Scene I.--_A room in_ Galotti's _house_.

Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by Google Books

Transcriber's Note:

1. Page scan source:

http://books.google.com/books?id=BPQIAAAAQAAJ&pg

[Illustration: Lessing.]

THE DRAMATIC WORKS

OF

G. E. LESSING.

Translated from the German.

EDITED BY

ERNEST BELL, M.A.,

TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.

WITH A SHORT MEMOIR BY HELEN ZIMMERN.

_MISS SARA SAMPSON_, _PHILOTAS_, _EMILIA GALOTTI_,

_NATHAN THE WISE_.

LONDON:

GEORGE BELL AND SONS, YORK STREET,

COVENT GARDEN.

1878.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES ANB SONS,

STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.

PREFACE.

A Translation of some of Lessing's works has long been contemplated for

'Bonn's Standard Library,' and the publishers are glad to be able to

bring it out at a time when an increased appreciation of this writer

has become manifest in this country.

The publication of Mr. Sime's work on Lessing, and the almost

simultaneous appearance of Miss Helen Zimmern's shorter but probably

more popular biographical study, will, without doubt, tend to spread

amongst English-speaking people a knowledge of a writer who is held in

peculiar reverence by his own countrymen; and there is little, if

anything, of what he wrote that does not appeal in some way or other to

the sympathies of Englishmen.

In this translation it is purposed to include the most popular of his

works--the first two volumes comprising all the finished dramatic

pieces, whilst the third will contain the famous 'Laokoon,' and a large

portion of the 'Hamburg Dramaturgy' (here called 'Dramatic Notes'), and

some other smaller pieces.

The arrangement of the plays is as follows:--The first volume contains

the three tragedies and the "dramatic poem," 'Nathan the Wise.' This

last piece and 'Emilia Galotti' are translated by Mr. R. Dillon Boylan,

whose English versions of Schiller's 'Don Carlos,' Goethe's 'Wilhelm

Meister,' &c., had previously distinguished him in this path of

literature.

The second volume will be found to consist entirely of comedies,

arranged according to the date of composition; and as it happens that

all these comedies, with the exception of the last and best, 'Minna von

Barnhelm,' were written before he published any more serious dramatic

composition, we have, by reversing the order of the first two volumes,

an almost exactly chronological view of Lessing's dramatic work. The

later section of it has been placed at the commencement of the series,

simply because it was more convenient to include in it the introductory

notice which Miss Zimmern kindly consented to write.

York Street, Covent Garden.

_June_ 1878.

CONTENTS.

Memoir

Miss Sara Sampson

Philotas

Emilia Galotti

Nathan The Wise

LESSING.

Since Luther, Germany has produced no greater or better man than

Gotthold Ephraim Lessing; these two are Germany's pride and joy.

This is the witness of Heine, and with Goethe in memory, none would

pronounce the statement too bold. Luther and Lessing are Germany's

representative men; each inaugurates an epoch the very existence of

which would not have been possible without him. Nor is this the only

point of analogy. Lessing was the Luther of the eighteenth century.

Like Luther, Lessing is distinguished by earnestness, ardour, true

manliness, fierce hatred of dissimulation, largeness of mind, breadth,

and profundity of thought. Like Luther, he stands in history a massive

presence whereon the weak may lean. Like Luther, he led the vanguard of

reform in every department of human learning into which he penetrated.

Like Luther, he was true to every conviction, and did not shrink from

its expression. Like Luther, he could have said, "I was born to fight

with devils and storms, and hence it is that my writings are so

boisterous and stormy." Like Luther, he became the founder of a new

religion and of a new German literature. And again, like Luther, his

life labours were not for Germany alone, but spread over all Europe;

and few of us know how much of our present culture we owe directly or

indirectly to Lessing's influence.

In this country he has not been sufficiently known. Up to the present,

his name has been familiar to Englishmen only as the author of the

'Laokoon,' 'Nathan the Wise,' and, possibly also, of 'Minna von

Barnhelm.' In knowing these, we certainly know the names of some of his

masterpieces, but we cannot thence deduce the entire cause of the man's

far-spreading influence.

Fully to understand Lessing's influence, and fully to understand the

bearing of his works, some slight previous acquaintance with German

literature is absolutely requisite. For unless we comprehend the source

whence an author's inspirations have sprung, we may often misconceive

his views. And Lessing's writings, above all, essentially sprang from

the needs of his time. The subject is a large one, and can only be

briefly indicated here; but we venture to remark, for those whose

interest may be aroused in the subject of this volume, that the fuller

their knowledge of the man and the motive force that evoked his works,

the keener will be their enjoyment of these works themselves.

In naming Lessing, Goethe, and Schiller, we utter the three greatest

names that German literature can boast. And between the three runs a

connecting link of endeavour; the efforts of none can be conceived

without the efforts of the others; but Lessing was the leader. He was

the mental pathfinder who smoothed the way for Goethe's genius, and

prepared the popular understanding for Schiller, the poetical

interpreter of Kant.

Lessing was born in the early years of the eighteenth century, at a

time therefore when Germany may be said practically to have had no

literature. For the revival of learning, the interest in letters that

arose with the Reformation, and had been fostered by the emancipating

spirit of Protestantism, had been blighted and extinguished by the

terrible wars that ravaged the country for thirty years, impoverishing

the people, destroying the homesteads and farms, and utterly

annihilating the mental repose needful to the growth and to the just

appreciation of literature. Books were destroyed as relentlessly in

those sad times as flourishing cornfields were down-trodden by the iron

heel of the invader. It was a fearful period of anarchy and

retrogression, under the baneful effects of which Germany still

labours. Peace was at last restored in 1648 by the Treaty of

Westphalia, but it found the nation broken in spirit and vigour, and

where material needs entirely absorb the mental energies of a people

the Muses cannot flourish. And not only was the spirit of the people

broken by the war, their national feeling seemed totally extinct. The

bold fine language wherewith Luther had endowed them was neglected and

despised by the better classes, who deemed servile imitation of the

foreigner the true and only criterion of good taste. It grew, at last,

to be held quite a distinction for a German to be unable to speak his

own language correctly, and it seems probable that but for the

religious utterances of the hymn-writers, who thus provided the poor

oppressed people with ideal consolations, the very essence of the

language, in all its purity, might have perished. It is among these

hymn-writers that we must seek and shall find the finest, truest, and

most national expressions of that time. Shortly before Lessing's birth

there had awakened a sense of this national degradation, and some

princes and nobles formed themselves into a society to suppress the

fashionable Gallicisms and reinstate the people's language. Their

efforts met with some little success, but their powers were too

limited, and their attempts too artificial and jejune to exert any

considerable influence either in the direction of conservation or of

reform. It needed something stronger, bolder, to dispel the apathy of a

century. Still these associations, known as the two Silesian schools,

bore their part in sowing the good seed, and though most of it fell on

stony ground, because there was little other ground for it whereon to

fall, still some fell on fruitful earth, and brought forth in due

season. An excessive interest in French literature was opposed by an

equal interest in English literature. The adherents of these two

factions formed what was known as the Swiss and Leipzig schools. They

waged a fierce paper warfare, that had the good effect of once more

attracting popular attention to the claims of letters, as well as

showing the people that in French manners, French language, and French

literature, the Alpha and Omega of culture need not of necessity be

sought. The leader of the Leipzig faction, who stood by the French, was

Gottsched, a German professor of high pretensions and small merits, who

put his opponents on their mettle by his pedantic and arrogant attacks.

He had instituted himself a national dictator of good taste, and for a

long time it seemed probable that he and his party would triumph. His

ultimate defeat was accomplished by Lessing, whose early boyhood was

contemporaneous with the fiercest encounters of these antagonists. It

was he who gave the death-blow to their factious disputes, and referred

the nation back to itself and its own national glory and power. He

found Germany without original literature, and, before his short life

was ended, the splendid genius of Goethe shed its light over the land.

Who and what was the man who effected so much?

Gotthold Ephraim Lessing was born on the twenty-second of January,

1729, at Camentz, a small town in Saxony, of which his father was head

pastor. For several generations Lessing's ancestors had been

distinguished for their learning, and with few exceptions they had all

held ecclesiastical preferment. The father of Gotthold Ephraim was a

man of no inconsiderable talents and acquirements. His upright

principles, breadth of vision and scholarly attainments, made him a

venerated example to his son, with whom he maintained through life the

most cordial relationship, though the son's yet more enlightened

standpoint came to transcend the comprehension of the father. Their

first divergence occurred on the choice of a profession. It had been

traditional among the Lessings that the eldest son should take orders,

and accordingly Gotthold Ephraim was silently assumed to be training

for the ministry. He was sent for this end, first to the Grammar-school

of his native town, then to a public school at Meissen, and finally to

the University of Leipzig. At Meissen he distinguished himself in

classical studies, and attempted some original German verses. He

outstripped his compeers, and before he had accomplished his

curriculum, the rector recommended his removal, inasmuch as he had

exhausted the resources of the school. At Leipzig he appeared to turn

his back on study. He deserted the class-rooms of the theologians and

was the more constant attendant instead at the theatre, at that time

the _bete noire_ of all who affected respectability, and decried loudly

by the clergy as a very hotbed of vice. News of their son's haunts

reached the dismayed parents. They urged him to abandon his courses,

that could only end in mental and moral destruction. In vain the son

represented to them that he had lived in retirement too long, that he

now wished to become acquainted with the world and men, and that he

held the theatre to be a popular educator. In vain he represented that

he did attend the philosophical courses of Professors Kaestner,

Ernesti, and Christ. He was a playgoer, and what was still worse, he

was a play-writer, for the directress of the Leipzig Theatre, Frau

Neuber, a woman, of great taste and intelligence, had put on the stage

Lessing's juvenile effort, 'The Young Scholar.' Nay more, he associated

with a notorious freethinker, Mylius, and in concert with him had

contributed to various journals and periodicals. And meanwhile the

magistracy of Camentz was allowing Lessing a stipend on condition of

studying theology. It was too much. His son was neglecting the _dic cur

hic_, and to obviate this the father recalled him home by a stratagem,

informing him that his mother was dying and desired once more to see

her son. The _ruse_, intended also as a test of Lessing's filial

obedience, succeeded in so far as to prove that this was at least

unshaken; but his parents urged in vain that he should abandon his evil

ways. He once more expressed with great decision his disinclination

towards a theological career. But he was also firmly resolved to be no

longer a burden to his parents, whose large family was a great drain on

their resources. He determined to follow Mylius, who had gone to Berlin

in the capacity of editor, convinced that a good brain and steadfast

will would force their own way in the world.

