good-fortune? Eh?
PRESIDENT. Ask him yourself and you'll hear what he will answer.
MARSHAL. But, mon Dieu! what can he answer?
PRESIDENT. That he will publish to the world the crime by which we rose
to power--that he will denounce our forged letters and receipts--that he
will send us both to the scaffold. That is what he can answer.
MARSHAL. Are you out of your mind?
PRESIDENT. Nay, that is what he has already answered? He was actually
on the point of putting these threats into execution; and it was only by
the most abject submission that I could persuade him to abandon his
design. What say you to this, marshal?
MARSHAL (with a look of bewildered stupidity). I am at my wits' end!
PRESIDENT. That might have blown over. But my spies have just brought
me notice that the grand cupbearer, von Bock, is on the point of offering
himself as a suitor to her ladyship.
MARSHAL. You drive me distracted! Whom did you say? Von Bock? Don't
you know that we are mortal enemies? And don't you know why?
PRESIDENT. The first word that I ever heard of it!
MARSHAL. My dear count! You shall hear--your hair will stand on end!
You must remember the famous court ball--it is now just twenty years ago.
It was the first time that English country-dances were introduced--you
remember how the hot wax trickled from the great chandelier on Count
Meerschaum's blue and silver domino. Surely, you cannot have forgotten
that affair!
PRESIDENT. Who could forget so remarkable a circumstance!
MARSHAL. Well, then, in the heat of the dance Princess Amelia lost her
garter. The whole ball, as you may imagine, was instantly thrown into
confusion. Von Bock and myself--we were then fellow-pages--crept through
the whole saloon in search of the garter. At length I discovered it.
Von Bock perceives my good-fortune--rushes forward--tears it from my
hands, and, just fancy--presents it to the princess, and so cheated me of
the honor I had so fortunately earned. What do you think of that?
PRESIDENT. 'Twas most insolent!
MARSHAL. I thought I should have fainted upon the spot. A trick so
malicious was beyond the powers of mortal endurance. At length I
recovered myself; and, approaching the princess, said,--"Von Bock, 'tis
true, was fortunate enough to present the garter to your highness; but he
who first discovered that treasure finds his reward in silence, and is
dumb!"
PRESIDENT. Bravo, marshal! Admirably said! Most admirable!
MARSHAL. And is dumb! But till the day of judgment will I remember his
conduct--the mean, sneaking sycophant! And as if that were not
aggravation enough, he actually, as we were struggling on the ground for
the garter, rubbed all the powder from one side of my peruke with his
sleeve, and ruined me for the rest of the evening.
PRESIDENT. This is the man who will marry Lady Milford, and consequently
soon take the lead at court.
MARSHAL. You plunge a dagger in my heart! But why must he? Why should
he marry her? Why he? Where is the necessity?
PRESIDENT. Because Ferdinand refuses her, and there is no other
candidate.
MARSHAL. But is there no possible method of obtaining your son's
consent? Let the measure be ever so extravagant or desperate--there is
nothing to which I should not willingly consent in order to supplant the
hated von Bock.
PRESIDENT. I know but one means of accomplishing this, and that rests
entirely with you.
MARSHAL. With me? Name it, my dear count, name it!
PRESIDENT. You must set Ferdinand and his mistress against each other.
MARSHAL. Against each other? How do you mean?--and how would that be
possible.
PRESIDENT. Everything is ours could we make him suspect the girl.
MARSHAL. Ah, of theft, you mean?
PRESIDENT. Pshaw!--he would never believe that! No, no--I mean that she
is carrying on an intrigue with another.
MARSHAL. And this other, who is he to be?
PRESIDENT. Yourself!
MARSHAL. How? Must I be her lover? Is she of noble birth?
PRESIDENT. What signifies that? What an idea!--she is the daughter of a
musician.
MARSHAL. A plebeian?--that will never do!
PRESIDENT. What will never do? Nonsense, man! Who in the name of
wonder would think of asking a pair of rosy cheeks for their owner's
pedigree?
MARSHAL. But consider, my dear count, a married man! And my reputation
at court!
PRESIDENT. Oh! that's quite another thing! I beg a thousand pardons,
marshal; I was not aware that a man of unblemished morals held a higher
place in your estimation than a man of power! Let us break up our
conference.
MARSHAL. Be not so hasty, count. I did not mean to say that.
PRESIDENT (coldly.) No--no! You are perfectly right. I, too, am weary
of office. I shall throw up the game, tender my resignation to the duke,
and congratulate von Bock on his accession to the premiership. This
duchy is not all the world.
MARSHAL. And what am I to do? It is very fine for you to talk thus!
You are a man of learning! But I--mon Dieu! What shall I be if his
highness dismisses me?
PRESIDENT. A stale jest!--a thing out of fashion!
MARSHAL. I implore you, my dearest, my most valued friend. Abandon
those thoughts. I will consent to everything!
PRESIDENT. Will you lend your name to an assignation to which this
Louisa Miller shall invite you in writing?
MARSHAL. Well, in God's name let it be so!
PRESIDENT. And drop the letter where the major cannot fail to find it.
MARSHAL. For instance, on the parade, where I can let it fall as if
accidentally in drawing out my handkerchief.
PRESIDENT. And when the baron questions you will you assume the
character of a favored rival?
MARSHAL. Mort de ma vie! I'll teach him manners! I'll cure him of
interfering in my amours!
PRESIDENT. Good! Now you speak in the right key. The letter shall be
written immediately! Come in the evening to receive it, and we will talk
over the part you are to play.
MARSHAL. I will be with you the instant I have paid sixteen visits of
the very highest importance. Permit me, therefore, to take my leave
without delay. (Going.)
PRESIDENT (rings). I reckon upon your discretion, marshal.
MARSHAL (calls back). Ah, mon Dieu! you know me!
[Exit MARSHAL.
SCENE III.
The PRESIDENT and WORM.
WORM. The music-master and his wife have been arrested without the least
disturbance. Will your excellency read this letter?
PRESIDENT (having read it). Excellent! Excellent, my dear secretary!
poison like this would convert health itself into jaundiced leprosy. The
marshal, too, has taken the bait. Now then away with my proposals to the
father, and then lose no time--with the daughter.
[Exeunt on different sides.
SCENE IV.--Room in MILLER'S House.
LOUISA and FERDINAND.
LOUISA. Cease, I implore you! I expect no more days of happiness. All
my hopes are levelled with the dust.
FERDINAND. All mine are exalted to heaven! My father's passions are
roused! He will direct his whole artillery against us! He will force me
to become an unnatural son. I will not answer for my filial duty. Rage
and despair will wring from me the dark secret that my father is an
assassin! The son will deliver the parent into the hands of the
executioner. This is a moment of extreme danger, and extreme danger
alone could prompt my love to take so daring a leap! Hear me, Louisa! A
thought, vast and immeasurable as my love, has arisen in my soul--Thou,
Louisa, and I, and Love! Lies not a whole heaven within this circle? Or
dost thou feel that there is still something wanting?
LOUISA. Oh! cease! No more! I tremble to think what you would say.
FERDINAND. If we have no longer a claim upon the world, why should we
seek its approbation? Why venture where nothing can be gained and all
may be lost? Will thine eyes sparkle less brightly reflected by the
Baltic waves than by the waters of the Rhine or the Elbe? Where Louise
loves me there is my native land! Thy footsteps will make the wild and
sandy desert far more attractive than the marble halls of my ancestors.
Shall we miss the pomp of cities? Be we where we may, Louisa, a sun will
rise and a sun will set--scenes before which the most glorious
achievements of art grow pale and dim! Though we serve God no more in
his consecrated churches, yet the night shall spread her solemn shadows
round us; the changing moon shall hear our confession, and a glorious
congregation of stars join in our prayers! Think you our talk of love
can ever be exhausted! Oh, no! One smile from Louisa were a theme for
centuries--the dream of life will be over ere I can exhaust the charms of
a single tear.
LOUISA. And hast thou no duty save that of love?
FERDINAND (embracing her). None so sacred as thy peace of mind!
LOUISA (very seriously). Cease, then, and leave me. I have a father who
possesses no treasure save one only daughter. To-morrow he will be sixty
years old--that he will fall a victim to the vengeance of the President
is most certain!
FERDINAND (interrupting her). He shall accompany us. Therefore no more
objections, my beloved. I will go and convert my valuables into gold,
and raise money on my father's credit! It is lawful to plunder a robber,
and are not his treasures the price for which he has sold his country?
This night, when the clock strikes one, a carriage will stop at your
door--throw yourself into it, and we fly!
LOUISA. Pursued by your father's curse! a curse, unthinking one, which
is never pronounced in vain even by murderers--which the avenging angel
hears when uttered by a malefactor in his last agony--which, like a fury,
will fearfully pursue the fugitives from shore to shore! No, my beloved!
If naught but a crime can preserve you to me, I still have courage to
resign you!
FERDINAND (mutters gloomily). Indeed!
LOUISA. Resign you? Oh! horrible beyond all measure is the thought.
Horrible enough to pierce the immortal spirit and pale the glowing cheeks
of joy! Ferdinand! To resign you! Yet how can one resign what one
never possessed? Your heart is the property of your station. My claim
was sacrilege, and, shuddering, I withdraw it!
FERDINAND (with convulsed features, and biting his underlip). You
withdraw it!
LOUISA. Nay! look upon me, dearest Ferdinand. Gnash not your teeth so
bitterly! Come, let my example rouse your slumbering courage. Let me be
the heroine of this moment. Let me restore to a father his lost son. I
will renounce a union which would sever the bonds by which society is
held together, and overthrow the landmarks of social order. I am the
criminal. My bosom has nourished proud and foolish wishes, and my
present misery is a just punishment. Oh! leave me then the sweet, the
consoling idea that mine is the sacrifice. Canst thou deny me this last
satisfaction? (FERDINAND, stupefied with agitation and anger, seizes a
violin and strikes a few notes upon it; and then tears away the strings,
dashes the instrument upon the ground, and, stamping it to pieces, bursts
into a loud laugh.) Walter! God in Heaven! What mean you? Be not thus
unmanned! This hour requires fortitude; it is the hour of separation!
You have a heart, dear Walter; I know that heart--warm as life is your
love--boundless and immeasurable--bestow it on one more noble, more
worthy--she need not envy the most fortunate of her sex! (Striving to
repress her tears.) You shall see me no more! Leave the vain
disappointed girl to bewail her sorrow in sad and lonely seclusion; where
her tears will flow unheeded. Dead and gone are all my hopes of
happiness in this world; yet still shall I inhale ever and anon the
perfumes of the faded wreath! (Giving him her trembling hand, while her
face is turned away.) Baron Walter, farewell!
FERDINAND (recovering from the stupor in which he was plunged). Louisa,
I fly! Do you indeed refuse to follow me?
LOUISA (who has retreated to the further end of the apartment, conceals
her countenance with her hands). My duty bids me stay, and suffer.
FERDINAND. Serpent! thou liest--some other motive chains thee here!
LOUISA (in a tone of the most heartfelt sorrow). Encourage that belief.
Haply it may make our parting more supportable.
FERDINAND. What? Oppose freezing duty to fiery love! And dost thou
think to cheat me with that delusion? Some rival detains thee here, and
woe be to thee and him should my suspicions be confirmed!
[Exit.
SCENE V.
LOUISA (she remains for some time motionless in the seat upon which she
has thrown herself. At length she rises, comes forward, and looks
timidly around). Where can my parents be? My father promised to return
in a few minutes; yet full five dreadful hours have passed since his
departure. Should any accident----good Heavens! What is come over me?
Why does my heart palpitate so violently? (Here WORM enters, and remains
standing unobserved in the background.) It can be nothing real. 'Tis
but the terrible delusion of my over-heated blood. When once the soul is
wrapped in terror the eye behold spectres in every shadow.
SCENE VI.
LOUISA and WORM.
WORM (approaches her). Good evening, miss.
LOUISA. Heavens! who speaks! (Perceives him, and starts back in
terror.) Ha! Dreadful! dreadful! I fear some dire misfortune is even
now realizing the forebodings of my soul! (To WORM, with a look of
disdain.) Do you seek the president? he is no longer here.
WORM. 'Tis you I seek, miss!
LOUISA. I wonder, then, that you did not direct your steps towards the
market-place.
WORM. What should I do there?