Accordingly Lessing settled in Berlin in 1748, a youth of barely twenty

years, prepared to fight a hand-to-hand struggle for existence.

Frederick the Great at that time ruled in Prussia, and his capital was

in ill repute as a hotbed of frivolity and atheism. If anything could

be worse in the parents' eyes than their son's attendance at the

theatre, it was his presence at Berlin. They urged his return home. He

refused respectfully but decidedly. He had found employment that

remunerated him. Voss's _Gazette_ had appointed him literary editor, he

wrote its critical feuilletons, and here he had the first opportunity

of attacking the Swiss and Leipzig factions, and of exposing the

absurdities of both schools. He was able to teach himself Spanish and

Italian, he translated for the booksellers, he catalogued a library;

and while thus earning his livelihood _tant bien que mal_, he

indirectly prosecuted his studies and enlarged his knowledge of

literature and life. For at Berlin he was not forced to associate only

with books, he also came in contact with intellectual men, his views

expanded, his judgment became sure. A volume of minor poems that he

published in 1751 excited attention.

The essays he contributed to Voss's _Gazette_ gave him notoriety on

account of their independent spirit, their pregnant flashes of

originality and truth. This unknown youth ventured alone and

unsupported to attack Gottsched's meretricious writings, and so

successfully that even the vain dictator trembled, and the rival

schools asked each other who was this Daniel that had come to judgment?

With pitiless subtlety he exposed the crudity, the inflation of

Klopstock's 'Messiah,' which at that time one half the world extolled,

the other half abused, while he alone could truly distinguish in what

respects the poem fell short of its pretensions to be a national epic,

and where its national importance and merit really lay.

For two years Lessing remained at Berlin; busy years, in which he

scattered these treatises teeming with discernment and genius. Then at

the end of that time he felt himself exhausted, he craved seclusion, in

which he could once more live for himself and garner up fresh stores of

knowledge. The city and his numerous friends were too distracting. So

one day he stole away without previous warning and installed himself in

the quiet university town of Wittenberg. At Wittenberg he spent a year

of quiet study. The University library was freely opened to him, and he

could boast that it did not contain a book he had not held in his

hands. Wittenberg: being chiefly a theological university, Lessing's

attention was principally attracted to that subject, and he here laid

the foundations of the accurate knowledge that was in after years to

stand him in great stead. When he had exhausted all that Wittenberg

could offer, he one day (1752) reappeared at Berlin as unexpectedly as

he had quitted it, and quickly resumed his old relations there, which

proved as busy and significant as before. Lessing again maintained

himself by authorship, but this time his productions were riper. He

published several volumes of his writings. They contained treatises

composed at Wittenberg, Rehabilitations (_Rettungen_) of distinguished

men, whom he held the world had maligned, as well as several plays,

among which were the 'Jews,' 'The Woman-hater,' 'The Freethinker,' 'The

Treasure,' as well as the fragmentary play 'Samuel Henzi,' a novel

attempt to treat of modern historical incidents on the stage. A

somewhat savage attack, entitled 'Vade mecum,' in which he criticised

unsparingly a certain Pastor Lange's rendering of 'Horace,' drew upon

Lessing the attention of the learned world, and since he was in the

right in his strictures, they regarded him with mingled fear and

admiration. His renewed criticisms in Voss's _Gazette_ further

maintained his reputation as a redoubtable critic.

These were happy, hopeful years in Lessing's life; he enjoyed his work,

and it brought him success. He had, moreover, formed some of the

warmest friendships of his life with the bookseller Nicolai and the

philosopher Moses Mendelssohn. With the former he discoursed on English

literature, with the latter, on aesthetic and metaphysical themes. Their

frequent reunions were sources of mental refreshment and invigoration

to all three. What cared Lessing that his resources were meagre, he

could live, and his father was growing more reconciled now that men of

established repute lauded his son's works. Together with Mendelssohn,

Lessing wrote an essay on a theme propounded by the Berlin Academy,

'Pope a Metaphysician!' that did not obtain the prize, as it ridiculed

the learned body which had proposed a ridiculous theme, but it

attracted notice.

In the year 1755 Lessing wrote 'Miss Sara Sampson,' a play that marks

an epoch in his life and in German literature. It was the first German

attempt at domestic drama, and was, moreover, written in prose instead

of in the fashionable Alexandrines. The play was acted that same year

at Frankfurt-on-the-Oder, and Lessing went to superintend in person.

Its success was immense, and revived Lessing's love for the stage,

which had rather flagged at Berlin from want of a theatre there. He

accordingly resolved on this account to remove to Leipzig again, and

disappeared from Berlin without announcing his intention to his

friends.

At Leipzig he once more lived among the comedians, and carried on a

lively correspondence with Mendelssohn on the philosophical theories of

the drama in general, with especial reference to Aristotle. A proposal

to act as travelling companion to a rich Leipzig merchant interrupted

this life. The pair started early in the year 1756, intending a long

absence that should include a visit to England. The trip, however, did

not extend beyond Holland, as the Seven Years' War broke out. Prussian

troops were stationed at Leipzig, and this caused Lessing's companion

to desire return. Return they accordingly did, Lessing waiting all the

winter for the resumption of their interrupted project. But as the

prospects of peace grew more distant, their contract was annulled, much

to Lessing's regret, and also to his severe pecuniary loss. He found

himself at Leipzig penniless, the theatre closed by the war, and

interest in letters deadened from the same cause. He contrived,

however, to maintain himself by hack-work for the booksellers; but it

was a dismal time, not devoid, however, of some redeeming lights. The

poet Von Kleist was then stationed at Leipzig, and with him Lessing

formed a friendship that proved one of his warmest and tenderest. On

the removal of Kleist to active service, Lessing determined to quit

Leipzig, which had grown distasteful to him in its military hubbub. In

May 1758 he once more appeared at Berlin, and fell into his former

niche. He worked at his 'Fables,' wrote a play on the Greek models,

'Philotas,' began a life of Sophocles, and edited and translated

several works of minor importance. But the chief labour of the period

was the establishment of a journal dealing with contemporary

literature. It was to be written tersely, as was suited to a time of

war and general excitement; and to connect it with the war, it was

couched in the form of letters purporting to be addressed to an officer

in the field, who wished to be kept acquainted with current literature.

Kleist was certainly in Lessing's mind when he began. The letters were

to be written by Mendelssohn, Nicolai, and Lessing, but nearly all the

earlier ones are from Lessing's pen. The papers made a great mark, from

their bold strictures and independence. They did not belong to either

of the recognised coteries, plainly placing themselves on a footing

outside and above them. Though they were issued anonymously, Lessing

was now sufficiently known, and it was not long before they were

universally attributed to him. Their peculiar merit was that they did

not merely condemn the contemporary productions, but showed the way to

their improvement. They are throughout written with dialectic

brilliancy, vigour, and lively wit, so that they are classics to this

day, although their immediate themes are long removed from our

interests From these 'Letters Concerning Contemporary Literature' our

modern science of criticism may be said to date. After this, works were

no longer merely judged by ancient standards, but by their application

to the demands of the age in which they were written.

The news of Kleist's death affected Lessing severely, and so broke down

his energies that he felt the imperative need of a change of scene. He

therefore accepted an offer to act as secretary to General Tauentzien,

who had been appointed Governor of Breslau. He followed him to that

city in 1760, hoping to find renewed energies in a fixed employment

that gave him good emolument and left him free time for self-culture.

Lessing remained at this post for nearly five years, until the

conclusion of the Seven Years' War, and though his letters of that

period are very scanty, and though he gained evil repute at Breslau as

a gambler and a tavern haunter, they were really the busiest and most

studious years of his life. Here he read Spinoza and the Church

Fathers, studied aesthetics and Winckelmann's newly issued 'History of

Art,' wrote his 'Minna von Barnhelm,' and the 'Laokoon.' Their

publication did not occur till his return to Berlin after the peace of

Hubertsburg, when Lessing threw up his appointment, greatly to the

dismay of his family, who had reckoned on it as a permanent resource.

But Lessing had had enough of soldiers and military life, he had

exhausted all they could teach him, and he craved to resume his

studious and independent existence. He did not like it on resumption so

well as he had thought he should at a distance. Restlessness seized

him. He wanted to travel; to see Italy. His friends desired an

appointment for him as royal librarian. He applied for the post, and

was kept for some time in uncertainty. He failed, however, owing to

Frederick's dislike to German learned men, and it was in vain that

Lessing's friends pleaded that he was anything but the typical German

pedant, uncouth, unkempt, who was Frederick's _bete noire_. To prove

his efficiency for the post, Lessing had published his 'Laokoon.' He

published it as a fragment, and, like too many of Lessing's works, it

never grew beyond that stage.

But _torso_ as it is, its influence has been far spreading. The science

of aesthetics was in its infancy when Lessing wrote. Pedantic and

conventional rules were laid down regarding beauty, and the greatest

confusion of ideas existed concerning the provinces and limits of the

respective arts. Poetry and painting were treated as arts identical in

purpose and scope; indeed each was advised to borrow aid from the

resources of the other. Simonides' dictum that "Painting is silent

poetry, and poetry eloquent painting," was regarded as an

incontrovertible axiom. Winckelmann's lately published 'History of Art'

had supported this view of the matter; a point of view that encouraged

allegorical painting and didactic poetry. The 'Laokoon' strove to

expose the radical error of this idea, as its second title, 'or the

boundaries of Poetry and Painting,' proves. The conclusions established

by the 'Laokoon' have become to-day the very groundwork of cultured art

criticism, and though the somewhat narrow scope of its aesthetic theory

has been extended, the basis remains untouched and unshaken. The book

is of as much value now as upon its first appearance. Its luminous

distinctions, its suggestive utterances, point the way to exact truth,

even where they do not define it. Like the celebrated Torso of the

Vatican, it can be made an object of constant study, and every fresh

investigation will reveal new beauties, new subtle traits of artistic

comprehension hitherto overlooked.