LOUISA. Release your betrothed from the pillory.
WORM. Louisa, you cherish some false suspicion----
LOUISA (sharply interrupting him). What is your business with me?
WORM. I come with a message from your father.
LOUISA (agitated). From my father? Oh! Where is my father?
WORM. Where he would fain not be!
LOUISA. Quick, quick, for God's sake! Oh! my foreboding heart! Where
is my father!
WORM. In prison, if you needs must know!
LOUISA (with a look towards heaven). This, too! This, too! In prison,
said you? And why in prison?
WORM. It is the duke's order.
LOUISA. The duke's?
WORM. Who thinking his own dignity offended by the insults offered to
the person of his representative----
LOUISA. How? How? Oh ye Almighty Powers!
WORM.----Has resolved to inflict the most exemplary punishment.
LOUISA. This was still wanting! This! Yes, in truth. I now feel that
my heart does love another besides Ferdinand! That could not be allowed
to escape! The prince's dignity offended? Heavenly Providence! Save,
oh! save my sinking faith! (After a moment's pause, she turns to WORM.)
And Ferdinand?
WORM. Must choose between Lady Milford's hand and his father's curse and
disinheritance.
LOUISA. Terrible choice!--and yet--yet is he the happier of the two. He
has no father to lose--and yet to have none is misery enough! My father
imprisoned for treason--my Ferdinand compelled to choose between Lady
Milford's hand or a parent's curse and disinheritance! Truly admirable!
for even villany so perfect is perfection! Perfection? No! something is
still wanting to complete that. Where is my mother?
WORM. In the house of correction.
LOUISA (with a smile of despair). Now the measure is full! It is full,
and I am free--released from all duties--all sorrows--all joys! Released
even from Providence! I have nothing more to do with it! (A dreadful
pause.) Have you aught else to communicate? Speak freely--now I can
hear anything with indifference.
WORM. All that has happened you already know.
LOUISA. But not that which is yet to happen! (Another pause, during
which she surveys WORM from head to foot.) Unfortunate man! you
have entered on a melancholy employment, which can never lead you to
happiness. To cause misery to others is sad enough--but to be the
messenger of evil is horrible indeed--to be the first to shriek the
screech-owl's song, to stand by when the bleeding heart trembles upon
the iron shaft of necessity, and the Christian doubts the existence of a
God--Heaven protect me! Wert thou paid a ton of gold for every tear of
anguish which thou must witness, I would not be a wretch like thee! What
is there yet to happen?
WORM. I know not.
LOUISA. You pretend not to know? This light-shunning embassy trembles
at the sound of words, but the spectre betrays itself in your ghastly
visage. What is there yet to happen? You said the duke will inflict
upon him a most exemplary punishment. What call you exemplary?
WORM. Ask me no more.
LOUISA. Terrible man! Some hangman must have schooled thee! Else thou
hast not so well learned to prolong the torture of thy victim before
giving the finishing stroke to the agonized heart! Speak! What fate
awaits my father? Death thou canst announce with a laughing sneer--what
then must that be which thou dost hesitate to disclose? Speak out! Let
me at once receive the overwhelming weight of thy tidings! What fate
awaits my father?
WORM. A criminal process.
LOUISA. But what is that? I am an ignorant, innocent girl, and
understand but little of your fearful terms of law. What mean you by a
criminal process?
WORM. Judgment upon life or death.
LOUISA (firmly). Ah! I thank you.
[Exit hastily by a side door.
WORM (alarmed). What means this? Should the simpleton perchance--
confusion! Surely she will not--I must follow her. I am answerable for
her life. (As he is going towards the door, LOUISA returns, wrapped in a
cloak.)
LOUISA. Your pardon, Mr. Secretary, I must lock the door.
WORM. Whither in such haste?
LOUISA (passing him). To the duke.
WORM (alarmed, detains her). How? Whither?
LOUISA. To the duke. Do you not hear? Even to that very duke whose
will is to decide upon my father's life or death. Yet no?--'tis not his
will that decides, but the will of wicked men who surround his throne.
He lends naught to this process, save the shadow of his majesty, and his
royal signature.
WORM (with a burst of laughter). To the duke!
LOUISA. I know the meaning of that sneering laugh--you would tell me
that I shall find no compassion there. But though I may meet (God
preserve me!) with nothing but scorn--scorn at my sorrows--yet will I to
the duke. I have been told that the great never know what misery is;
that they fly from the knowledge of it. But I will teach the duke what
misery is; I will paint to him, in all the writhing agonies of death,
what misery is; I will cry aloud in wailings that shall creep through the
very marrow of his bones, what misery is; and, while at my picture his
hairs shall stand on end like quills upon the porcupine, will I shriek
into his affrighted ear, that in the hour of death the sinews of these
mighty gods of earth shall shrivel and shrink, and that at the day of
judgment beggars and kings shall be weighed together in the same balance
(Going.)
WORM (ironically). By all means go to the duke! You can really do
nothing more prudent; I advise you heartily to the step. Only go, and I
give you my word that the duke will grant your suit.
LOUISA (stopping suddenly). What said you? Do you yourself advise the
step? (Returns hastily). What am I about to do? Something wicked
surely, since this man approves it--how know you that the prince will
grant my suit?
WORM. Because he will not have to grant it unrewarded.
LOUISA. Not unrewarded? And what price does he set on his humanity?
WORM. The person of the fair suppliant will be payment enough!
LOUISA (stopping for a moment in mute dismay--in a feeble voice).
Almighty God!
WORM. And I trust that you will not think your father's life over-valued
when 'tis purchased at so gracious a price.
LOUISA (with great indignation). True, oh! true! The great are
entrenched from truth behind their own vices, safely as behind the swords
of cherubim. The Almighty protect thee, father! Your child can die--
but not sin for thee.
WORM. This will be agreeable news for the poor disconsolate old man.
"My Louisa," says he, "has bowed me down to the earth; but my Louisa will
raise me up again." I hasten to him with your answer. (Affects to be
about to depart.)
LOUISA (flies after him and holds him back). Stay! stay! one moment's
patience! How nimble this Satan is, when his business is to drive
humanity distracted! I have bowed him to the earth! I must raise him up
again! Speak to me! Counsel me! What can I, what must I do?
WORM. There is but one means of saving him!
LOUISA. What is that means?
WORM. And your father approves of it----
LOUISA. My father? Oh! name that means.
WORM. It is easy for you to execute.
LOUISA. I know of nothing harder than infamy!
WORM. Suppose you were to release the major from his engagement?
LOUISA. Release him! Do you mock me? Do you call that a choice to
which force compelled me?
WORM. You mistake me, dear girl! The major must resign you willingly,
and be the first to retract his engagement.
LOUISA. That he will never do.
WORM. So it appears. Should we, do you think, have had recourse to you
were it not that you alone are able to help us?
LOUISA. I cannot compel him to hate me.
WORM. We will try! Be seated.
LOUISA (drawing back). Man! What is brooding in thy artful brain?
WORM. Be seated. Here are paper, pens, and ink. Write what I dictate.
LOUISA (sitting down in the greatest uneasiness). What must I write? To
whom must I write?
WORM. To your father's executioner.
LOUISA. Ah! How well thou knowest to torture souls to thy purpose.
(Takes a pen.)
WORM (dictating to her). "My dear Sir (LOUISA writes with a trembling
hand,) three days, three insupportable days, have already passed--already
passed--since last we met."
LOUISA (starts, and lays down her pen). To whom is the letter?
WORM. To your father's executioner.
LOUISA. Oh! my God!
WORM. "But for this you must blame the major--the major--who watches me
all day with the vigilance of an Argus."
LOUISA (starting up). Villany! Villany beyond all precedent! To whom
is the letter?
WORM. To your father's executioner.
LOUISA (paces to and fro, wringing her hands). No, no, no! This is
tyrannical! Oh Heaven! If mortals provoke thee, punish them like
mortals; but wherefore must I be placed between two precipices?
Wherefore am I hurled by turns from death to infamy, from infamy to
death? Wherefore is my neck made the footstool of this blood-sucking
fiend? No; do what thou wilt, I will never write that!
WORM (seizing his hat). As you please, miss! It rests entirely on your
own pleasure!
LOUISA. Pleasure, say'st thou? On my own pleasure? Go, barbarian!
Suspend some unfortunate over the pit of hell; then make your demands,
and ask your victim if it be his pleasure to grant your request! Oh!
Thou knowest but too well that the bonds of nature bind our hearts as
firmly as chains! But all is now alike indifferent. Dictate! I cease
to think! Artifices of hell, I yield to ye! (She resumes her seat at
the table.)
WORM. "With the vigilance of an Argus." Have you written it?
LOUISA. Proceed, proceed!
WORM. "The president was here yesterday. It was amusing to see how warm
the poor major was in defence of my honor."
LOUISA. Excellent! Excellent! Oh! Admirable! Quick! quick, go on!
WORM. "I had recourse to a swoon--a swoon--that I might not laugh
aloud"----
LOUISA. Oh, Heavens!
WORM. "But the mask which I have worn so long is becoming insupportable
--insupportable. Oh! if I could but rid myself of him."
LOUISA (rises, and walks a few turns with her head bent down, as if she
sought something upon the floor: then returns to her place, and continues
to write). "Rid myself of him."
WORM. "He will be on duty to-morrow--observe when he leaves me, and
hasten to the usual place." Have you written "the usual place?"
LOUISA. Everything, everything!
WORM. "To the usual place, to meet your devotedly attached Louisa."
LOUISA. Now then, the address?
WORM. "To Marshal von Kalb."
LOUISA. Eternal Providence! A name as foreign to my ear as these
scandalous lines are to my heart! (She rises, and for some moments
surveys the writing with a vacant gaze. At length she hands it to WORM,
speaking in a voice trembling and exhausted.) Take it, Sir! What I now
put into your hands is my good name. It is Ferdinand--it is the whole
joy of my life! You have it, and now I am a beggar----
WORM. Oh! Not so! Despair not, dear girl! You inspire me with the
most heartfelt pity! Perhaps--who knows? I might even now overlook
certain parts of your conduct--yes! Heaven is my witness, how deeply I
compassionate your sorrows!
LOUISA (giving him a piercing look). Do not explain yourself! You are
on the point of asking something more terrible than all.
WORM (attempting to kiss her hand). What if I asked this little hand?
Would that be terrible, Louisa?
LOUISA (with great indignation). Yes! for I should strangle you on the
bridal night: and for such a deed I would joyfully yield my body to be
torn on the rack! (She is going, but comes hurriedly back.) Is all
settled between us, sir? May the dove be released?
WORM. A trifle yet remains, maiden! You must swear, by the holy
sacrament, to acknowledge this letter for your free and voluntary act.
LOUISA. Oh God! Oh God! And wilt thou grant thine own seal to confirm
the works of hell? (WORM leads her away.)
ACT IV.
SCENE I. Saloon in the PRESIDENT'S House.
FERDINAND VON WALTER enters in great excitement with an open letter
in his hand, and is met by a SERVANT.
FERDINAND. Is the marshal here?
SERVANT. My lord, his highness the president is inquiring for you.
FERDINAND. Fire and fury! I ask is the marshal here?
SERVANT. His honor is engaged at the faro-table, above stairs.
FERDINAND. Tell his honor, in the name of all the devils in hell, to
make his appearance this instant!
[Exit SERVANT.
SCENE II.
FERDINAND (hastily reading the letter, at one moment seeming petrified
with astonishment, at the next pacing the room with fury). Impossible!
quite impossible! A form so heavenly cannot hide so devilish a heart.
And yet!--and yet! Though all the angels of heaven should descend on
earth and proclaim her innocence--though heaven and earth, the Creator
and the created, should, with one accord, vouch for her innocence--it is
her hand, her own hand! Treachery, monstrous, infernal treachery, such
as humanity never before witnessed! This, then, was the reason she so
resolutely opposed our flight! This it was--Oh, God! Now I awake from
my dream! Now the veil is lifted! This, then, is why she surrendered
with so much seeming heroism her claims on my affection, and all but
cheated me with her saint-like demeanor! (He traverses the chamber
rapidly, and then remains for some moments in deep thought.) To fathom
my heart to its very core! To reciprocate every lofty sentiment, every
gentle emotion, every fiery ebullition! To sympathize with every secret
breathing of my soul! To study me even in her tears! To mount with me
to the sublimest heights of passion--to brave with me, undaunted, each
fearful precipice! God of heaven! And was all this deceit? mere
grimace? Oh, if falsehood can assume so lovely an appearance of truth
why has no devil yet lied himself back into heaven?