This work, so grand and ultimately fruitful, fell, nevertheless, very

flat on its first issue, and only gradually assumed the position that

was its due. It had indeed to educate its public, so new were the

principles it enunciated. Three years after its publication, Lessing

told a friend that hardly any one seemed to know at what goal he had

aimed in his 'Laokoon.' Critics arose in plenty, but their criticism

was of such a character that Lessing, usually so combative, did not

hold them worthy of a reply. Little wonder, therefore, that even the

discerning Frederick did not recognise the value of its author, and

finally decided against Lessing's appointment as royal librarian.

In November 1766 Lessing describes himself as standing idly in the

market-place waiting for hire. He was discontented with his

surroundings, eager to find himself in a wider and more congenial

mental atmosphere than that of Berlin, uncertain whither to turn, and

hampered by money difficulties, private debts and family demands. At

this juncture an invitation from Hamburg reached him, which at the

first aspect seemed to open out a future peculiarly suited to Lessing's

tastes and idiosyncrasies. An association of rich burghers had

conceived the idea of founding a national theatre, which, liberally

endowed, and thus removed from the region of pecuniary speculation,

could devote itself exclusively to the cultivation of high art, and

thus raise the national standard of taste. A dramatic critic and

adviser was to belong to the establishment, and this post was offered

to Lessing with a salary of 800 thalers. He accepted with alacrity, and

repaired to Hamburg in the confidence of having at last found a niche

well suited to his capacity. At the worst, he had nothing to lose and

everything to gain by this step, and he gladly turned his back on

Berlin, now distasteful to him. He hoped to throw himself once more

into dramatic labours, and to find himself in contact with the living

stage. Only too speedily his hopes were destined to disappointment. He

had not been long at Hamburg before, notwithstanding all his power of

illusion, he could not disguise from himself the fact that the project

that sounded so noble and disinterested really rested on no higher

basis than that of miserable stage cabals.

Before issuing the first number of his paper, the 'Hamburger

Dramaturgie,' a critical journal, which was to accompany the art of the

author and actor throughout the representations, he already knew that

the project begun with such high hopes must end in a miserable

_fiasco_. Still he set to work upon his journal undauntedly, determined

that it should, as far as it lay in his power, serve the purposes of

the drama and instruct the populace as to the full import and aim of

this noble art. The paper was a weekly one, the criticisms, therefore,

had the merit of being thoroughly thought out and digested, not written

like our modern theatrical criticisms under the very glare of the

foot-lights. Lessing analysed the plays and their performance; he

pointed out not only where, but why actors had erred; his sure

perception and accurate knowledge of stage routine made him an

invaluable guide to the performers. His criticisms, had they been

continued, would have laid the basis of a science of histrionics, but

unhappily for the world, the wretched vanity of the _artistes_, some of

whom he had ventured gently to condemn, caused him to desist from this

portion of his criticism. He confined himself solely to the play

performed. After a while, however, even this did not suffice; bad

management, stage cabals, private jealousy, and clerical intrigues, had

undermined the slender popularity of the theatre. Before the end of its

first year, the house saw itself forced to close its doors, thanks to

creditors and to the rival and superior attractions of a company of

French comedians. It is true the German troupe returned in the spring

to make a final effort, but this also proved a failure; the debts were

only increased, and the throng of creditors who besieged the box-office

was so great that the public could not have entered if it had tried. In

November (1768) the theatre finally closed its doors.

_Transeat cum caeteris erroribus_, was Lessing's comment on the event.

He was the poorer by another hope, and not only poorer in spirit but in

fact. The promised salary had not been paid, the sale of his rich

library would not suffice for his debts and needs, and he had moreover

hampered himself with a printing-press that only helped yet more to

cripple his means. His position was a sorry one. Literary work was once

more his only resource. It happened that he had from the first been in

arrears with his journal, first advisedly, then from a tendency to

procrastination that befell him whenever the first white heat of

interest had been expended. He now determined to continue it, employing

it as a vehicle for his own opinions under the cover of criticisms of

the national theatre, which he still hoped against hope might not be

utterly defunct.

The 'Dramaturgy' is the permanent result of this shipwrecked

undertaking, itself a fragment--for after a while Lessing wearied of

it, and piratical reprints robbed him of the slender profit--but a

fragment like the 'Laokoon,' full of suggestive truths and flashes of

elucidation. As an entire work it is not as homogeneous in design as

the 'Laokoon'; no connected or definite thread of reasoning pervades

it, its perusal requires more independent thought from the reader, who

must form his own conclusions, they are not worked out before him as in

the 'Laokoon.' But in its ultimate results it is no less valuable, and

has been no less effective. It freed the German stage from bondage to

French pseudo-classicisms by its scornful exposure of the perversions

practised by the Gallic authors under the cloak of Aristotelian laws.

Lessing showed the divergence between real and absolute, and fanciful

and perverted rules. He pointed out how the three unities insisted on

by the French had been often violated by them in the spirit if not in

the letter. He demonstrated the real meaning of Aristotle; and enabled,

by his exact classical knowledge, to place himself on the actual

stand-point of the ancients, he exposed the meretricious imitations of

the French, that had been too long passed off as genuine. He referred

the Germans to Shakespeare as a far truer follower of Sophocles than

Voltaire or Corneille, and he illustrated his conclusions by excerpts

and digressions remote from the subject presumed to be under treatment,

and which had first started this train of thought. Until now the French

had prescribed the sole standard of good taste. Lessing wished to

destroy this unthinking veneration, and lead his nation back to the

true sources of inspiration, and he fought with an iconoclastic zeal

against all distortions, and all confusions of aesthetic boundaries. In

a measure, indeed, the 'Dramaturgy' supplements the 'Laokoon', for in

the latter work Lessing had distinctly referred to the drama as the

highest expression of poetry, and he had placed poetry above the arts

of design in its results and capacities. Once more he displays his

subtlety in discriminating between the various constituents of the

complex feelings produced by art, and his rare faculty of combining

aesthetic sensibility with logical criticism constitutes one of his

grand claims to originality. The 'Dramaturgy' must be regarded rather

as a collection of [Greek: epea pteroenta], than a systematic book.

This remark applies, indeed, to all Lessing's prose writings.

The 'Dramaturgy' was not the only work that occupied Lessing at

Hamburg. A certain Professor Klotz had been for some time past

attacking Lessing's writings, and had done this in a spirit of arrogant

superiority that roused his ire. A remark that Lessing had been guilty

of "an unpardonable fault," in an archaeological matter, wherein Klotz

himself was plainly in error, brought matters to a crisis, and drew

down on Klotz a series of 'Letters treating of Antiquarian Subjects,'

that utterly demolished both the man and his conclusions. A private

feud gave occasion to this publication, but, like all that Lessing

wrote, it is full of matter of permanent worth. Cameos and engraved

gems form the ground-work of the controversy that was waged fast and

furiously for some months, until at last Lessing silenced his

adversary. The archaeological studies that it necessitated had awakened

afresh Lessing's artistic interests and provoked the charming little

essay, 'How the Ancients represented Death,' that starting as a polemic

against Klotz, ended in becoming a finished and exquisite whole.

About this time (1772) Lessing received encouragement from Vienna to

settle in the Austrian dominions, but as the offers concerned the

theatre he declined compliance, still feeling sore from his late

experiences. The old desire to visit Italy was once more uppermost, his

restless activity had exhausted the slender intellectual resources of

Hamburg. But he was once more hampered by money difficulties. He

vacillated for a while between remaining and leaving, and finally

accepted an appointment at the Brunswick Court as librarian of the

Wolfenbuettel Library, with the proviso that this appointment should not

permanently interfere with his projected Italian journey. His salary

was to be 600 thalers, with an official residence; his duties were

undefined. The Duke, who recognised Lessing's eminence, wished to

attach him to his Court, and desired that Lessing should use the

library for his personal convenience rather than as its custodian. The

post promised well, though Lessing entered on it with reluctance; his

love of freedom causing him at any time to shrink from any definite

appointment. He loved, as he himself expressed it, to be like the

sparrow on the housetops, but considerations hitherto unknown

contributed to induce him to seek a settled post and establish his

affairs on a more permanent basis than heretofore. The wish to marry

had become awakened in him at the mature age of forty; he had made the

acquaintance in Hamburg of a Madame Koenig, a widow, the first woman

who had seriously roused his interest. Business complications of her

late husband's and the charge of a family made union impossible for

some little time, but Lessing had not been long at Wolfenbuettel before

a formal engagement was entered upon whose ultimate fulfilment it was

confidently expected would not be too long deferred. It was deferred,

however, for the space of six years--years that were the weariest and

saddest in Lessing's life, and mark the only time when his healthful

optimism, his sanguine cheerfulness broke into complaint and yielded to

depression of mind. Physical causes were at work as well as mental.

Wolfenbuettel was an old deserted capital, devoid of society, and

Lessing, who loved to mingle with his fellow-creatures, saw himself

banished from any intelligent human intercourse, unless he undertook

the somewhat expensive journey to Brunswick. At Hamburg he had lived in

an active and intellectual circle; here he found himself thrown back

upon himself and books. His heart and thoughts were with Madame Koenig,

her business affairs went badly; their rare meetings only further

strengthened his desire to claim as his own this the only woman who

understood him and felt with him. The promised leave of absence, too,

for Italy, was constantly deferred under futile pretexts, and thus

depressed, dispirited, Lessing could not feel within himself the

capability of original production. At the same time he did not feel it

right or wise to neglect the resources placed within his reach by the

excellent library of which he was custodian; he ransacked its

manuscript treasures, and published some of them. He also in a brief

period of renewed happiness and mental vigour, that followed a visit to

Hamburg and a meeting with Madame Koenig, wrote his famous tragedy

'Emilia Galotti.'