When I unfolded to her the dangers which threatened our affection, with
what convincing artifice did the false one turn pale! With what
overpowering dignity did she repulse my father's licentious scoffs! yet
at that very moment the deceiver was conscious of her guilt! Nay, did
she not even undergo the fiery ordeal of truth? Forsooth, the hypocrite
fainted! What must now be thy language, sensibility, since coquettes
faint? How wilt thou vindicate thyself, innocence?--for even strumpets
faint?
She knows her power over me--she has seen through my very heart! My soul
shone conspicuous in my eyes at the blush of her first kiss. And that
she should have felt nothing! or perhaps felt only the triumph of her
art; whilst my happy delirium fancied that in her I embraced a whole
heaven, my wildest wishes were hushed! No thought but of her and
eternity was present to my mind. Oh, God! and yet she felt nothing?
Nothing? but that her artifice had triumphed! That her charms were
flattered! Death and vengeance! Nothing, but that I was betrayed!
SCENE III.
FERDINAND, the MARSHAL.
MARSHAL (tripping into the room). I am told, my dear baron, that you
have expressed a wish----
FERDINAND (muttering to himself). To break your rascally neck. (Aloud.)
Marshal, this letter must have dropped out of your pocket on parade.
(With a malicious smile.) And I have been the fortunate finder.
MARSHAL. You?
FERDINAND. By a singular coincidence! Now, balance thy account with
heaven!
MARSHAL. You quite alarm me, baron!
FERDINAND. Read it, sir, read it! (Turning from him.) If I am not good
enough for a lover perhaps I may do for a pimp. (While the MARSHAL
reads, FERDINAND goes to the wall and takes down the pistols.)
KALB (throws the letter upon the table, and rushes off). Confusion!
FERDINAND (leads him back by the arm). Wait a little, my dear marshal!
The intelligence contained in that letter appears to be agreeable! The
finder must have his reward. (Showing him the pistols.)
MARSHAL (starts back in alarm). Have you lost your senses, baron?
FERDINAND (in a terrible voice). I have more than enough left to rid the
world of such a scoundrel as you! Choose one of these instantly! (He
forces a pistol into the MARSHAL'S hand, and then draws out his
handkerchief.) And now take the other end of this handkerchief! It was
given me by the strumpet herself!
MARSHAL. What, shoot over the handkerchief? Baron, are you mad? What
can you be thinking of?
FERDINAND. Lay hold of it, I say! or you will be sure to miss your aim,
coward! How the coward trembles! You should thank God, you pitiful
coward, that you have a chance for once of getting something in your
empty brain-box. (The MARSHAL takes to his heels.) Gently, gently!
I'll take care of that. (Overtakes him and bolts the door.)
MARSHAL. Surely you will not fight in the chamber?
FERDINAND. As if you were worth the trouble of a walk beyond the
boundaries! The report, my dear fellow, will be louder, and, for the
first time, you will make some noise in the world. Now, then, take hold!
MARSHAL (wiping his forehead). Yet consider, I entreat. Would you risk
your precious life, young and promising as you are, in this desperate
manner?
FERDINAND. Take hold, I say! I have nothing more to do in this world!
MARSHAL. But I have much, my dearest, most excellent friend!
FERDINAND. Thou, wretch--thou? What hast thou to do, but to play the
stop-gap, where honest men keep aloof! To stretch or shrink seven times
in an instant, like the butterfly on a pin? To be privy registrar in
chief and clerk of the jordan? To be the cap-and-bell buffoon on which
your master sharpens his wit? Well, well, let it be so. I will carry you
about with me, as I would a marmot of rare training. You shall skip and
dance, like a tamed monkey, to the howling of the damned; fetch, carry,
and serve; and with your courtly arts enliven the wailings of everlasting
despair!
MARSHAL. Anything you please, dear major! Whatever you please! Only
take away the pistols!
FERDINAND. How he stands there, poor trembling wretch! There he stands,
a blot on the sixth day of creation. He looks as if he were a piratical
counterfeit of the Almighty original. Pity, eternal pity! that an atom
of brains should lie wasting in so barren a skull! That single atom
bestowed upon a baboon might have made him a perfect man, whereas it is
now a mere useless fragment. And that she should share her heart with a
thing like this! Monstrous! Incredible! A wretch more formed to wean
from sin than to excite it!
MARSHAL. Praised be Heaven! he is getting witty.
FERDINAND. I will let him live! That toleration which spares the
caterpillar shall be extended to him! Men shall look on him in wonder,
and, shrugging their shoulders, admire the wise dispensation of
Providence, which can feed its creatures with husks and scourings; which
spreads the table for the raven on the gallows, and for the courtier in
the slime of majesty. We wonder at the wisdom of Providence, which even
in the world of spirits maintains its staff of venomous reptiles for the
dissemination of poison. (Relapsing into rage.) But such vermin shall
not pollute my rose; sooner will I crush it to atoms (seizing the MARSHAL
and shaking him roughly), thus--and thus--and thus----
MARSHAL. Oh! God, that I were away from here! hundreds of miles away in
the asylum for maniacs at Paris! Anywhere but near this man!
FERDINAND. Villain! If she be no longer pure! Villain! If thou hast
profaned where I worshipped! (with increased fury). If thou hast
polluted, where I believed myself the god! (Pausing suddenly; then in a
solemn terrible voice.) It were better for thee, villain, to flee to
hell, than to encounter my wrath in heaven! Confess! To what extent has
your unhallowed love proceeded?
MARSHAL. Let me go! I will confess everything.
FERDINAND. Oh! it must be more rapturous even to be her licentious
paramour than to burn with the purest flame for any other! Would she
surrender her charms to unlicensed pleasure she might dissolve the soul
itself to sin, and make voluptuousness pass for virtue (pressing his
pistol against the MARSHAL'S breast). To what extremities have you
proceeded? Confess this instant or I fire!
MARSHAL. There is nothing at all in it, I assure you! There is not a
syllable of truth in the whole business! Have but a moment's patience!
You are deceived, indeed you are!
FERDINAND (furiously). And dare you remind me of that, villain? To what
extremities have you proceeded? Confess, or you are a dead man!
MARSHAL. Mon Dieu! My God! You mistake my words! Only listen for a
moment. When a father----
FERDINAND (still more enraged). No doubt! He threw his daughter into
your arms? And how far have you proceeded? Confess, or I will murder
you!
MARSHAL. You rave! You will not listen! I never saw her! I don't know
her! I know nothing at all about her!
FERDINAND (drawing back). You never saw her? You don't know her? Know
nothing at all about her? Louisa is lost to me forever on thy account,
and yet in one breath hast thou denied her thrice. Go, wretch, go (he
gives him a blow with the pistol, and thrusts him out of the chamber);
powder were thrown away on such a miscreant.
[Exit MARSHAL.
SCENE IV.
FERDINAND (after a long silence, during which his countenance declares
him to be agitated by some dreadful idea). Forever lost? Yes, false
unfortunate, both are lost! Ay, by the Almighty God! if I am lost, thou
art so too. Judge of the world, ask her not from me! She is mine. For
her sake I renounced the whole world--abandoned all thy glorious
creation. Leave me the maid, great Judge of the world! Millions of
souls pour out their plaints to thee--turn on them thine eye of
compassion, but leave me, Almighty Judge--leave me to myself. (Clasping
his hands in agony.) Can the bountiful, the munificent Creator be
covetous of one miserable soul, and that soul the worst of his creation?
The maiden is mine! Once I was her god, but now I am her devil!
(Fixes his eyes with terrible expression.)
An eternity passed with her upon the rack of everlasting perdition! Her
melting eye-balls riveted on mine! Our blazing locks entwined together!
Our shrieks of agony dissolving into one! And then to renew to her my
vows of love, and chant unceasingly her broken oaths! God! God! The
union is dreadful--and eternal! (As he is about to rush off, the
PRESIDENT meets him.)
SCENE V.
FERDINAND, the PRESIDENT.
FERDINAND (starting back). Ha! my father.
PRESIDENT. I am glad to meet with you, Ferdinand! I come to bring you
some pleasant news--something that will certainly surprise you, my dear
son. Shall we be seated?
FERDINAND (after gazing upon him for some time with a vacant stare). My
father! (Going to him with emotion, and grasping his hand.) My father!
(Kissing it, and falling at his feet.) Oh, father!
PRESIDENT. What is the matter? Rise, my son. Your hand burns and
trembles!
FERDINAND (wildly). Forgive my ingratitude, father! I am a lost man! I
have misinterpreted your kindness! Your meaning was so truly--truly
paternal! Oh! you had a prophetic soul! Now it is too late! Pardon!
pardon! Your blessing, my dear father!
PRESIDENT (feigning astonishment). Arise, my son! Recollect that your
words to me are riddles!
FERDINAND. This Louisa, dear father! Oh! You understand mankind! Your
anger was so just, so noble, so truly the zeal of a father! had not its
very earnestness led you to mistake the way. This Louisa!
PRESIDENT. Spare me, dear boy! Curses on my severity! come to entreat
your forgiveness----
FERDINAND. Forgiveness from me! Curse me rather. Your disapproval was
wisdom! Your severity was heavenly mercy! This Louisa, father----
PRESIDENT. Is a noble, a lovely girl! I recall my too rash suspicions!
She has won my entire esteem!
FERDINAND (starting up). What? You, too? Father, even you? And is she
not, father, the very personification of innocence? And is it not so
natural to love this maiden?
PRESIDENT. Say, rather, 'twere a crime not to love her.
FERDINAND. Incredible! wonderful! And you, too, who can so thoroughly
see through the heart! And you, who saw her faults with the eyes of
hatred! Oh, unexampled hypocrisy! This Louisa, father!
PRESIDENT. Is worthy to be my daughter! Her virtues supply the want of
ancestry, her beauty the want of fortune. My prudential maxims yield to
the force of your attachment. Louisa shall be yours!
FERDINAND. Naught but this wanting! Father, farewell! (Rushes out of
the apartment.)
PRESIDENT (following him). Stay, my son, stay! Whither do you fly?
SCENE VI.--A magnificent Saloon in LADY MILFORD'S House.
Enter LADY MILFORD and SOPHIA.
LADY MILFORD. You have seen her then? Will she come?
SOPHIA. Yes, in a moment! She was in dishabille, and only requested
time to change her dress.
LADY MILFORD. Speak not of her. Silence! I tremble like a criminal at
the prospect of beholding that fortunate woman whose heart sympathizes
thus cruelly with my own. And how did she receive my invitation?
SOPHIA. She seemed surprised, became thoughtful, fixed her eyes on me
steadfastly, and for a while remained silent. I was already prepared for
her excuses, when she returned me this answer with a look that quite
astonished me; "Tell your mistress that she commands what I myself
intended to request to-morrow."
LADY MILFORD. Leave me, Sophia! Pity me! I must blush if she is but an
ordinary woman--despair if she is more!
SOPHIA. But, my lady! it is not in this spirit that a rival should be
received! Remember who you are! Summon to your aid your birth, your
rank, your power! A prouder soul should heighten the gorgeous splendor
of your appearance.
LADY MILFORD (in a fit of absence). What is the simpleton babbling
about?
SOPHIA (maliciously). Or, is it, perhaps, by chance that to-day, in
particular, you are adorned with your most costly brilliants? by chance
that you are to-day arrayed in your most sumptuous robes? that your
antechamber is crowded with guards and pages; and that the tradesman's
daughter is to be received in the most stately apartment of the palace?
LADY MILFORD (angry and nettled). This is outrageous! Insupportable!
Oh that woman should have such argus-eyes for woman's weakness! How low,
how irretrievably low must I have fallen when such a creature has power
to fathom me!
LADY MILFORD, SOPHIA, a SERVANT.
SERVANT (entering). Ma'mselle Miller waits.
LADY MILFORD (to SOPHIA). Hence with you! Leave the room instantly!
(Imperiously, as the latter hesitates.) Must I repeat my orders?
(SOPHIA retires--LADY MILFORD takes a few turns hastily.) So; 'tis well
that I have been excited! I am in the fitter mood for this meeting. (To
the SERVANT.) Let her approach.