This drama is an illustration of the principles enunciated by Lessing

in his 'Dramaturgy;' its condensation is a protest against the

verbosity of the French, its form an approach to Shakespeare; while its

tendency is a stricture on the abuses practised at petty Courts. The

latter was a bold innovation, considering that at the time Lessing

wrote and produced this play he was himself the servant of a Court,

enlightened and liberal it is true, but libertine and despotic; and

that parallels could not fail to be drawn by the malevolent between

Brunswick and Guastalla. The story is a modernised version of that of

Virginia, but the catastrophe is not equally harmonious, because not so

absolutely necessitated by the conditions of modern society as by those

of the ancient world. Still the play is in many respects inimitable;

the manner in which the story is developed and unravelled renders it a

model to young dramatists; nothing superfluous, nothing obscure, no

needless retrogressions, no violent transitions. Lessing's

contemporaries were not slow to recognise that he had presented them

with a master-piece. He himself after its completion had sunk back into

his former mood of irritated depression, and he would not even be

present at the first representation. This mood was in great part

physical, but was also the result of circumstances. He was anxious and

uneasy. The hereditary prince had held out hopes to him, but their

fulfilment was too long deferred; Madame Koenig's affairs grew more and

more involved, the solitude of Wolfenbuettel more and more arid.

At last his restless spirit could brook this position no longer.

Heedless of Madame Koenig's warning prayers not to bring matters to an

abrupt crisis, to have patience with the Court whose financial position

at the time was truly a sorry one, Lessing one day broke away from

Wolfenbuettel and appeared at Berlin, whence he applied for an extended

leave of absence to Vienna, where Madame Koenig's business had lately

required her presence. He reassures her that he has not burnt his ships

behind him, and this was true, but he wished to ascertain for himself

how matters stood with her, and also if there was, any opening for him

in that capital. He arrived at Vienna in March 1775, and found Madame

Koenig's affairs so far advanced towards settlement as to justify him

in entertaining hopes of a speedy union.

But the evil fortune that seemed to run like a fatal thread through

Lessing's life whenever he found himself near the fulfilment of an

ardent desire again asserted itself. He had not been ten days in Vienna

before one of the younger princes of the house of Brunswick arrived

there also on his way to Italy. He wished to have Lessing as his

travelling companion. Thus a long cherished desire was to be realised

at the moment when a far stronger one had usurped its place. Lessing

debated for some time what he should do, but on consideration with

Madame Koenig, it was decided to be unwise to offend the prince whose

earnest wish for Lessing's companionship was supported by the Empress

Maria Theresa, and moreover the projected journey was only to extend

over eight weeks; consequently the parting and delay would be brief,

while the ultimate consequences of having obliged the ducal house at

personal inconvenience might be incalculable. The journey extended to

nine months, and was a period of misery to Lessing. He never received a

line from Madame Koenig all this time, her letters having all

miscarried, thanks to the officious zeal of her Vienna acquaintances,

and he tortured himself with fears lest she were ill or dead. Neither

did he write to her, nor keep a diary, beyond the very briefest records

of some discoveries in libraries. Not a word about the art, the scenery

of the land he had so craved to see. He perceived quickly enough that

it could offer all, and more than he had anticipated, but, added to his

private anxieties, this travelling in the suite of a prince was not

propitious to the proper enjoyment of Italy. Receptions, formal

dinners, deputations, at all of which Lessing had to be present,

engrossed the precious time that should have been devoted to more

intellectual pursuits.

_Transeat cum caeteris erroribus_, Lessing might again have written when

he returned to Germany in December. He hastened to Vienna to learn news

of his beloved, and there a whole packet of her letters were put into

his hands--those letters the want of which had preyed upon his heart.

He was now more fully determined than ever to bring matters to a

crisis; if the Brunswick Court would not improve his position he would

seek employment elsewhere; at the very worst he could not fare worse

than he was at present faring. His resolution triumphed, his salary was

raised, his position improved, and on the 8th of October, 1776, he was

at last united to the woman of his choice.

Then followed a very heyday of happiness to Lessing; he was at last

content, at peace; his wife understood him and felt with him; she was

his stay, his pride, his joy. But once more the evil fate was at work,

and could not permit of ease to this poor victim she pursued so

relentlessly. Early in January (1778) Lessing saw his wife and baby boy

laid in the grave. The brief sunshine which had illumined his path had

vanished for ever.

The letters written by him at the time are more pathetic in their stoic

brevity than folios of lamentations. There were no further hopes of

happiness for him on earth; he must just resign himself and work on at

his appointed labour until he too should be laid to rest. He turned

with an ardour that was almost furious to encounter the assailants of

his last literary publication. Since his appointment as Wolfenbuettel

librarian Lessing had from time to time published some of its

manuscript treasures, and among these he had inserted portions of a

work that had been intrusted to him, and which he deemed ought not to

be withheld from the light of day. These were the famous Wolfenbuettel

Fragments issued anonymously by Lessing, but really the work of a

deceased Hamburger, Professor Reimarus. Their publication drew down

upon Lessing a fury of rancorous abuse, and involved him in a vortex of

controversy that lasted till his death. The chief and most vehement of

his opponents was Pastor J. M. Goeze, whose insulting polemic reached

him by the bedside of his dying wife. Its malignant and unjustified

attacks roused Lessing's energy. He assailed Goeze with all the

strength of his grief, for which he was thankful to find a safety-valve

in controversy. The work of Reimarus had advocated rationalism; Lessing

had distinctly placed himself in position of editor, and pronounced

that he did not of necessity subscribe to the opinions therein

enunciated, but he found in their reasoning much food for thought, and

with his almost romantic passion for truth he deemed that such matter

should not be withheld from the world. Goeze chose to consider that

Lessing was sailing under false colours, that the fragments were his

own composition, and that he was undermining the national faith.

Lessing replied to Goeze's insults by a series of fourteen letters,

entitled 'Anti-Goeze,' which actually silenced his opponent, who had

never been known before to allow an adversary the last word. They are

written in a serio-comic tone, and for sparkling wit, trenchant

sarcasm, and dramatic dialectics surpass anything ever penned by

Lessing. No less admirable is his accurate theological knowledge and

his large-minded comprehension of the purposes of religion.

The same noble spirit pervades his 'Nathan the Wise,' which he wrote

about this time as a relief to his controversial discussions, and as

another protest against the narrow-minded assumptions of the

professional theologians. Lessing had ever contended that the stage

might prove as useful a pulpit as the church, and in 'Nathan' he strove

to preach the universal brotherhood of mankind; its hero is a Jew of

ideal and pure morality. The whole purpose of the drama was a stricture

on class prejudices and an enunciation of the innate truth that

underlies all forms of creeds. The play is too well known even in this

country to require much comment; it is a noble monument of toleration

and large-mindedness, and the fact that he could produce it under the

load of a crushing sorrow speaks volumes for the true earnest religious

faith that dwelt in Lessing's nature. At the time its pure tendencies

were not understood. Lessing had progressed beyond the comprehension of

his age, and the inevitable consequences ensued,--misconstruction and

mental loneliness. He began to be regarded with suspicion as a

dangerous innovator; even old friends held aloof in doubt. Meanwhile

his only comfort remained in his home, in the step-children, whom his

wife had brought thither. His step-daughter was his tender and

attentive companion, for since his wife's death Lessing's health had

declined, and he required care. Though no trace of impaired vigour

appears in his writings of the period, which indeed are animated by an

exhilarating vitality, yet too evident traces of impaired vigour

appeared in himself. He grew languid, an excessive inclination to sleep

overpowered him; he suffered from attacks of vertigo. Yet as long as he

could hold a pen he should write, he told his brother,--write in the

cause of what he firmly held to be the truth.

A small pamphlet, consisting of a hundred propositions, entitled 'The

Education of the Human Race,' was his next production, a work pregnant

with thought that opens out wide vistas of knowledge and progress to

mankind. Lessing indeed was the first man of his century to formulate

the modern doctrine of progress; he preached a true millennium of

toleration, love, and knowledge; he distinctly proclaimed his faith in

the immortality of the soul. 'The Education of the Human Race' is a

splendid disavowal of his enemies' calumnious assertions. It was a

glorious swan-song, wherewith he lulled himself into eternal peace.

On one of his official visits to Brunswick, Lessing was overtaken by a

paralytic stroke. On the 15th of February, 1781, he passed away. He

died as he lived, nobly, in a reverent assurance that he had fought a

good fight on earth in the cause of truth and enlightenment, progress

and humanity.

Time, the true criterion of human fame, has not only left his glory

undiminished, but has augmented it, as popular intelligence has

gradually arisen to the comprehension of its many-sided significance.

It will be long before we have outgrown Lessing, if indeed that time

can ever come. And even if some things in his writings may seem narrow

or antiquated to our vision, we may readily pass them over to arrive at

matters eternally true, exalted, sublime. Truth was the main purpose of

all he wrote, and truth is for all ages and all time. Lessing was one

of the truly great ones of this earth, and petty cavillers should lay

to heart the words of another wise man, the author of 'The Imitation:'

"All perfection in this world has some imperfection coupled with it,

and none of our investigations are without some obscurity."

Helen Zimmern.

MISS SARA SAMPSON.

A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS.

Miss Sara Sampson, the first of Lessing's tragedies, was completed in

the year 1755, while Lessing was at Potsdam. In the same year it was

represented at Frankfort-on-the-Oder, and was very well received. It

was afterwards translated and acted in France, where it also met with

success.

The present is the first English translation which has appeared.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

Sir William Sampson.

Miss Sara Sampson, _his daughter_.

Mellefont.

Marwood, _formerly_ Mellefont's _mistress_.

Arabella, _a child, daughter of_ Marwood.

Waitwell, _an old servant of_ Sir William.

Norton, _servant of_ Mellefont.

Betty, Sara's _maid_.

Hannah, Marwood's _maid_.

_The_ Innkeeper _and others_.

MISS SARA SAMPSON.

ACT I.

Scene I.--_A room in an inn_.

Sir William Sampson, Waitwell.

SIR WILLIAM.

My daughter, here? Here in this wretched inn?

WAITWELL.

No doubt, Mellefont has purposely selected the most wretched one in the

town. The wicked always seek the darkness, because they are wicked. But

what would it help them, could they even hide themselves from the whole

world? Conscience after all is more powerful than the accusations of a

world. Ah, you are weeping again, again, Sir!--Sir!

SIR WILLIAM.

Let me weep, my honest old servant! Or does she not, do you think,

deserve my tears?

WAITWELL.

Alas! She deserves them, were they tears of blood.

SIR WILLIAM.

Well, let me weep!

WAITWELL.

The best, the loveliest, the most innocent child that ever lived

beneath the sun, must thus be led astray! Oh, my Sara, my little Sara!

I have watched thee grow; a hundred times have I carried thee as a

child in these arms, have I admired thy smiles, thy lispings. From

every childish look beamed forth the dawn of an intelligence, a

kindliness, a----

SIR WILLIAM.

Oh, be silent! Does not the present rend my heart enough? Will you make

my tortures more infernal still by recalling past happiness? Change

your tone, if you will do me a service. Reproach me, make of my

tenderness a crime, magnify my daughter's fault; fill me with

abhorrence of her, if you can; stir up anew my revenge against her

cursed seducer; say, that Sara never was virtuous, since she so lightly

ceased to be so; say that she never loved me, since she clandestinely

forsook me!

WAITWELL.

If I said that, I should utter a lie, a shameless, wicked lie. It might

come to me again on my death-bed, and I, old wretch, would die in

despair. No, little Sara has loved her father; and doubtless, doubtless

she loves him yet. If you will only be convinced of this, I shall see

her again in your arms this very day.

SIR WILLIAM.

Yes, Waitwell, of this alone I ask to be convinced. I cannot any longer

live without her; she is the support of my age, and if she does not

help to sweeten the sad remaining days of my life, who shall do it? If

she loves me still, her error is forgotten. It was the error of a

tender-hearted maiden, and her flight was the result of her remorse.

Such errors are better than forced virtues. Yet I feel, Waitwell, I

feel it, even were these errors real crimes, premeditated vices--even

then I should forgive her. I would rather be loved by a wicked

daughter, than by none at all.

WAITWELL.

Dry your tears, dear sir! I hear some one. It will be the landlord

coming to welcome us.

Scene II.

_The_ Landlord, Sir William Sampson, Waitwell.

LANDLORD.

So early, gentlemen, so early? You are welcome; welcome, Waitwell! You

have doubtless been travelling all night! Is that the gentleman, of

whom you spoke to me yesterday?

WAITWELL.

Yes, it is he, and I hope that in accordance with what we settled----

LANDLORD.

I am entirely at your service, my lord. What is it to me, whether I

know or not, what cause has brought you hither, and why you wish to

live in seclusion in my house? A landlord takes his money and lets his

guests do as they think best. Waitwell, it is true, has told me that

you wish to observe the stranger a little, who has been staying here

for a few weeks with his young wife, but I hope that you will not cause

him any annoyance. You would bring my house into ill repute and certain

people would fear to stop here. Men like us must live on people of all

kinds.

SIR WILLIAM.

Do not fear; only conduct me to the room which Waitwell has ordered for

me; I come here for an honourable purpose.

LANDLORD.

I have no wish to know your secrets, my lord! Curiosity is by no means

a fault of mine. I might for instance have known long ago, who the

stranger is, on whom you want to keep a watch, but I have no wish to

know. This much however I have discovered, that he must have eloped

with the young lady. The poor little wife--or whatever she may

be!--remains the whole day long locked up in her room, and cries.

SIR WILLIAM.

And cries?

LANDLORD.

Yes, and cries; but, my lord, why do your tears fall? The young lady

must interest you deeply. Surely you are not----

WAITWELL.

Do not detain him any longer!

LANDLORD.

Come, come! One wall only will separate you from the lady in whom you

are so much interested, and who may be----

WAITWELL.

You mean then at any cost to know, who----

LANDLORD.

No, Waitwell! I have no wish to know anything.

WAITWELL.

Make haste, then, and take us to our rooms, before the whole house

begins to stir.

LANDLORD.

Will you please follow me, then, my lord? (_Exeunt_.)

Scene III.--Mellefont's _room_.

Mellefont, Norton.

MELLEFONT (_in dressing-gown, sitting in an easy chair_).

Another night, which I could not have spent more cruelly on the

rack!--(_calls_) Norton!--I must make haste to get sight of a face or

two. If I remained alone with my thoughts any longer, they might carry

me too far. Hey, Norton! He is still asleep. But is not it cruel of me,

not to let the poor devil sleep? How happy he is! However, I do not

wish any one about me to be happy! Norton!

NORTON (coming).

Sir!

MELLEFONT.

Dress me!--Oh, no sour looks please! When I shall be able to sleep

longer myself I will let you do the same. If you wish to do your duty,

at least have pity on me.

NORTON.

Pity, sir! Pity on you? I know better where pity is due.

MELLEFONT.

And where then?

NORTON.

Ah, let me dress you and don't ask.

MELLEFONT.

Confound it! Are _your_ reproofs then to awaken together with my

conscience? I understand you; I know on whom you expend your pity. But

I will do justice to her and to myself. Quite right, do not have any

pity on me! Curse me in your heart; but--curse yourself also!

NORTON.

Myself also?

MELLEFONT.

Yes, because you serve a miserable wretch, whom earth ought not to

bear, and because you have made yourself a partaker in his crimes.

NORTON.

I made myself a partaker in your crimes? In what way?

MELLEFONT.

By keeping silent about them.

NORTON.

Well, that is good! A word would have cost me my neck in the heat of

your passions. And, besides, did I not find you already so bad, when I

made your acquaintance, that all hope of amendment was vain? What a

life I have seen you leading from the first moment! In the lowest

society of gamblers and vagrants--I call them what they were without

regard to their knightly titles and such like--in this society you

squandered a fortune which might have made a way for you to an

honourable position. And your culpable intercourse with all sorts of

women, especially with the wicked Marwood----

MELLEFONT.

Restore me--restore me to that life. It was virtue compared with the

present one. I spent my fortune; well! The punishment follows, and I

shall soon enough feel all the severity and humiliation of want. I

associated with vicious women; that may be. I was myself seduced more

often than I seduced others; and those whom I did seduce wished it.

But--I still had no ruined virtue upon my conscience. I had carried off

no Sara from the house of a beloved father and forced her to follow a

scoundrel, who was no longer free. I had----who comes so early to me?

Scene IV.

Betty, Mellefont, Norton.

NORTON.

It is Betty.

MELLEFONT.

Up already, Betty? How is your mistress?

BETTY.

How is she? (_sobbing_.) It was long after midnight before I could

persuade her to go to bed. She slept a few moments; but God, what a

sleep that must have been! She started suddenly, sprang up and fell

into my arms, like one pursued by a murderer. She trembled, and a cold

perspiration started on her pale face. I did all I could to calm her,

but up to this morning she has only answered me with silent tears. At

length she sent me several times to your door to listen whether you

were up. She wishes to speak to you. You alone can comfort her. O do

so, dearest sir, do so! My heart will break, if she continues to fret

like this.

MELLEFONT.

Go, Betty! Tell her, I shall be with her in a moment,

BETTY.

No, she wishes to come to you herself.

MELLEFONT.

Well, tell her, then, that I am awaiting her----

(_Exit_ Betty.)

Scene V.

Mellefont, Norton.

NORTON.

O God, the poor young lady!

MELLEFONT.

Whose feelings is this exclamation of yours meant to rouse? See, the

first tear which I have shed since my childhood is running down my

cheek. A bad preparation for receiving one who seeks comfort. But why

does she seek it from me? Yet where else shall she seek it? I must

collect myself (_drying his eyes_). Where is the old firmness with

which I could see a beautiful eye in tears? Where is the gift of

dissimulation gone by which I could be and could say whatsoever I

wished? She will come now and weep tears that brook no resistance.

Confused and ashamed I shall stand before her; like a convicted

criminal I shall stand before her. Counsel me, what shall I do? What

shall I say?

NORTON.

You shall do what she asks of you!

MELLEFONT.

I shall then perpetrate a fresh act of cruelty against her. She is

wrong to blame me for delaying a ceremony which cannot be performed in

this country without the greatest injury to us.

NORTON.

Well, leave it, then. Why do we delay? Why do you let one day after the

other pass, and one week after the other? Just give me the order, and

you will be safe on board to-morrow! Perhaps her grief will not follow

her over the ocean; she may leave part of it behind, and in another

land may----

MELLEFONT.

I hope that myself. Silence! She is coming! How my heart throbs!

Scene VI.

Sara, Mellefont, Norton.

MELLEFONT (_advancing towards her_).

You have had a restless night, dearest Sara.

SARA.

Alas, Mellefont, if it were nothing but a restless night.

MELLEFONT (_to his servant_).

Leave us!

NORTON (_aside, in going_).

I would not stay if I was paid in gold for every moment.

Scene VII.

Sara, Mellefont.

MELLEFONT.

You are faint, dearest Sara! You must sit down!

SARA (_sits down_).

I trouble you very early! Will you forgive me that with the morning I

again begin my complaints?

MELLEFONT.

Dearest Sara, you mean to say that you cannot forgive me, because

another morning has dawned, and I have not yet put an end to your

complaints?

SARA.

What is there that I would not forgive you? You know what I have

already forgiven you. But the ninth week, Mellefont! the ninth week

begins to-day, and this miserable house still sees me in just the same

position as on the first day.

MELLEFONT.

You doubt my love?

SARA.

I doubt your love? No, I feel my misery too much, too much to wish to

deprive myself of this last and only solace.

MELLEFONT.

How, then, can you be uneasy about the delay of a ceremony?

SARA.

Ah, Mellefont! Why is it that we think so differently about this

ceremony! Yield a little to the woman's way of thinking! I imagine in

it a more direct consent from Heaven. In vain did I try again, only

yesterday, in the long tedious evening, to adopt your ideas, and to

banish from my breast the doubt which just now--not for the first time,

you have deemed the result of my distrust. I struggled with myself; I

was clever enough to deafen my understanding; but my heart and my

feeling quickly overthrew this toilsome structure of reason.

Reproachful voices roused me from my sleep, and my imagination united

with them to torment me. What pictures, what dreadful pictures hovered

about me! I would willingly believe them to be dreams----

MELLEFONT.

What? Could my sensible Sara believe them to be anything else? Dreams,

my dearest, dreams!--How unhappy is man!--Did not his Creator find

tortures enough for him in the realm of reality? Had he also to create

in him the still more spacious realm of imagination in order to

increase them?

SARA.