[Exit SERVANT. LADY MILFORD throws herself upon the sofa,
and assumes a negligent but studied attitude.
SCENE VII.
LADY MILFORD, LOUISA.
LOUISA enters timidly, and remains standing at a great distance
from LADY MILFORD, who has turned her back towards her, and for
some time watches her attentively in the opposite looking-glass.
After a pause-----
LOUISA. Noble lady, I await your commands.
LADY MILFORD (turning towards LOUISA, and making a slight and distant
motion with her head.) Oh! Are you there? I presume the young lady--a
certain----. Pray what is your name?
LOUISA (somewhat sensitively). My father's name is Miller. Your
ladyship expressed a wish to see his daughter.
LADY MILFORD. True, true! I remember. The poor musician's daughter, of
whom we were speaking the other day. (Aside, after a pause.) Very
interesting, but no beauty! (To LOUISA.) Come nearer, my child. (Again
aside.) Eyes well practised in weeping. Oh! How I love those eyes!
(Aloud.) Nearer--come nearer! Quite close! I really think, my good
child, that you are afraid of me!
LOUISA (with firmness and dignity). No, my lady--I despise the opinion
of the multitude!
LADY MILFORD (aside). Well, to be sure! She has learnt this boldness
from him. (To LOUISA.) You have been recommended to me, miss! I am
told that you have been decently educated, and are well disposed. I can
readily believe it; besides, I would not, for the world, doubt the word
of so warm an advocate.
LOUISA. And yet I remember no one, my lady, who would be at the trouble
to seek your ladyship's patronage for me!
LADY MILFORD (significantly). Does that imply my unworthiness, or your
humility?
LOUISA. Your words are beyond my comprehension, lady.
LADY MILFORD. More cunning than I should have expected from that open
countenance. (To LOUISA.) Your name is Louisa, I believe? May I
inquire your age?
LOUISA. Sixteen, just turned.
LADY MILFORD (starting up). Ha! There it is! Sixteen! The first
pulsation of love! The first sweet vibration upon the yet unsounded
harp! Nothing is more fascinating. (To LOUISA.) Be seated, lovely
girl--I am anxious about you. (To herself.) And he, too, loves for the
first time! What wonder, if the ruddy morning beams should meet and
blend? (To LOUISA, taking her hand affectionately.) 'Tis settled: I
will make your fortune. (To herself.) Oh! there is nothing in it:
nothing, but the sweet transient vision of youth! (To LOUISA, patting
her on the cheek.) My Sophy is on the point of leaving me to be married:
you shall have her place. But just sixteen? Oh! it can never last.
LOUISA (kissing her hand respectfully). Receive my thanks, lady, for
your intended favors, and believe me not the less grateful though I may
decline to accept them.
LADY MILFORD (relapsing into disdain and anger). Only hear the great
lady! Girls of your station generally think themselves fortunate to
obtain such promotion. What is your dependence, my dainty one? Are
these fingers too delicate for work?--or is it your pretty baby-face that
makes you give yourself these airs?
LOUISA. My face, lady, is as little of my own choice as my station!
LADY MILFORD. Perhaps you believe that your beauty will last forever?
Poor creature! Whoever put that into your head--be he who he may--has
deceived both you and himself! The colors of those cheeks are not burnt
in with fire: what your mirror passes off upon you as solid and enduring
is but a slight tinselling, which, sooner or later, will rub off in the
hands of the purchaser. What then, will you do?
LOUISA. Pity the purchaser, lady, who bought a diamond because it
appeared to be set in gold.
LADY MILFORD (affecting not to hear her). A damsel of your age has ever
two mirrors, the real one, and her admirer. The flattering complaisance
of the latter counterbalances the rough honesty of the former. What the
one proclaims frightful pock-marks, the other declares to be dimples that
would adorn the Graces. The credulous maid believes only so much of the
former as is confirmed by the latter, and hies from one to the other till
she confounds their testimonies, and concludes by fancying them to be
both of one opinion. Why do you stare at me so?
LOUISA. Pardon me, lady! I was just then pitying those gorgeous
sparkling brilliants, which are unconscious that their possessor is so
strenuous a foe to vanity.
LADY MILFORD (reddening). No evasion, miss. Were it not that you depend
upon personal attractions, what in the world could induce you to reject a
situation, the only one where you can acquire polish of manners and
divest yourself of your plebeian prejudices?
LOUISA. And with them, I presume, my plebeian innocence!
LADY MILFORD. Preposterous objection! The most dissolute libertine
dares not to disrespect our sex, unless we ourselves encourage him by
advances. Prove what you are; make manifest your virtue and honor, and I
will guarantee your innocence from danger.
LOUISA. Of that, lady, permit me to entertain a doubt! The palaces of
certain ladies are but too often made a theatre for the most unbridled
licentiousness. Who will believe that a poor musician's daughter could
have the heroism to plunge into the midst of contagion and yet preserve
herself untainted? Who will believe that Lady Milford would perpetually
hold a scorpion to her breast, and lavish her wealth to purchase the
advantage of every moment feeling her cheeks dyed with the crimson blush
of shame? I will be frank, lady!--while I adorned you for some
assignation, could you meet my eye unabashed? Could you endure my glance
when you returned? Oh! better, far better, would it be that oceans
should roll between us--that we should inhabit different climes! Beware,
my lady!--hours of temperance, moments of satiety might intrude; the
gnawing worm of remorse might plant its sting in your bosom, and then
what a torment would it be for you to read in the countenance of your
handmaid that calm serenity with which virtue ever rewards an uncorrupted
heart! (Retiring a few steps.) Once more, gracious lady, I entreat your
pardon!
LADY MILFORD (extremely agitated). Insupportable, that she should tell
me this! Still more insupportable, that what she tells is true!
(Turning to LOUISA, and looking at her steadfastly.) Girl! girl! this
artifice does not blind me. Mere opinions do not speak out so warmly.
Beneath the cloak of these sentiments lurks some far dearer interest.
'Tis that which makes my service particularly distasteful--which gives
such energy to your language. (In a threatening voice.) What it is I am
determined to discover.
LOUISA (with calm dignity). And what if you do discover it? Suppose the
contemptuous trampling of your foot should rouse the injured worm, which
its Creator has furnished with a sting to protect it against misusage. I
fear not your vengeance, lady! The poor criminal extended on the rack
can look unappalled even on the dissolution of the world. My misery is
so exquisite that even sincerity cannot draw down upon me any further
infliction! (After a pause.) You say that you would raise me from the
obscurity of my station. I will not examine the motives of this
suspicious favor. I will only ask, what could induce you to think me so
foolish as to blush at my station? What could induce you to become the
architect of my happiness, before you knew whether I was willing to
receive that happiness at your hands? I had forever renounced all claims
upon the pleasures of the world. I had forgiven fortune that she had
dealt with me so niggardly. Ah! why do you remind me of all this. If
the Almighty himself hides his glory from the eyes of his creatures, lest
the highest seraph should be overwhelmed by a sense of his own
insignificance, why should mortals be so cruelly compassionate? Lady,
lady! why is your vaunted happiness so anxious to excite the envy and
wonder of the wretched? Does your bliss stand in need of the exhibition
of despair for entertainment? Oh! rather grant me that blindness which
alone can reconcile me to my barbarous lot! The insect feels itself as
happy in a drop of water as though that drop was a paradise: so happy,
and so contented! till some one tells it of a world of water, where
navies ride and whales disport themselves! But you wish to make me
happy, say you? (After a pause, she advances towards LADY MILFORD, and
asks her suddenly.) Are you happy, lady? (LADY MILFORD turns from her
hastily, and overpowered. LOUISA follows her, and lays her hand upon her
bosom.) Does this heart wear the smile of its station? Could we now
exchange breast for breast, and fate for fate--were I, in childlike
innocence, to ask you on your conscience--were I to ask you as a mother--
would you really counsel me to make the exchange?
LADY MILFORD (greatly excited, throwing herself on the sofa).
Intolerable! Incomprehensible! No, Louisa, no! This greatness of
thought is not your own, and your conceptions are too fiery, too full of
youth, to be inspired by your father. Deceive me not! I detect another
teacher----
LOUISA (looking piercingly at her). I cannot but wonder, my lady, that
you should have only just discovered that other teacher, and yet have
previously shown so much anxiety to patronize me!
LADY MILFORD (starting up). 'Tis not to be borne! Well, then, since I
cannot escape you, I know him--know everything--know more than I wish to
know! (Suddenly restraining herself, then continuing with a violence
which by degrees increases to frenzy.) But dare, unhappy one!--dare but
still to love, or be beloved by him! What did I say? Dare but to think
of him, or to be one of his thoughts! I am powerful, unhappy one!--
dreadful in my vengeance! As sure as there is a God in heaven thou art
lost forever!
LOUISA (undaunted). Past all redemption, my lady, the moment you succeed
in compelling him to love you!
LADY MILFORD. I understand you--but I care not for his love! I will
conquer this disgraceful passion. I will torture my own heart; but thine
will I crush to atoms! Rocks and chasms will I hurl between you. I will
rush, like a fury, into the heaven of your joys. My name shall affright
your loves as a spectre scares an assassin. That young and blooming form
in his embrace shall wither to a skeleton. I cannot be blest with him--
neither shalt thou. Know, wretched girl; that to blast the happiness of
others is in itself a happiness!
LOUISA. A happiness, my lady, which is already beyond your reach! Seek
not to deceive your own heart! You are incapable of executing what you
threaten! You are incapable of torturing a being who has done you no
wrong--but whose misfortune it is that her feelings have been sensible to
impressions like your own. But I love you for these transports, my lady!
LADY MILFORD (recovering herself). Where am I? What have I done? What
sentiments have I betrayed? To whom have I betrayed them? Oh, Louisa,
noble, great, divine soul, forgive the ravings of a maniac! Fear not, my
child! I will not injure a hair of thy head! Name thy wishes! Ask what
thou wilt! I will serve thee with all my power; I will be thy friend--
thy sister! Thou art poor; look (taking off her brilliants), I will sell
these jewels--sell my wardrobe--my carriages and horses--all shall be
thine--grant me but Ferdinand!
LOUISA (draws back indignantly). Does she mock my despair?--or is she
really innocent of participation in that cruel deed? Ha! then I may yet
assume the heroine, and make my surrender of him pass for a sacrifice!
(Remains for a while absorbed in thought, then approaches LADY MILFORD,
seizes her hand, and gazes on her with a fixed and significant look.)
Take him, lady! I here voluntarily resign the man whom hellish arts have
torn from my bleeding bosom! Perchance you know it not, my lady! but you
have destroyed the paradise of two lovers; you have torn asunder two
hearts which God had linked together; you have crushed a creature not
less dear to him than yourself, and no less created for happiness; one by
whom he was worshipped as sincerely as by you; but who, henceforth, will
worship him no more. But the Almighty is ever open to receive the last
groan of the trampled worm. He will not look on with indifference when
creatures in his keeping are murdered. Now Ferdinand is yours. Take
him, lady, take him! Rush into his arms! Drag him with you to the
altar! But forget not that the spectre of a suicide will rush between
you and the bridal kiss. God be merciful! No choice is left me!
(Rushes out of the chamber.)
SCENE VIII.
LADY MILFORD alone, in extreme agitation, gazing on the door by
which LOUISA left. At length she recovers from her stupor.
LADY MILFORD. What was that? What preys so on my heart? What said the
unhappy one? Still, O heaven, the dreadful, damning words ring in my
ears! "Take him! Take him!" What should I take, unfortunate? the
bequest of your dying groan--the fearful legacy of your despair?
Gracious heaven! am I then fallen so low? Am I so suddenly hurled from
the towering throne of my pride that I greedily await what a beggar's
generosity may throw me in the last struggle of death? "Take him! Take
him!" And with what a tone was it uttered!--with what a look! What!
Amelia! is it for this thou hast overleaped the bounds of thy sex? For
this didst thou vaunt the glorious title of a free-born Briton, that thy
boasted edifice of honor might sink before the nobler soul of a despised
and lowly maiden? No, proud unfortunate! No! Amelia Milford may blush
for shame,--but shall never be despised. I, too, have courage to resign.
(She walks a few paces with a majestic gait.) Hide thyself, weak,
suffering woman! Hence, ye sweet and golden dreams of love! Magnanimity
alone be now my guide. These lovers are lost, or Amelia must withdraw
her claim, and renounce the prince's heart. (After a pause, with
animation.) It is determined! The dreadful obstacle is removed--broken
are the bonds which bound me to the duke--torn from my bosom this raging
passion. Virtue, into thy arms I throw myself. Receive thy repentant
daughter. Ha! how happy do I feel! How suddenly relieved my heart, and
how exalted! Glorious as the setting sun, will I this day descend from
the pinnacle of my greatness; my grandeur shall expire with my love, and
my own heart be the only sharer of my proud exile! (Going to her
writing-table with a determined air.) It must be done at once--now, on
the spot--before the recollection of Ferdinand renews the cruel conflict
in my bosom! (She seats herself, and begins to write).
SCENE IX.
LADY MILFORD, an ATTENDANT, SOPHIA, afterwards the MARSHAL,
and then SERVANTS.
SERVANT. Marshal von Kalb is in the ante-chamber, and brings a message
from his highness.
LADY MILFORD (not hearing him in the eagerness of writing). How the
illustrious puppet will stare! The idea is singular enough, I own, the
presuming to astonish his serene numskull. In what confusion will his
court be thrown! The whole country will be in a ferment.
SERVANT and SOPHIA. Marshal von Kalb, my lady!
LADY MILFORD (turning round). Who? the marshal? So much the better!
Such creatures were designed by nature to carry the ass' panniers.
[Exit SERVANT.
SOPHIA (approaching anxiously). If I were not fearful, my lady, that you
would think it presumption. (LADY MILFORD continuing to write eagerly.)
Louisa Miller rushed madly to the hall--you are agitated--you speak to
yourself. (LADY MILFORD continues writing.) I am quite alarmed. What
can have happened? (The MARSHAL enters, making repeated bows at LADY
MILFORD'S back; as she takes no notice of him, he comes nearer, stands
behind her chair, touches the hem of her dress, and imprints a kiss on
it, saying in a tremulous voice.) His serene highness----
LADY MILFORD (while she peruses hastily what she has written). He will
tax me with black ingratitude! "I was poor and forsaken! He raised me
from misery! From misery." Detestable exchange! Annul my bond,
seducer! The blush of my eternal shame repays my debt with interest.
MARSHAL (after endeavoring in vain to catch her eye). Your ladyship
seems somewhat absent. I take the liberty of permitting myself the
boldness (very loud)--his serene highness, my lady, has sent me to
inquire whether you mean to honor this evening's gala with your presence,
or the theatre?
LADY MILFORD (rising, with a laugh). One or the other, sweet sir. In
the meantime take this paper to your duke for his dessert. (To SOPHIA.)
Do you, Sophia, give directions to have my carriage brought to the door
without delay, and call my whole household together in this saloon.
SOPHIA (goes out in great astonishment). Heavens! What do I forebode?
What will this end in?
MARSHAL. You seem excited, my lady!
LADY MILFORD. The greater the chance of my letting you into a little
truth. Rejoice, my Lord Marshal! There is a place vacant at court. A
fine time for panders. (As the MARSHAL throws a look of suspicion upon
the paper.) Read it, read it! 'Tis my desire that the contents should
be made public. (While he reads it, the domestics enter, and range
themselves in the background.)
MARSHAL (reading). "Your highness--an engagement, broken by you so
lightly, can no longer be binding on me. The happiness of your subjects
was the condition of my love. For three years the deception has lasted.
The veil at length falls from my eyes! I look with disgust on favors
which are stained with the tears of your subjects. Bestow the love which
I can no longer accept upon your weeping country, and learn from a
British princess compassion to your German people. Within an hour I
shall have quitted your dominions. JOANNA NORFOLK"
SERVANTS (exclaiming to each other in astonishment). Quitted the
dominions!
MARSHAL (replaces the letter upon the table in terror). God forbid, my
dear and most excellent lady! The bearer of such a letter would be as
mad as the writer!
LADY MILFORD. That is your concern, you pink of a courtier! Alas! I am
sorry to know that you, and such as you, would choke even in the
utterance of what others dare to do. My advice is that you bake the
letter in a venison pasty, so that his most serene highness may find it
on his plate!
MARSHAL. God preserve me! What presumption! Ponder well, I entreat
you. Reflect on the disgrace which you will bring down upon yourself, my
lady!
LADY MILFORD (turning to the assembled domestics, and addressing them in
the deepest emotion). You seem amazed, good people; and anxiously
awaiting the solution of this riddle? Draw nearer, my friends! You have
served me truly and affectionately; have looked into my eyes rather than
my purse. My pleasure was your study, my approbation your pride! Woe is
me, that the remembrance of your fidelity must be the record of my
unworthiness! Unhappy fate, that the darkest season of my life should
have been the brightest of yours! (Her eyes suffused with tears.) We
must part, my children. Lady Milford has ceased to exist, and Joanna of
Norfolk is too poor to repay your love. What little wealth I have my
treasurer will share among you. This palace belongs to the duke. The
poorest of you will quit it far richer than his mistress! Farewell, my
children! (She extends her hand, which they all in turn kiss, with marks
of sorrow and affection.) I understand you, my good people! Farewell!
forever farewell! (Struggling with her feelings.) I hear the carriage
at the door. (She tears herself away, and is hurrying out when the
MARSHAL arrests her progress.) How, now? Pitiful creature, art thou
still there?
MARSHAL (who all this while has been gazing in vacant astonishment at the
letter). And must I be the person to put this letter into the most
august hands of his most serene highness?
LADY MILFORD. Pitiful creature, even thou! Thou must deliver into his
most august hands, and convey to his most august ears, that, as I cannot
go barefoot to Loretto, I will support myself by the labor of my hands,
that I may be purified from the disgrace of having condescended to rule
him. (She hurries off--the rest silently disperse.)
ACT V.
SCENE I.--Twilight; a room in MILLER'S house.
LOUISA sits silent and motionless in a dark corner of the room,
her head reclining upon her hand. After a long pause, MILLER
enters with a lantern, the light of which he casts anxiously
round the chamber, without observing LOUISA, he then puts his
hat on the table, and sets down the lantern.
LOUISA, MILLER.
MILLER. She is not here either. No, she is not here! I have wandered
through every street; I have sought her with every acquaintance; I have
inquired at every door! No one has seen my child! (A silence of some
moments.) Patience, poor unhappy father! Patience till morning; then
perhaps the corpse of your only one may come floating to shore. Oh, God
in heaven! What though my heart has hung too idolatrously upon this
daughter, yet surely the punishment is severe! Heavenly Father! Surely
it is severe! I will not murmur, Heavenly Father; but the punishment is
indeed severe! (Throws himself sorrowfully into a chair.)
LOUISA (without moving from her seat). Thou dost well, wretched old man!
Learn betimes to lose.
MILLER (starts up eagerly). Ah! art thou there, my child? Art thou
there? But wherefore thus alone, and without a light?
LOUISA. Yet am I not alone. When all things around me are dark and
gloomy then have I the companionship which most I love.
MILLER. God defend thee, my child! The worm of conscience alone wakes
and watches with the owl; none shun the light but criminals and evil
spirits.
LOUISA. And eternity, father, which speaks to the soul in solitude!
MILLER. Louisa, my child! What words are these?
LOUISA (rises, and comes forward). I have fought a hard fight--you know
it, father! but God gave me the strength! The fight is over! Father,
our sex is called timid and weak; believe it no more! We tremble at a
spider, but the black monster, corruption, we hug to our arms in sport!
This for your edification, father. Your Louisa is merry.
MILLER. I had rather you wept. It would, please me better.
LOUISA. How I will outwit him, father! How I shall cheat the tyrant!
Love is more crafty than malice, and bolder--he knew not that, the man of
the unlucky star! Oh! they are cunning so long as they have but to do
with the head; but when they have to grapple with the heart the villains
are at fault. He thought to seal his treachery with an oath! Oaths,
father, may bind the living, but death dissolves even the iron bonds of
the sacrament! Ferdinand will learn to know his Louisa. Father, will
you deliver this letter for me? Will you do me the kindness?
MILLER. To whom, my child?
LOUISA. Strange question! Infinitude and my heart together had not
space enough for a single thought but of him. To whom else should I
write?
MILLER (anxiously). Hear me, Louisa! I must read this letter!
LOUISA. As you please, father! but you will not understand it. The
characters lie there like inanimate corpses, and live but for the eye of
love.
MILLER (reading). "You are betrayed, Ferdinand! An unparalleled piece
of villany has dissolved the union of our hearts; but a dreadful vow
binds my tongue, and your father has spies stationed upon every side.
But, if thou hast courage, my beloved, I know a place where oaths no
longer bind, and where spies cannot enter." (MILLER stops short, and
gazes upon her steadfastly.)
LOUISA. Why that earnest look, father? Read what follows.
MILLER. "But thou must be fearless enough to wander through a gloomy
path with no other guides than God and thy Louisa. Thou must have no
companion but love; leave behind all thy hopes, all thy tumultuous
wishes--thou wilt need nothing on this journey but thy heart. Darest
thou come; then set out as the bell tolls twelve from the Carmelite
Tower. Dost thou fear; then erase from the vocabulary of thy sex's
virtues the word courage, for a maiden will have put thee to shame."
(MILLER lays down the letter and fixes his eyes upon the ground in deep
sorrow. At length he turns to LOUISA, and says, in a low, broken voice)
Daughter, where is that place?
LOUISA. Don't you know it, father? Do you really not know it? 'Tis
strange! I have described it unmistakably! Ferdinand will not fail to
find it.
MILLER. Pray speak plainer!
LOUISA. I can think of no pleasing name for it just now! You must not
be alarmed, father, if the name I give it has a terrible sound. That
place,----Oh! why has no lover invented a name for it! He would have
chosen the softest, the sweetest--that place, my dear father--but you
must not interrupt me--that place is--the grave!
MILLER (staggering to a seat). Oh, God!
LOUISA (hastens to him, and supports him). Nay, father, be not alarmed!
These are but terrors which hover round an empty word! Take away the
name and the grave will seem to be a bridal-bed over which Aurora spreads
her golden canopy and spring strews her fairest flowers. None but a
groaning sinner pictures death as a skeleton; to others he is a gentle,
smiling boy, blooming as the god of love, but not so false--a silent,
ministering spirit who guides the exhausted pilgrim through the desert of
eternity, unlocks for him the fairy palace of everlasting joy, invites
him in with friendly smiles, and vanishes forever!
MILLER. What meanest thou, my child? Surely, thou wilt not lay guilty
hands on thine own life?
LOUISA. Speak not thus, father! To quit a community from which I am
already rejected, to fly voluntarily to a place from which I cannot much
longer be absent, is that a sin?
MILLER. Suicide is the most horrible of sins, my child. 'Tis the only
one that can never he repented, since death arrives at the moment the
crime is committed.
LOUISA (stands motionless with horror). That is dreadful! But my death
will not be so sudden, father. I will spring into the river, and while
the waters are closing over me, cry to the Almighty for mercy and
forgiveness!
MILLER. That is to say, you will repent the theft as soon as the
treasure is secure! Daughter! Daughter! beware how you mock your God
when you most need his help! Oh! you have gone far, far astray! You have
forgotten the worship of your Creator, and he has withdrawn his
protecting hand from you!
LOUISA. Is it, then, a crime to love, father?
MILLER. So long as thou lovest God thou wilt never love man to idolatry.
Thou hast bowed me down low, my only one! low! very low! perhaps to the
grave! Yet will I not increase the sadness of thy heart. Daughter! I
gave vent to my feelings as I entered. I thought myself alone! Thou
hast overheard me! and why should I longer conceal the truth. Thou wert
my idol! Hear me, Louisa, if there is yet room in thy heart for a
father's feelings. Thou wert my all! Of thine own thou hast nothing
more to lose, but I have my all at stake! My life depends on thee! My
hairs are turning gray, Louisa; they show that the time is drawing nigh
with me when fathers look for a return of the capital invested in the
hearts of their children. Wilt thou defraud me of this, Louisa? Wilt
thou away and bear with thee all the wealth of thy father?
LOUISA (kissing his hand in the deepest emotion). No, father, no! I go
from this world deeply in your debt, and will repay you with usury in the
world to come.