Do not accuse Heaven! It has left the imagination in our power. She is

guided by our acts; and when these are in accordance with our duties

and with virtue the imagination serves only to increase our peace and

happiness. A single act, Mellefont, a single blessing bestowed upon us

by a messenger of peace, in the name of the Eternal One, can restore my

shattered imagination again. Do you still hesitate to do a few days

sooner for love of me, what in any case you mean to do at some future

time? Have pity on me, and consider that, although by this you may be

freeing me only from torments of the imagination, yet these imagined

torments are torments, and are real torments for her who feels them.

Ah! could I but tell you the terrors of the last night half as vividly

as I have felt them. Wearied with crying and grieving--my only

occupations--I sank down on my bed with half-closed eyes. Sly nature

wished to recover itself a moment, to collect new tears. But hardly

asleep yet, I suddenly saw myself on the steepest peak of a terrible

rock. You went on before, and I followed with tottering, anxious steps,

strengthened now and then by a glance which you threw back upon me.

Suddenly I heard behind me a gentle call, which bade me stop. It was my

father's voice--I unhappy one, can I forget nothing which is his? Alas

if his memory renders him equally cruel service; if he too cannot

forget me!--But he has forgotten me. Comfort! cruel comfort for his

Sara!--But, listen, Mellefont! In turning round to this well-known

voice, my foot slipped; I reeled, and was on the point of falling down

the precipice, when just in time, I felt myself held back by one who

resembled myself. I was just returning her my passionate thanks, when

she drew a dagger from her bosom. "I saved you," she cried, "to ruin

you!" She lifted her armed hand--and--! I awoke with the blow. Awake, I

still felt all the pain which a mortal stab must give, without the

pleasure which it brings--the hope for the end of grief in the end of

life.

MELLEFONT.

Ah! dearest Sara, I promise you the end of your grief, without the end

of your life, which would certainly be the end of mine also. Forget the

terrible tissue of a meaningless dream!

SARA.

I look to you for the strength to be able to forget it. Be it love or

seduction, happiness or unhappiness which threw me into your arms, I am

yours in my heart and will remain so for ever. But I am not yet yours

in the eyes of that Judge, who has threatened to punish the smallest

transgressions of His law----

MELLEFONT.

Then may all the punishment fall upon me alone!

SARA.

What can fall upon you, without touching me too? But do not

misinterpret my urgent request! Another woman, after having forfeited

her honour by an error like mine, might perhaps only seek to regain a

part of it by a legal union. I do not think of that, Mellefont, because

I do not wish to know of any other honour in this world than that of

loving you. I do not wish to be united to you for the world's sake but

for my own. And I will willingly bear the shame of not appearing to be

so, when I am united to you. You need not then, if you do not wish,

acknowledge me to be your wife, you may call me what you will! I will

not bear your name; you shall keep our union as secret as you think

good, and may I always be unworthy of it, if I ever harbour the thought

of drawing any other advantage from it than the appeasing of my

conscience.

MELLEFONT.

Stop, Sara, or I shall die before your eyes. How wretched I am, that I

have not the courage to make you more wretched still! Consider that you

have given yourself up to my guidance; consider that it is my duty to

look to our future, and that I must at present be deaf to your

complaints, if I will not hear you utter more grievous complaints

throughout the rest of your life. Have you then forgotten what I have

so often represented to you in justification of my conduct?

SARA.

I have not forgotten it, Mellefont! You wish first to secure a certain

bequest. You wish first to secure temporal goods, and you let me

forfeit eternal ones, perhaps, through it.

MELLEFONT.

Ah, Sara! If you were as certain of all temporal goods as your virtue

is of the eternal ones----

SARA.

My virtue? Do not say that word! Once it sounded sweet to me, but now a

terrible thunder rolls in it!

MELLEFONT.

What? Must he who is to be virtuous, never have committed a trespass?

Has a single error such fatal effect that it can annihilate a whole

course of blameless years? If so, no one is virtuous; virtue is then a

chimera, which disperses in the air, when one thinks that one grasps it

most firmly; if so, there is no Wise Being who suits our duties to

our strength; if so, there is----I am frightened at the terrible

conclusions in which your despondency must involve you. No, Sara, you

are still the virtuous Sara that you were before your unfortunate

acquaintance with me. If you look upon yourself with such cruel eyes,

with what eyes must you regard me!

SARA.

With the eyes of love, Mellefont!

MELLEFONT.

I implore you, then, on my knees I implore you for the sake of this

love, this generous love which overlooks all my unworthiness, to calm

yourself! Have patience for a few days longer!

SARA.

A few days! How long even a single day is!

MELLEFONT.

Cursed bequest! Cursed nonsense of a dying cousin, who would only leave

me his fortune on the condition that I should give my hand to a

relation who hates me as much as I hate her! To you, inhuman tyrants of

our freedom, be imputed all the misfortune, all the sin, into which

your compulsion forces us. Could I but dispense with this degrading

inheritance. As long as my father's fortune sufficed for my

maintenance, I always scorned it, and did not even think it worthy of

mentioning. But now, now, when I should like to possess all the

treasures of the world only to lay them at the feet of my Sara, now,

when I must contrive at least to let her appear in the world as befits

her station, now I must have recourse to it.

SARA.

Which probably will not be successful after all.

MELLEFONT.

You always forbode the worst. No, the lady whom this also concerns is

not disinclined to enter into a sort of agreement with me. The fortune

is to be divided, and as she cannot enjoy the whole with me, she is

willing to let me buy my liberty with half of it. I am every hour

expecting the final intelligence, the delay of which alone has so

prolonged our sojourn here. As soon as I receive it, we shall not

remain here one moment longer. We will immediately cross to France,

dearest Sara, where you shall find new friends, who already look

forward to the pleasure of seeing and loving you. And these new friends

shall be the witnesses of our union----

SARA.

They shall be the witnesses of our union? Cruel man, our union, then,

is not to be in my native land? I shall leave my country as a criminal?

And as such, you think, I should have the courage to trust myself to

the ocean. The heart of him must be calmer or more impious than mine,

who, only for a moment, can see with indifference between himself and

destruction, nothing but a quivering plank. Death would roar at me in

every wave that struck against the vessel, every wind would howl its

curses after me from my native shore, and the slightest storm would

seem a sentence of death pronounced upon me. No, Mellefont, you cannot

be so cruel to me! If I live to see the completion of this agreement,

you must not grudge another day, to be spent here. This must be the

day, on which you shall teach me to forget the tortures of all these

tearful days. This must be the sacred day--alas! which day will it be?

MELLEFONT.

But do you consider, Sara, that our marriage here would lack those

ceremonies which are due to it?

SARA.

A sacred act does not acquire more force through ceremonies.

MELLEFONT.

But----

SARA.

I am astonished. You surely will not insist on such a trivial pretext?

O Mellefont, Mellefont! had I not made for myself an inviolable

law, never to doubt the sincerity of your love, this circumstance

might----But too much of this already, it might seem as if I had been

doubting it even now.

MELLEFONT.

The first moment of your doubt would be the last moment of my life!

Alas, Sara, what have I done, that you should remind me even of the

possibility of it? It is true the confessions, which I have made to you

without fear, of my early excesses cannot do me honour, but they should

at least awaken confidence. A coquettish Marwood held me in her meshes,

because I felt for her that which is so often taken for love which it

so rarely is. I should still bear her shameful fetters, had not Heaven,

which perhaps did not think my heart quite unworthy to bum with better

flames, taken pity on me. To see you, dearest Sara, was to forget all

Marwoods! But how dearly have you paid for taking me out of such hands!

I had grown too familiar with vice, and you know it too little----

SARA.

Let us think no more of it.

Scene VIII.

Norton, Mellefont, Sara.

MELLEFONT.

What do you want?

NORTON.

While I was standing before the house, a servant gave me this letter.

It is directed to you, sir!

MELLEFONT.

To me? Who knows my name here? (_looking at the letter_). Good heavens!

SARA.

You are startled.

MELLEFONT.

But without cause, Sara, as I now perceive. I was mistaken in the

handwriting.

SARA.

May the contents be as agreeable to you as you can wish.

MELLEFONT.

I suspect that they will be of very little importance.

SARA.

One is less constrained when one is alone, so allow me to retire to my

room again.

MELLEFONT.

You entertain suspicions, then, about it?

SARA.

Not at all, Mellefont.

MELLEFONT (_going with her to the back of the stage_).

I shall be with you in a moment, dearest Sara.

Scene IX.

Mellefont, Norton.

MELLEFONT (_still looking at the letter_).

Just Heaven!

NORTON.

Woe to you, if it is only just!

MELLEFONT.

Is it possible? I see this cursed handwriting again and am not chilled

with terror? Is it she? Is it not she? Why do I still doubt? It is she!

Alas, friend, a letter from Marwood! What fury, what demon has betrayed

my abode to her? What does she still want from me? Go, make

preparations immediately that we may get away from here. Yet stop!

Perhaps it is unnecessary; perhaps the contempt of my farewell letters

has only caused Marwood to reply with equal contempt. There, open the

letter; read it! I am afraid to do it myself.

NORTON (_reads_).

"If you will deign, Mellefont, to glance at the name which you will

find at the bottom of the page, it will be to me as though I had

written you the longest of letters."

MELLEFONT.

Curse the name! Would I had never heard it! Would it could be erased

from the book of the living!

NORTON (_reads on_).

"The labour of finding you out has been sweetened by the love which

helped me in my search."

MELLEFONT.

Love? Wanton creature! You profane the words which belong to virtue

alone.

NORTON (_continues_).

"Love has done more still"----

MELLEFONT.

I tremble----

NORTON.

"It has brought me to you"----

MELLEFONT.

Traitor, what are you reading? (_snatches the letter from his hand and

reads himself_). "I am here; and it rests with you, whether you will

await a visit from me, or whether you will anticipate mine by one from

you. Marwood." What a thunderbolt! She is here! Where is she? She

shall atone for this audacity with her life!

NORTON.

With her life? One glance from her and you will be again at her feet.

Take care what you do! You must not speak with her, or the misfortunes

of your poor young lady will be complete.

MELLEFONT.

O, wretched man that I am! No, I must speak with her! She would go even

into Sara's room in search of me, and would vent all her rage on the

innocent girl.

NORTON.

But, sir----

MELLEFONT.