MILLER. Beware, my child, lest thy reckoning should be false! (very
earnestly and solemnly). Art thou certain that we shall meet in that
world to come? Lo! how the color fades from thy cheek! My child must
feel that I can scarcely overtake her in that other world if she hurries
there before me. (LOUISA throws herself shuddering into his arms, he
clasps her warmly to his bosom, and continues in a tone of fervent
adjuration.) Oh! Louisa! Louisa! Fallen, perhaps already lost,
daughter! Treasure in thy heart the solemn counsels of a father! I
cannot eternally watch over thee! I may snatch the dagger from thy
hands; but thou canst let out life with a bodkin. I may remove poison
from thy reach; but thou canst strangle thyself with a necklace. Louisa!
Louisa! I can only warn thee. Wilt thou rush boldly forward till the
perfidious phantom which lured thee on vanishes at the awful brink of
eternity? Wilt thou dare approach the throne of the Omniscient with the
lie on thy lips? "At thy call am I here, Creator!" while thy guilty eyes
are in search only of their mortal idol! And when thou shalt see this
perishable god of thine own creation, a worm like thee, writhing at the
Almighty's feet; when thou shalt hear him in the awful moment give the
lie to thy guilty daring, and blast thy delusive hopes of eternal mercy,
which the wretch implores in vain for himself; what then! (Louder and
more fervently), What, then, unhappy one? (He clasps her still closer to
his bosom, and gazes upon her with wild and piercing looks; then suddenly
disengages himself.) I can do no more! (Raising his right hand towards
heaven.) Immortal Judge, I can do no more to save this soul from ruin!
Louisa, do what thou wilt. Offer up a sacrifice at the altar of this
idolized youth that shall make thy evil genius howl for transport and thy
good angels forsake thee in despair. Go on! Heap sin upon sin,--add to
them this, the last, the heaviest,--and, if the scale be still too light
throw in my curse to complete the measure. Here is a knife; pierce thy
own heart, and (weeping aloud and rushing away), and with it, thy
father's!
LOUISA (following and detaining him). Stay! stay! Oh! father, father!--
to think that affection should wound more cruelly than a tyrant's rage!
What shall I?--I cannot!--what must I do?
MILLER. If thy lover's kisses burn hotter than thy father's tears--then
die!
LOUISA (after a violent internal struggle, firmly). Father! Here is my
hand! I will--God! God! what am I doing! What would I?--father, I
swear. Woe is me! Criminal that I am where'er I turn! Father, be it
so! Ferdinand. God, look down upon the act! Thus I destroy the last
memorial of him. (Tearing the letter.)
MILLER (throwing himself in ecstasy upon her neck). There spoke my
daughter! Look up, my child! Thou hast lost a lover, but thou hast made
a father happy. (Embracing her, and alternately laughing and crying.)
My child! my child! I was not worthy to live so blest a moment! God
knows how I, poor miserable sinner, became possessed of such an angel!
My Louisa! My paradise! Oh! I know but little of love; but that to rend
its bonds must be a bitter grief I can well believe!
LOUISA. But let us hasten from this place, my father! Let us fly from
the city, where my companions scoff at me, and my good name is lost
forever--let us away, far away, from a spot where every object tells of
my ruined happiness,--let us fly if it be possible!
MILLER. Whither thou wilt, my daughter! The bread of the Lord grows
everywhere, and He will grant ears to listen to my music. Yes! we will
fly and leave all behind. I will set the story of your sorrows to the
lute, and sing of the daughter who rent her own heart to preserve her
father's. We will beg with the ballad from door to door, and sweet will
be the alms bestowed by the hand of weeping sympathy!
SCENE II.
The former; FERDINAND.
LOUISA (who perceives him first, throws herself shrieking into MILLER'S
arms). God! There he is! I am lost!
MILLER. Who? Where?
LOUISA (points, with averted face, to the MAJOR, and presses closer to
her father). 'Tis he! 'Tis he! himself! Look round, father, look
round!--he comes to murder me!
MILLER (perceives him and starts back). How, baron? You here?
FERDINAND (approaches slowly, stands opposite to LOUISA, and fixes a
stern and piercing look upon her. After a pause, he says). Stricken
conscience, I thank thee! Thy confession is dreadful, but swift and
true, and spares me the torment of an explanation! Good evening, Miller!
MILLER. For God's sake! baron, what seek you? What brings you hither?
What means this surprise?
FERDINAND. I knew a time when the day was divided into seconds, when
eagerness for my presence hung upon the weights of the tardy clock, and
when every pulse-throb was counted until the moment of my coming. How is
it that I now surprise?
MILLER. Oh, leave us, leave us, baron! If but one spark of humanity
still linger in your bosom;--if you seek not utterly to destroy her whom
you profess to love, fly from this house, stay not one moment longer.
The blessing of God deserted us when your foot first crossed its
threshold. You have brought misery under a roof where all before was joy
and happiness. Are you not yet content? Do you seek to deepen the wound
which your fatal passion has planted in the heart of my only child?
FERDINAND. Strange father, I have come to bring joyful tidings to your
daughter.
MILLER. Perchance fresh hopes, to add to her despair. Away, away, thou
messenger of ill! Thy looks belie thy words.
FERDINAND. At length the goal of my hopes appears in view! Lady
Milford, the most fearful obstacle to our love, has this moment fled the
land. My father sanctions my choice. Fate grows weary of persecuting
us, and our propitious stars now blaze in the ascendant--I am come to
fulfil my plighted troth, and to lead my bride to the altar.
MILLER. Dost thou hear him, my child? Dost thou hear him mock at thy
cheated hopes? Oh, truly, baron! It is so worthy of the deceiver to
make a jest of his own crime!
FERDINAND. You think I am jesting? By my honor I am not! My
protestations are as true as the love of my Louisa, and I will keep them
as sacred as she has kept her oaths. Nothing to me is more sacred. Can
you still doubt? Still no joyful blush upon the cheek of my fair bride?
'Tis strange! Falsehood must needs be here the current coin, since truth
finds so little credit. You mistrust my words, it seems? Then read this
written testimony. (He throws LOUISA her letter to the MARSHAL. She
opens it, and sinks upon the floor pale as death.)
MILLER (not observing this). What can this mean, baron? I do not
understand you.
FERDINAND. (leads him to LOUISA). But your daughter has understood me
well.
MILLER (throws himself on his knees beside her). Oh, God! my child!
FERDINAND. Pale as a corpse! 'Tis thus your daughter pleases me the
best. Your demure and virtuous daughter was never half so lovely as with
that deathlike paleness. The blast of the day of judgment, which strips
the varnish from every lie, has wafted the painted colors from her cheek,
or the juggler might have cheated even the angels of light. This is her
fairest countenance. Now for the first time do I see it in its truth.
Let me kiss it. (He approaches her.)
MILLER. Back! Away, boy! Trifle not with a father's feelings. I could
not defend her from your caresses, but I can from your insults.
FERDINAND. What wouldst thou, old man? With thee I have naught to do.
Engage not in a game so irrevocably lost. Or hast thou, too, been wiser
than I thought? Hast thou employed the wisdom of thy sixty years in
pandering to thy daughter's amours, and disgraced those hoary locks with
the office of a pimp? Oh! if it be not so, wretched old man, then lay
thyself down and die. There is still time. Thou mayest breathe by last
in the sweet delusion, "I was a happy father!" Wait but a moment longer
and thine own hand will dash to her infernal home this poisonous viper;
thou wilt curse the gift, and him who gave it, and sink to the grave in
blasphemy and despair. (To LOUISA.) Speak, wretched one, speak! Didst
thou write this letter?
MILLER (to LOUISA, impressively). For God's sake, daughter, forget not!
forget not!
LOUISA. Oh, father--that letter!
FERDINAND. Oh! that it should have fallen into the wrong hands. Now
blessed be the accident! It has effected more than the most consummate
prudence, and will at the day of judgment avail more than the united
wisdom of sages. Accident, did I say? Oh! Providence directs, when a
sparrow falls, why not when a devil is unmasked? But I will be answered!
Didst thou write that letter?
MILLER (to LOUISA, in a tone of entreaty). Be firm, my child, be firm!
But a single "Yes," and all will be over.
FERDINAND. Excellent! excellent! The father, too, is deceived! All,
all are deceived by her! Look, how the perfidious one stands there; even
her tongue refuses participation in her last lie. I adjure thee by that
God so terrible and true--didst thou write that letter?
LOUISA (after a painful struggle, with firmness and decision). I did!
FERDINAND (stands aghast). No! As my soul liveth, thou hast lied. Even
innocence itself, when extended on the rack, confesses crime which it
never committed--I ask too passionately. Is it not so, Louisa? Thou
didst but confess, because I asked passionately?
LOUISA. I confessed the truth!
FERDINAND. No, I tell thee! No! no! Thou didst not write that letter!
It is not like thy hand! And, even though it were, why should it be more
difficult to counterfeit a writing than to undo a heart? Tell me truly,
Louisa! Yet no, no, do not! Thou mightest say yes again, and then I
were lost forever. A lie, Louisa! A lie! Oh! if thou didst but know
one now--if thou wouldst utter it with that open angelic mien--if thou
wouldst but persuade mine ear and eye, though it should deceive my heart
ever so monstrously! Oh, Louisa! Then might truth depart in the same
breath--depart from our creation, and the sacred cause itself henceforth
bow her stiff neck to the courtly arts of deception.
LOUISA. By the Almighty God! by Him who is so terrible and true! I did!
FERDINAND (after a pause, with the expression of the most heartfelt
sorrow). Woman! Woman! With what a face thou standest now before me!
Offer Paradise with that look, and even in the regions of the damned thou
wilt find no purchaser. Didst thou know what thou wert to me, Louisa?
Impossible! No! thou knewest not that thou wert my all--all! 'Tis a
poor insignificant word! but eternity itself can scarcely circumscribe
it. Within it systems of worlds can roll their mighty orbs. All! and to
sport with it so wickedly. Oh, 'tis horrible.
LOUISA. Baron von Walter, you have heard my confession! I have
pronounced my own condemnation! Now go! Fly from a house where you have
been so unhappy.
FERDINAND. 'Tis well! 'tis well! You see I am calm; calm, too, they
say, is the shuddering land through which the plague has swept. I am
calm. Yet ere I go, Louisa, one more request! It shall be my last. My
brain burns with fever! I need refreshment! Will you make me some
lemonade?
[Exit LOUISA.
SCENE III.
FERDINAND and MILLER.
They both pace up and down without speaking, on opposite sides
of the room, for some minutes.
MILLER (standing still at length, and regarding the MAJOR with a
sorrowful air). Dear baron, perhaps it may alleviate your distress to
say that I feel for you most deeply.
FERDINAND. Enough of this, Miller. (Silence again for some moments.)
Miller, I forget what first brought me to your house. What was the
occasion of it?
MILLER. How, baron? Don't you remember? You came to take lessons on
the flute.
FERDINAND (suddenly). And I beheld his daughter! (Another pause.) You
have not kept your faith with me, friend! You were to provide me with
repose for my leisure hours; but you betrayed me and sold me scorpions.
(Observing MILLER'S agitation.) Tremble not, good old man! (falling
deeply affected on his neck)--the fault was none of thine!
MILLER (wiping his eyes). Heaven knows, it was not!
FERDINAND (traversing the room, plunged in the most gloomy meditation).
Strange! Oh! beyond conception strange, are the Almighty's dealings with
us! How often do terrific weights hang upon slender, almost invisible
threads! Did man but know that he should eat death in a particular
apple! Hem! Could he but know that! (He walks a few more turns; then
stops suddenly, and grasps MILLER'S hand with strong emotion.) Friend, I
have paid dearly for thy lessons--and thou, too, hast been no gainer--
perhaps mayst even lose thy all. (Quitting him dejectedly.) Unhappy
flute-playing, would that it never entered my brain!
MILLER (striving to repress his feelings). The lemonade is long in
coming. I will inquire after it, if you will excuse me.
FERDINAND. No hurry, dear Miller! (Muttering to himself.) At least to
her father there is none. Stay here a moment. What was I about to ask
you? Ay, I remember! Is Louisa your only daughter? Have you no other
child?
MILLER (warmly). I have no other, baron, and I wish for no other. That
child is my only solace in this world, and on her have I embarked my
whole stock of affection.