Not a word! Let me see (_looking at the letter_) whether she has given

the address. Here it is! Come, show me the way! (_Exeunt_).

ACT II.

Scene I.--Marwood's _room in another inn_.

Marwood (_in negligee_), Hannah.

MARWOOD.

I hope Belfort has delivered the letter at the right address, Hannah?

HANNAH.

He has.

MARWOOD.

To him himself?

HANNAH.

To his servant.

MARWOOD.

I am all impatience to see what effect it will have. Do I not seem a

little uneasy to you, Hannah? And I am so. The traitor! But gently! I

must not on any account give way to anger. Forbearance, love, entreaty

are the only weapons which I can use against him, if I rightly

understand his weak side.

HANNAH.

But if he should harden himself against them?

MARWOOD.

If he should harden himself against them? Then I shall not be angry. I

shall rave! I feel it, Hannah, and I would rather do so to begin with.

HANNAH.

Calm yourself! He may come at any moment.

MARWOOD.

I only hope he may come; I only hope he has not decided to await me on

his own ground. But do you know, Hannah, on what I chiefly found my

hopes of drawing away the faithless man from this new object of his

love? On our Bella!

HANNAH.

It is true, she is a little idol to him; and there could not have been

a happier idea than that of bringing her with you.

MARWOOD.

Even if his heart should be deaf to an old love, the language of blood

will at least be audible to him. He tore the child from my arms a short

time ago under the pretext of wishing to give her an education such as

she could not have with me. It is only by an artifice that I have been

able to get her again from the lady who had charge of her. He had paid

more than a year in advance, and had given strict orders the very day

before his flight that they should by no means give admission to a

certain Marwood, who would perhaps come and give herself out as mother

of the child. From this order I see the distinction which he draws

between us. He regards Arabella as a precious portion of himself, and

me as an unfortunate creature, of whose charms he has grown weary.

HANNAH.

What ingratitude!

MARWOOD.

Ah, Hannah! Nothing more infallibly draws down ingratitude, than

favours for which no gratitude would be too great. Why have I shown him

these fatal favours? Ought I not to have foreseen that they could not

always retain their value with him; that their value rested on the

difficulty in the way of their enjoyment, and that the latter must

disappear with the charm of our looks which the hand of time

imperceptibly but surely effaces?

HANNAH.

You, Madam, have not anything to fear for a long time from this

dangerous hand! To my mind your beauty is so far from having passed the

point of its brightest bloom, that it is rather advancing towards it,

and would enchain fresh hearts for you every day if you only would give

it the permission.

MARWOOD.

Be silent, Hannah! You flatter me on an occasion which makes me

suspicious of any flattery. It is nonsense to speak of new conquests,

if one has not even sufficient power to retain possession of those

which one has already made.

Scene II.

A Servant, Marwood, Hannah.

SERVANT.

Some one wishes to have the honour of speaking with you.

MARWOOD.

Who is it?

SERVANT.

I suppose it is the gentleman to whom the letter was addressed. At

least the servant to whom I delivered it is with him.

MARWOOD.

Mellefont!--Quick, bring him up! (_Exit_ Servant.) Ah, Hannah! He is

here now! How shall I receive him? What shall I say? What look shall I

put on? Is this calm enough? Just see!

HANNAH.

Anything but calm.

MARWOOD.

This, then?

HANNAH.

Throw a little sweetness into it.

MARWOOD.

So, perhaps?

HANNAH.

Too sad.

MARWOOD.

Would this smile do?

HANNAH.

Perfectly--only less constrained--He is coming.

Scene III.

Mellefont, Marwood, Hannah.

MELLEFONT (_entering with wild gestures_).

Ha! Marwood----

MARWOOD (_running to meet him smiling, and with open arms_).

Ah, Mellefont!

MELLEFONT (_aside_).

The murderess! What a look!

MARWOOD.

I must embrace you, faithless, dear fugitive! Share my joy with me! Why

do you tear yourself from my caresses!

MELLEFONT.

I expected, Marwood, that you would receive me differently.

MARWOOD.

Why differently? With more love, perhaps? With more delight? Alas, how

unhappy I am, that I cannot express all that I feel! Do you not see,

Mellefont, do you not see that joy, too, has its tears? Here they fall,

the offspring of sweetest delight! But alas, vain tears! His hand does

not dry you!

MELLEFONT.

Marwood, the time is gone, when such words would have charmed me. You

must speak now with me in another tone. I come to hear your last

reproaches and to answer them.

MARWOOD.

Reproaches? What reproaches should I have for you, Mellefont? None!

MELLEFONT.

Then you might have spared yourself the journey, I should think.

MARWOOD.

Dearest, capricious heart. Why will you forcibly compel me to recall a

trifle which I forgave you the same moment I heard of it? Does a

passing infidelity which your gallantry, but not your heart, has

caused, deserve these reproaches? Come, let us laugh at it!

MELLEFONT.

You are mistaken; my heart is more concerned in it, than it ever was in

all our love affairs, upon which I cannot now look back but with

disgust.

MARWOOD.

Your heart, Mellefont, is a good little fool. It lets your imagination

persuade it to whatever it will. Believe me, I know it better than you

do yourself! Were it not the best, the most faithful of hearts, should

I take such pains to keep it?

MELLEFONT.

To keep it? You have never possessed it, I tell you.

MARWOOD.

And I tell you, that in reality I possess it still!

MELLEFONT.

Marwood! if I knew that you still possessed one single fibre of it, I

would tear it out of my breast here before your eyes.

MARWOOD.

You would see that you were tearing mine out at the same time. And

then, then these hearts would at last attain that union which they have

sought so often upon our lips.

MELLEFONT (_aside_).

What a serpent! Flight will be the best thing here.--Just tell me

briefly, Marwood, why you have followed me, and what you still desire

of me! But tell it me without this smile, without this look, in which a

whole' hell of seduction lurks and terrifies me.

MARWOOD (_insinuatingly_).

Just listen, my dear Mellefont! I see your position now. Your desires

and your taste are at present your tyrants. Never mind, one must let

them wear themselves out. It is folly to resist them. They are most

safely lulled to sleep, and at last even conquered, by giving them free

scope. They wear themselves away. Can you accuse me, my fickle friend,

of ever having been jealous, when more powerful charms than mine

estranged you from me for a time? I never grudged you the change, by

which I always won more than I lost. You returned with new ardour, with

new passion to my arms, in which with light bonds, and never with heavy

fetters I encompassed you. Have I not often even been your confidante

though you had nothing to confide but the favours which you stole from

me, in order to lavish them on others. Why should you believe then,

that I would now begin to display a capriciousness just when I am

ceasing, or, perhaps have already ceased, to be justified in it. If

your ardour for the pretty country girl has not yet cooled down, if you

are still in the first fever of your love for her; if you cannot yet do

without the enjoyment she gives you; who hinders you from devoting

yourself to her, as long as you think good? But must you on that

account make such rash projects, and purpose to fly from the country

with her?

MELLEFONT.

Marwood! You speak in perfect keeping with your character, the

wickedness of which I never understood so well as I do now, since, in

the society of a virtuous woman, I have learned to distinguish love

from licentiousness.

MARWOOD.

Indeed! Your new mistress is then a girl of fine moral sentiments, I

suppose? You men surely cannot know yourselves what you want. At one

time you are pleased with the most wanton talk and the most unchaste

jests from us, at another time we charm you, when we talk nothing but

virtue, and seem to have all the seven sages on our lips. But the worst

is, that you get tired of one as much as the other. We may be foolish

or reasonable, worldly or spiritual; our efforts to make you constant

are lost either way. The turn will come to your beautiful saint soon

enough. Shall I give you a little sketch? Just at present you are in

the most passionate paroxysm over her. I allow this two or at the most

three days more. To this will succeed a tolerably calm love; for this I

allow a week. The next week you will only think occasionally of this

love. In the third week, you will have to be reminded of it; and when

you have got tired of being thus reminded, you will so quickly see

yourself reduced to the most utter indifference, that I can hardly

allow the fourth week for this final change. This would be about a

month altogether. And this month, Mellefont, I will overlook with the

greatest pleasure; but you will allow that I must not lose sight of

you.

MELLEFONT.

You try all the weapons in vain which you remember to have used

successfully with me in bygone days. A virtuous resolution secures me

against both your tenderness and your wit. However, I will not expose

myself longer to either. I go, and have nothing more to tell you but

that in a few days you shall know that I am bound in such a manner as

will utterly destroy all your hope of my ever returning into your

sinful slavery. You will have learned my justification sufficiently

from the letter which I sent to you before my departure.

MARWOOD.

It is well that you mention this letter. Tell me, who did you get to

write it?

MELLEFONT.

Did not I write it myself?

MARWOOD.

Impossible! The beginning of it, in which you reckoned up--I do not

know what sums--which you say you have wasted with me, must have been

written by an innkeeper, and the theological part at the end by a

Quaker. I will now give you a serious reply to it. As to the principal

point, you well know that all the presents which you have made are

still in existence. I have never considered your cheques or your jewels

as my property, and I have brought them all with me to return them into

the hands which entrusted them to me.

MELLEFONT.

Keep them all, Marwood!

MARWOOD.

I will not keep any of them. What right have I to them without you

yourself? Although you do not love me any more, you must at least do me

justice and not take me for one of those venal females, to whom it is a

matter of indifference by whose booty they enrich themselves. Come,

Mellefont, you shall this moment be as rich again as you perhaps might

still be if you had not known me; and perhaps, too, might _not_ be.

MELLEFONT.

What demon intent upon my destruction speaks through you now!

Voluptuous Marwood does not think so nobly.

MARWOOD.

Do you call that noble? I call it only just. No, Sir, no, I do not ask

that you shall account the return of your gifts as anything remarkable.

It costs me nothing, and I should even consider the slightest

expression of thanks on your part as an insult, which could have no

other meaning than this: "Marwood, I thought you a base deceiver; I am

thankful that you have not wished to be so towards me at least."

MELLEFONT.

Enough, Madam, enough! I fly, since my unlucky destiny threatens to

involve me in a contest of generosity, in which I should be most

unwilling to succumb.

MARWOOD.

Fly, then! But take everything with you that could remind me of you.