FERDINAND (much agitated). Ha! Pray see for the drink, good Miller!
[Exit MILLER.
SCENE IV.
FERDINAND alone.
FERDINAND. His only child! Dost thou feel that, murderer? His only
one! Murderer, didst thou hear, his only one? The man has nothing in
God's wide world but his instrument and that only daughter! And wilt
thou rob him of her?
Rob him? Rob a beggar of his last pittance? Break the lame man's
crutch, and cast the fragments at his feet? How? Have I the heart to do
this? And when he hastens home, impatient to reckon in his daughter's
smiles the whole sum of his happiness; and when he enters the chamber,
and there lies the rose--withered--dead--crushed--his last, his only, his
sustaining hope. Ha! And when he stands before her, and all nature
looks on in breathless horror, while his vacant eye wanders hopelessly
through the gloom of futurity, and seeks God, but finds him nowhere, and
then returns disappointed and despairing! Great God! and has not my
father, too, an only son? an only child, but not his only treasure.
(After a pause.) Yet stay! What will the old man lose? She who could
wantonly jest with the most sacred feelings of love, will she make a
father happy? She cannot! She will not! And I deserve thanks for
crushing this viper ere the parent feels its sting.
SCENE V.
MILLER returning, and FERDINAND.
MILLER. You shall be served instantly, baron! The poor thing is sitting
without, weeping as though her heart would break! Your drink will be
mingled with her tears.
FERDINAND. 'Twere well for her were it only with tears! We were
speaking of my lessons, Miller. (Taking out a purse.) I remember that I
am still in your debt.
MILLER. How? What? Go along with you, baron! What do you take me for?
There is time enough for payment. Do not put such an affront on me; we
are not together for the last time, please God.
FERDINAND. Who can tell? Take your money. It is for life or death.
MILLER (laughing). Oh! for the matter of that, baron! As regards that I
don't think I should run much risk with you!
FERDINAND. You would run the greatest. Have you never heard that youths
have died. That damsels and youths have died, the children of hope, the
airy castles of their disappointed parents? What is safe from age and
worms has often perished by a thunderbolt. Even your Louisa is not
immortal.
MILLER. God gave her to me.
FERDINAND. Hear me! I say to you your Louisa is not immortal. That
daughter is the apple of your eye; you hang upon her with your whole
heart and soul. Be prudent, Miller! None but a desperate gamester
stakes his all upon a single cast. The merchant would be called a madman
who embarked his whole fortune in one ship. Think upon this, and
remember that I warned you. But why do you not take your money?
MILLER. How, baron, how? All that enormous purse? What can you be
thinking of?
FERDINAND. Upon my debt! There! (Throws a heavy purse on the table;
some gold drops out.) I cannot hold the dross to eternity.
MILLER (astonished). Mercy on us! what is this? The sound was not of
silver! (Goes to the table and cries out in astonishment.) In heaven's
name, baron, what means this? What are you about? You must be out of
your mind! (Clasping his hands.) There it lies! or I am bewitched.
'Tis damnable! I feel it now; the beauteous, shining, glorious heap of
gold! No, Satan, thou shalt not catch my soul with this!
FERDINAND. Have you drunk old wine, or new, Miller?
MILLER (violently). Death and furies! Look yourself, then. It is gold!
FERDINAND. And what of that?
MILLER. Let me implore you, baron! In the name of all the saints in
heaven, I entreat you! It is gold!
FERDINAND. An extraordinary thing, it must be admitted.
MILLER (after a pause; addressing him with emotion). Noble sir, I am a
plain, straightforward man--do you wish to tempt me to some piece of
knavery?--for, heaven knows, that so much gold cannot be got honestly!
FERDINAND (moved). Make yourself quite easy, dear Miller! You have well
earned the money. God forbid that I should use it to the corruption of
your conscience!
MILLER (jumping about like a madman). It is mine, then! Mine indeed!
Mine with the knowledge and consent of God! (Hastening to the door.)
Daughter, wife, hurrah, come hither! (Returning.) But, for heaven's
sake, how have I all at once deserved this awful treasure? How am I to
earn it? How repay it, eh?
FERDINAND. Not by your music lessons, Miller! With this gold do I pay
you for (stops suddenly, and shudders)--I pay you--(after a pause, with
emotion)--for my three months' unhappy dream of your daughter!
MILLER (taking his hand and pressing it affectionately). Most gracious
sir! were you some poor and low-born citizen, and my daughter refused
your love, I would pierce her heart with my own hands. (Returning to the
gold in a sorrowful tone.) But then I shall have all, and you nothing--
and I should have to give up all this glorious heap again, eh?
FERDINAND. Let not that thought distress you, friend. I am about to
quit this country, and in that to which I am journeying such coin is not
current.
MILLER (still fixing his eyes in transport on the money). Mine, then, it
remains? Mine? Yet it grieves me that you are going to leave us. Only
just wait a little and you shall see how I'll come out! I'll hold up my
head with the best of them. (Puts on his hat with an air, and struts up
and down the room.) I'll give my lessons in the great concert-room, and
won't I smoke away at the best puyke varinas--and, when you catch me
again fiddling at the penny-hop, may the devil take me!
FERDINAND. Stay, Miller! Be silent, and gather up your gold.
(Mysteriously.) Keep silence only for this one evening, and do me the
favor henceforward to give no more music lessons.
MILLER (still more vehemently grasping his hand, full of inward joy).
And my daughter, baron! my daughter! (Letting go.) No, no! Money does
not make the man--whether I feed on vegetables or on partridges, enough
is enough, and this coat will do very well as long as the sunbeams don't
peep in at the elbows. To me money is mere dross. But my girl shall
benefit by the blessing; whatever wish I can read in her eyes shall be
gratified.
FERDINAND (suddenly interrupting him). Oh! silence! silence!
MILLER (still more warmly). And she shall learn to speak French like a
born native, and to dance minuets, and to sing, so that people shall read
of her in the newspapers; and she shall wear a cap like the judge's
daughter, and a kidebarri [meaning, no doubt, Cul de Paris, a bustle], as
they call it; and the fiddler's daughter shall be talked of for twenty
miles round.
FERDINAND. (seizing his hand in extreme agitation). No more! no more!
For God's sake be silent! Be silent but for this one night; 'tis the
only favor I ask of you.
SCENE VI.
LOUISA with a glass of lemonade; the former.
LOUISA (her eyes swelled with weeping, and trembling voice, while she
presents the glass to FERDINAND). Tell me, if it be not to your taste.
FERDINAND (takes the glass, places it on the table, and turns to MILLER).
Oh! I had almost forgotten! Good Miller, I have a request to make. Will
you do me a little favor?
MILLER. A thousand with pleasure! What are your commands?
FERDINAND. My father will expect me at table. Unfortunately I am in
very ill humor. 'Twould be insupportable to me just now to mix in
society. Will you go to my father and excuse my absence?
LOUISA (terrified, interrupts him hastily). Oh, let me go!
MILLER. Am I to see the president himself?
FERDINAND. Not himself. Give your message to one of the servants in the
ante-chamber. Here is my watch as a credential that I sent you. I shall
be here when you return. You will wait for an answer.
LOUISA (very anxiously). Cannot I be the bearer of your message?
FERDINAND (to MILLER, who is going). Stay--one thing more! Here is a
letter to my father, which I received this evening enclosed in one to
myself. Perhaps on business of importance. You may as well deliver it
at the same time.
MILLER (going). Very well, baron!
LOUISA (stopping him, and speaking in a tone of the most exquisite
terror). But, dear father, I could do all this very well! Pray let
me go!
MILLER. It is night, my child! and you must not venture out alone!
[Exit.
FERDINAND. Light your father down, Louisa. (LOUISA takes a candle and
follows MILLER. FERDINAND in the meantime approaches the table and
throws poison into the lemonade). Yes! she must die! The higher powers
look down, and nod their terrible assent. The vengeance of heaven
subscribes to my decree. Her good angels forsake her, and leave her to
her fate!
SCENE VII.
FERDINAND and LOUISA.
LOUISA re-enters slowly with the light, places it on the table,
and stops on the opposite side of the room, her eyes fixed on
the ground, except when she raises them to him with timid, stolen
glances. He stands opposite, looking steadfastly on the earth--a
long and deep silence.
LOUISA. If you will accompany me, Baron von Walter, I will try a piece
on the harpsichord! (She opens the instrument. FERDINAND makes no
answer. A pause.)
LOUISA. You owe me a revenge at chess. Will you play a game with me,
Baron von Walter? (Another pause.)
LOUISA. I have begun the pocketbook, baron, which I promised to
embroider for you. Will you look at the design? (Still a pause.)
LOUISA. Oh! I am very wretched!
FERDINAND (without changing his attitude). That may well be!
LOUISA. It is not my fault, Baron von Walter, that you are so badly
entertained!
FERDINAND (with an insulting laugh). You are not to blame for my bashful
modesty----
LOUISA. I am quite aware that we are no longer fit companions. I
confess that I was terrified when you sent away my father. I believe,
Baron von Walter, that this moment is equally insupportable to us both.
Permit me to ask some of my acquaintances to join us.
FERDINAND. Yes, pray do so! And I too will go and invite some of mine.
LOUISA (looking at him with surprise). Baron von Walter!
FERDINAND (very spitefully). By my honor, the most fortunate idea that
in our situation could ever enter mortal brain? Let us change this
wearisome duet into sport and merriment, and by the aid of certain
gallantries, revenge ourselves on the caprices of love.
LOUISA. You are merry, Baron von Walter!
FERDINAND. Oh! wonderfully so! The very street-boys would hunt me
through the market-place for a merry-andrew! In fact, Louisa, your
example has inspired me--you shall be my teacher. They are fools who
prate of endless affection--never-ending sameness grows flat and insipid
--variety alone gives zest to pleasure. Have with you, Louisa, we are
now of one mind. We will skip from amour to amour, whirl from vice to
vice; you in one direction, I in another. Perhaps I may recover my lost
tranquillity in some brothel. Perhaps, when our merry race is run, and
we become two mouldering skeletons, chance again may bring us together
with the most pleasing surprise, and we may, as in a melodrama, recognize
each other by a common feature of disease--that mother whom her children
can never disavow. Then, perhaps, disgust and shame may create that
union between us which could not be effected by the most tender love.
LOUISA. Oh, Walter! Walter! Thou art already unhappy--wilt thou
deserve to be so?
FERDINAND (muttering passionately through his teeth). Unhappy? Who told
thee so? Woman, thou art too vile to have any feelings of thine own;
how, then, canst thou judge of the feelings of others? Unhappy, did she
say?--ha! that word would call my anger from the grave! She knew that I
must become unhappy. Death and damnation! she knew it, and yet betrayed
me! Look to it, serpent! That was thy only chance of forgiveness. This
confession has condemned thee. Till now I thought to palliate thy crime
with thy simplicity, and in my contempt thou hadst well nigh escaped my
vengeance (seizing the glass hastily). Thou wert not thoughtless, then--
thou wert not simple--thou wert nor more nor less than a devil! (He
drinks.) The drink is bad, like thy soul! Taste it!
LOUISA. Oh, heavens! 'Twas not without reason that I dreaded this
meeting.
FERDINAND (imperiously). Drink! I say.
[LOUISA, offended, takes the glass and drinks. The moment she
raises the cup to her lips, FERDINAND turns away with a sudden
paleness, and recedes to the further corner of the chamber.]
LOUISA. The lemonade is good.
FERDINAND (his face averted and shuddering.) Much good may it do thee!
LOUISA (sets down the glass). Oh! could you but know, Walter, how
cruelly you wrong me!
FERDINAND. Indeed!
LOUISA. A time will come, Walter----
FERDINAND (advancing). Oh! we have done with time.
LOUISA. When the remembrance of this evening will lie heavy on your
heart!
FERDINAND (begins to walk to and fro more vehemently, and to become more
agitated; he throws away his sash and sword.) Farewell the prince's
service!
LOUISA. My God! what mean you!
FERDINAND. I am hot, and oppressed. I would be more at ease.
LOUISA. Drink! drink! it will cool you.
FERDINAND. That it will, most effectually. The strumpet, though, is
kind-hearted! Ay, ay, so are they all!
LOUISA (rushing into his arms with the deepest expression of love). That
to thy Louisa, Ferdinand?
FERDINAND (thrusting her from him). Away! away! Hence with those soft
and melting eyes! they subdue me. Come to me, snake, in all thy
monstrous terrors! Spring upon me, scorpion! Display thy hideous folds,
and rear thy proud coils to heaven! Stand before my eyes, hateful as the
abyss of hell e'er saw thee! but not in that angel form! Take any shape
but that! 'Tis too late. I must crush thee like a viper, or despair!
Mercy on thy soul!
LOUISA. Oh! that it should come to this!
FERDINAND (gazing on her). So fair a work of the heavenly artist! Who
would believe it? Who can believe it? (Taking her hand and elevating
it.) I will not arraign thy ordinations, oh! incomprehensible Creator!
Yet wherefore didst thou pour thy poison into such beauteous vessels?
Can crime inhabit so fair a region? Oh! 'tis strange! 'tis passing
strange!
LOUISA. To hear this, and yet be compelled to silence!
FERDINAND. And that soft, melodious voice! How can broken chords
discourse such harmony? (Gazing rapturously upon her figure.) All so
lovely! so full of symmetry! so divinely perfect! Throughout the whole
such signs that 'twas the favorite work of God! By heaven, as though all
mankind had been created but to practise the Creator, ere he modelled
this his masterpiece! And that the Almighty should have failed in the
soul alone? Is it possible that this monstrous abortion of nature should
have escaped as perfect? (Quitting her hastily.) Or did God see an
angel's form rising beneath his chisel, and balance the error by giving
her a heart wicked in proportion?
LOUISA. Alas for this criminal wilfulness! Rather than confess his own
rashness, he accuses the wisdom of heaven!
FERDINAND (falls upon her neck, weeping bitterly). Yet once more, my
Louisa! Yet once again, as on the day of our first kiss, when you
faltered forth the name of Ferdinand, and the first endearing "Thou!"
trembled on thy burning lips. Oh! a harvest of endless and unutterable
joys seemed to me at that moment to be budding forth. There lay eternity
like a bright May-day before our eyes; thousands of golden years, fair as
brides, danced around our souls. Then was I so happy! Oh! Louisa!
Louisa! Louisa! Why hast thou used me thus?
LOUISA. Weep, Walter, weep! Your compassion will be more just towards
me than your wrath.
FERDINAND. You deceive yourself. These are not nature's tears! not that
warm delicious dew which flows like balsam on the wounded soul, and
drives the chilled current of feeling swiftly along its course. They are
solitary ice-cold drops! the awful, eternal farewell of my love! (With
fearful solemnity, laying his hand on her head.) They are tears for thy
soul, Louisa! tears for the Deity, whose inexhaustible beneficence has
here missed its aim, and whose noblest work is cast away thus wantonly.
Oh methinks the whole universe should clothe itself in black, and weep at
the fearful example now passing in its centre. 'Tis but a common sorrow
when mortals fall and Paradise is lost; but, when the plague extends its
ravages to angels, then should there be wailing throughout the whole
creation!
LOUISA. Drive me not to extremities, Walter. I have fortitude equal to
most, but it must not be tried by a more than human test. Walter! one
word, and then--we part forever. A dreadful fatality has deranged the
language of our hearts. Dared I unclose these lips, Walter, I could tell
thee things! I could----But cruel fate has alike fettered my tongue and
my heart, and I must endure in silence, even though you revile me as a
common strumpet.
FERDINAND. Dost thou feel well, Louisa?
LOUISA. Why that question?
FERDINAND. It would grieve me shouldst thou be called hence with a lie
upon thy lips.
LOUISA. I implore you, Walter----
FERDINAND (in violent agitation). No! no! That revenge were too
satanic! No! God forbid! I will not extend my anger beyond the grave!
Louisa, didst thou love the marshal? Thou wilt leave this room no more!
LOUISA (sitting down). Ask what you will. I shall give no answer.
FERDINAND (in a solemn voice). Take heed for thy immortal soul! Louisa!
Didst thou love the marshal? Thou wilt leave this room no more!
LOUISA. I shall give no answer.
FERDINAND (throwing himself on his knees before her in the deepest
emotion). Louisa! Didst thou love the marshal? Before this light burns
out--thou wilt stand--before the throne of God!
LOUISA (starting from her seat in terror). Merciful Jesus! what was
that? And I feel so ill! (She falls back into her chair.)
FERDINAND. Already? Oh, woman, thou eternal paradox! thy delicate
nerves can sport with crimes at which manhood trembles; yet one poor
grain of arsenic destroys them utterly!
LOUISA. Poison! poison! Oh! Almighty God!
FERDINAND. I fear it is so! Thy lemonade was seasoned in hell! Thou
hast pledged death in the draught!
LOUISA. To die! To die! All-merciful God! Poison in my drink! And to
die! Oh! have mercy on my soul, thou Father in heaven!
FERDINAND. Ay, be that thy chief concern: I will join thee in that
prayer.
LOUISA. And my mother! My father, too! Saviour of the world! My poor
forlorn father! Is there then no hope? And I so young, and yet no hope?
And must I die so soon?
FERDINAND. There is no hope! None!--you are already doomed! But be
calm. We shall journey together.
LOUISA. Thou too, Ferdinand? Poison, Ferdinand! From thee! Oh! God
forgive him! God of mercy, lay not this crime on him!
FERDINAND. Look to your own account. I fear it stands but ill.
LOUISA. Ferdinand! Ferdinand! Oh! I can be no longer silent. Death--
death absolves all oaths. Ferdinand! Heaven and earth contain nothing
more unfortunate than thou! I die innocent, Ferdinand!
FERDINAND (terrified). Ah! What do I hear? Would she rush into the
presence of her Maker with a lie on her lips?
LOUISA. I lie not! I do not lie! In my whole life I never lied but
once! Ugh! what an icy shivering creeps through my veins! When I wrote
that letter to the marshal.
FERDINAND. Ha! That letter! Blessed be to God! Now I am myself again!
LOUISA (her voice every moment becomes more indistinct. Her fingers
tremble with a convulsive motion). That letter. Prepare yourself for a
terrible disclosure! My hand wrote what my heart abhorred. It was
dictated by your father! (Ferdinand stands like a statue petrified with
horror. After a long silence, he falls upon the floor as if struck by
lightning.) Oh! that sorrowful act!----Ferdinand--I was compelled--
forgive me--thy Louisa would have preferred death--but my father--his
life in danger! They were so crafty in their villany.
FERDINAND (starting furiously from the ground). God be thanked! The
poison spares me yet! (He seizes his sword.)
LOUISA (growing weaker by degrees). Alas! what would you? He is thy
father!
FERDINAND (in the most ungovernable fury). A murderer--the murderer of
his son; he must along with us that the Judge of the world may pour his
wrath on the guilty alone. (Hastening away).
LOUISA. My dying Redeemer pardoned his murderers,--may God pardon thee
and thy father! (She dies.)
FERDINAND (turns quickly round, and perceives her in the convulsions of
death, throws himself distractedly on the body). Stay! stay! Fly not
from me, angel of light! (Takes her hand, but lets it fall again
instantly.) Cold! cold and damp! her soul has flown! (Starting up
suddenly.) God of my Louisa! Mercy! Mercy for the most accursed of
murderers! Such was her dying prayer! How fair, how lovely even in
death! The pitying destroyer has touched gently on those heavenly
features. That sweetness was no mask--the hand of death even has not
removed it! (After a pause.) But how is this? why do I feel nothing.
Will the vigor of my youth save me? Thankless care! That shall it not.
(He seizes the glass.)
SCENE VIII.
FERDINAND, the PRESIDENT, WORM, and SERVANTS, who all rush in alarm
into the room. Afterwards MILLER, with a crowd, and OFFICERS of
justice, who assemble in the background.
PRESIDENT (an open letter in his hand). My son! what means this? I
never can believe----
FERDINAND (throwing the glass at his feet). Convince thyself, murderer!
(The PRESIDENT staggers back. All stand speechless. A dreadful pause.)
PRESIDENT. My son! Why hast thou done this?
FERDINAND (without looking at him). Why, to be sure I ought first to
have asked the statesman whether the trick suited his cards. Admirably
fine and skilful, I confess, was the scheme of jealousy to break the bond
of our hearts! The calculation shows a master-mind; 'twas pity only that
indignant love would not move on wires like thy wooden puppets.
PRESIDENT (looking round the circle with rolling eyes). Is there no one
here who weeps for a despairing father?
MILLER (calling behind the scenes). Let me in! For God's sake, let
me in!
FERDINAND. She is now a saint in heaven! Her cause is in the hands of
another! (He opens the door for MILLER, who rushes in, followed by
officers of justice and a crowd of people.)
MILLER (in the most dreadful alarm). My child! My child! Poison, they
cry--poison has been here! My daughter! Where art thou?
FERDINAND (leading him between the PRESIDENT and LOUISA'S corpse). I am
innocent. Thank this man for the deed.
MILLER (throwing himself on the body). Oh, Jesus!
FERDINAND. In few words, father!--they begin to be precious to me. I
have been robbed of my life by villanous artifice--robbed of it by you!
How I may stand with God I tremble to think, but a deliberate villain I
have never been! Be my final judgment what it will, may it not fall on
thee! But I have committed murder! (In a loud and fearful voice.) A
murder whose weight thou canst not hope that I should drag alone before
the judgment-seat of God. Here I solemnly bequeath to thee the heaviest,
the bloodiest part; how thou mayst answer it be that thy care! (Leading
him to LOUISA.) Here, barbarian! Feast thine eyes on the terrible
fruits of thy intrigues! Upon this face thy name is inscribed in the
convulsions of death, and will be registered by the destroying angel!
May a form like this draw thy curtain when thou sleepest, and grasp thee
with its clay-cold hand! May a form like this flit before thy soul when
thou diest, and drive away thy expiring prayer for mercy! May a form
like this stand by thy grave at the resurrection, and before the throne
of God when he pronounces thy doom! (He faints, the servants receive him
in their arms.)
PRESIDENT (extending his arms convulsively towards heaven). Not from me,
Judge of the world. Ask not these souls from me, but from him!
(Pointing to WORM.)
WORM (starting). From me?
PRESIDENT. Accursed villain, from thee! From thee, Satan! Thou gavest
the serpent's counsel! thine be the responsibility; their blood be not on
my head, but on thine!
WORM. On mine! on mine! (laughing hysterically.) Oh! Excellent! Now I
understand the gratitude of devils. On mine, thou senseless villain!
Was he my son? Was I thy master? Mine the responsibility? Ha! by this
sight which freezes the very marrow in my bones! Mine it shall be! I
will brave destruction, but thou shalt perish with me. Away! away! Cry
murder in the streets! Awaken justice! Bind me, officers! Lead me
hence! I will discover secrets which shall make the hearer's blood run
cold. (Going.)
PRESIDENT (detaining him). Surely, madman, thou wilt not dare?
WORM (tapping him on the shoulder). I will, though,--comrade, I will! I
am mad, 'tis true; but my madness is thy work, and now I will act like a
madman! Arm in arm with thee will I to the scaffold! Arm in arm with
thee to hell! Oh! how it tickles my fancy, villain, to be damned with
thee! (The officers carry him off.)
MILLER (who has lain upon LOUISA'S corpse in silent anguish, starts
suddenly up, and throws the purse before the MAJOR'S feet.) Poisoner,
take back thy accursed gold! Didst thou think to purchase my child with
it? (Rushes distractedly out of the chamber.)
FERDINAND (in a voice scarcely audible). Follow him! He is desperate.
The gold must be taken care of for his use; 'tis the dreadful
acknowlegment of my debt to him. Louisa! I come! Farewell! On this
altar let me breathe my last.
PRESIDENT (recovering from his stupor). Ferdinand! my son! Not one last
look for a despairing father? (FERDINAND is laid by the side of LOUISA.)
FERDINAND. My last must sue to God for mercy on myself.
PRESIDENT (falling down before him in the most dreadful agony). The
Creator and the created abandon me! Not one last look to cheer me in the
hour of death! (FERDINAND stretches out his trembling hand to him, and
expires.)
PRESIDENT (springing up). He forgave me! (To the OFFICERS.) Now, lead
on, sirs! I am your prisoner.
[Exit, followed by the OFFICERS; the curtain falls.
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