Poor, despised, without honour, and without friends, I will then

venture again to awaken your pity. I will show you in the unfortunate

Marwood only a miserable woman, who has sacrificed to you her person,

her honour, her virtue, and her conscience. I will remind you of the

first day, when you saw and loved me; of the first, stammering, bashful

confession of your love, which you made me at my feet; of the first

assurance of my return of your love, which you forced from me; of the

tender looks, of the passionate embraces, which followed, of the

eloquent silence, when each with busy mind divined the other's most

secret feelings, and read the most hidden thoughts of the soul in the

languishing eye; of the trembling expectation of approaching

gratification; of the intoxication of its joys; of the sweet relaxation

after the fulness of enjoyment, in which the exhausted spirits regained

strength for fresh delights. I shall remind you of all this, and then

embrace your knees, and entreat without ceasing for the only gift,

which you cannot deny me, and which I can accept without blushing--for

death from your hand.

MELLEFONT.

Cruel one! I would still give even my life for you. Ask it, ask it,

only do not any longer claim my love. I must leave you, Marwood, or

make myself an object of loathing to the whole world. I am culpable

already in that I only stand here and listen to you. Farewell,

farewell!

MARWOOD (_holding him back_).

You must leave me? And what, then, do you wish, shall become of me? As

I am now, I am your creature; do, then, what becomes a creator; he may

not withdraw his hand from the work until he wishes to destroy it

utterly. Alas, Hannah, I see now, my entreaties alone are too feeble.

Go, bring my intercessor, who will now, perhaps, return to me more than

she ever received from me. (_Exit_ Hannah).

MELLEFONT.

What intercessor, Marwood?

MARWOOD.

Ah, an intercessor of whom you would only too willingly have deprived

me. Nature will take a shorter road to your heart with her grievances.

MELLEFONT.

You alarm me. Surely you have not----

Scene IV.

Arabella, Hannah, Mellefont, Marwood.

MELLEFONT.

What do I see? It is she! Marwood, how could you dare to----

MARWOOD.

Am I not her mother? Come, my Bella, see, here is your protector again,

your friend, your .... Ah! his heart may tell him what more he can be

to you than a protector and a friend.

MELLEFONT (_turning away his face_).

God, what shall I have to suffer here?

ARABELLA (_advancing timidly towards him_).

Ah, Sir! Is it you? Are you our Mellefont? No, Madam, surely, surely it

is not he! Would he not look at me, if it were? Would he not hold me in

his arms? He used to do so. What an unhappy child I am! How have I

grieved him, this dear, dear man, who let me call him my father?

MARWOOD.

You are silent, Mellefont? You grudge the innocent child a single look?

MELLEFONT.

Ah!

ARABELLA.

Why, he sighs, Madam! What is the matter with him? Cannot we help him?

Cannot I? Nor you? Then let us sigh with him! Ah, now he looks at me!

No, he looks away again! He looks up to Heaven! What does he want? What

does he ask from Heaven? Would that Heaven would grant him everything,

even if it refused me everything for it!

MARWOOD.

Go, my child, go, fall at his feet! He wants to leave us, to leave us

for ever.

ARABELLA (_falling on her knees before him_).

Here I am already. You will leave us? You will leave us for ever? Have

not we already been without you for a little "for ever." Shall we have

to lose you again? You have said so often that you loved us. Does one

leave the people whom one loves? I cannot love you then, I suppose, for

I should wish never to leave you. Never, and I never will leave you

either.

MARWOOD.

I will help you in your entreaties, my child! And you must help me too!

Now, Mellefont, you see me too at your feet....

MELLEFONT (_stopping her, as she throws herself at his feet_).

Marwood, dangerous Marwood! And you, too, my dearest Bella (_raising

her up_), you too are the enemy of your Mellefont?

ARABELLA.

I your enemy?

MARWOOD.

What is your resolve?

MELLEFONT.

What it ought not to be, Marwood; what it ought not to be.

MARWOOD (_embracing him_).

Ah, I know that the honesty of your heart has always overcome the

obstinacy of your desires.

MELLEFONT.

Do not importune me any longer! I am already what you wish to make me;

a perjurer, a seducer, a robber, a murderer!

MARWOOD.

You will be so in imagination for a few days, and after that you will

see that I have prevented you from becoming so in reality. You will

return with us, won't you?

ARABELLA (_insinuatingly_).

Oh yes, do!

MELLEFONT.

Return with you! How can I?

MARWOOD.

Nothing is easier, if you only wish it.

MELLEFONT.

And my Sara----

MARWOOD.

And your Sara may look to herself.

MELLEFONT.

Ha! cruel Marwood, these words reveal the very bottom of your heart to

me. And yet I, wretch, do not repent?

MARWOOD.

If you had seen the bottom of my heart, you would have discovered that

it has more true pity for your Sara than you yourself have. I say true

pity; for your pity is egotistic and weak. You have carried this

love-affair much too far. We might let it pass, that you as a man, who

by long intercourse with our sex has become master in the art of seducing,

used your superiority in dissimulation and experience against such a

young maiden, and did not rest until you had gained your end. You can

plead the impetuosity of your passion as your excuse. But, Mellefont,

you cannot justify yourself for having robbed an old father of his only

child, for having rendered to an honourable old man his few remaining

steps to the grave harder and more bitter, for having broken the

strongest ties of nature for the sake of your desires. Repair your

error, then, as far as it is possible to repair it. Give the old man

his support again, and send a credulous daughter back to her home,

which you need not render desolate also, because you have dishonoured

it.

MELLEFONT.

This only was still wanting--that you should call in my conscience

against me also. But even supposing what you say were just, must I not

be brazenfaced if I should propose it myself to the unhappy girl?

MARWOOD.

Well, I will confess to you, that I have anticipated this difficulty,

and considered how to spare you it. As soon as I learned your address,

I informed her old father privately of it. He was beside himself with

joy, and wanted to start directly. I wonder he has not yet arrived.

MELLEFONT.

What do you say?

MARWOOD.

Just await his arrival quietly, and do not let the girl notice

anything. I myself will not detain you any longer. Go to her again; she

might grow suspicious. But I trust that I shall see you again to-day.

MELLEFONT.

Oh, Marwood! With what feelings did I come to you, and with what must I

leave you! A kiss, my dear Bella.

ARABELLA.

That was for you, now one for me! But come back again soon, do!

(_Exit_ Mellefont).

Scene V.

Marwood, Arabella, Hannah.

MARWOOD (_drawing a deep breath_).

Victory, Hannah! but a hard victory! Give me a chair, I feel quite

exhausted (_sitting down_). He surrendered only just in time, if he had

hesitated another moment, I should have shown him quite a different

Marwood.

HANNAH.

Ah, Madam, what a woman you are! I should like to Bee the man who could

resist you.

MARWOOD.

He has resisted me already too long. And assuredly, assuredly, I will

not forgive him that he almost let me go down on my knees to him.

ARABELLA.

No, no! You must forgive him everything. He is so good, so good----

MARWOOD.

Be silent, little silly!

HANNAH.

I do not know on what side you did not attack him! But nothing, I

think, touched him more, than the disinterestedness with which you

offered to return all his presents to him.

MARWOOD.

I believe so too. Ha! ha! ha! (_contemptuously_).

HANNAH.

Why do you laugh, Madam? You really risked a great deal, if you were

not in earnest about it. Suppose he had taken you at your word?

MARWOOD.

Oh, nonsense, one knows with whom one has to deal.

HANNAH.

I quite admit that! But you too, my pretty Bella, did your part

excellently, excellently!

ARABELLA.

How so? Could I do it, then, any other way? I had not seen him for such

a long time. I hope you are not angry, Madam, that I love him so? I

love you as much as him, just as much.

MARWOOD.

Very well, I will pardon you this time that you do not love me better

than him.

ARABELLA (_sobbing_).

This time?

MARWOOD.

Why, you are crying actually? What is it about?

ARABELLA.

Ah, no! I am not crying. Do not get angry! I will love you both so

much, so much, that it will be impossible to love either of you more.

MARWOOD.

Very well.

ARABELLA.

I am so unhappy.

MARWOOD.

Now be quiet----but what is that?

Scene VI.

Mellefont, Marwood, Arabella, Hannah.

MARWOOD.

Why do you come back again so soon, Mellefont? (_rising_).

MELLEFONT (_passionately_).

Because I needed but a few moments to recover my senses.

MARWOOD.

Well?

MELLEFONT.

I was stunned, Marwood, but not moved! You have had all your trouble in

vain. Another atmosphere than this infectious one of your room has

given me back my courage and my strength, to withdraw my foot in time

from this dangerous snare. Were the tricks of a Marwood not

sufficiently familiar to me, unworthy wretch that I am?

MARWOOD (_impatiently_).

What language is that?

MELLEFONT.

The language of truth and anger.

MARWOOD.

Gently, Mellefont! or I too shall speak in the same language.

MELLEFONT.

I return only in order not to leave you one moment longer under a

delusion with regard to me, which must make me despicable even in your

eyes.

ARABELLA (_timidly_).

Oh, Hannah!

MELLEFONT.

Look at me as madly as you like. The more madly the better! Was it

possible that I could hesitate only for one moment between a Marwood

and a Sara, and that I had well nigh decided for the former?

ARABELLA.

Oh, Mellefont!

MELLEFONT.

Do not tremble, Bella! For your sake too I came back. Give me your

hand, and follow me without fear!

MARWOOD (_stopping them_).

Whom shall she follow, traitor?

MELLEFONT.

Her father!

MARWOOD.

Go, pitiable wretch, and learn first to know her mother.

MELLEFONT.

I know her. She is a disgrace to her sex.

MARWOOD.

Take her away, Hannah!

MELLEFONT.

Remain here, Bella (_attempting to stop her_).

MARWOOD.

No force, Mellefont, or----

(_Exeunt_ Hannah _and_ Arabella).

Scene VII.

Mellefont, Marwood.

MARWOOD.

Now we are alone! Say now once more, whether you are determined to

sacrifice me for a foolish girl?

MELLEFONT (_bitterly_).

Sacrifice you? You recall to my mind that impure animals were also

sacrificed to the ancient gods.

MARWOOD (_mockingly_).

Express yourself without these learned allusions.

MELLEFONT.

I tell you, then, that I am firmly resolved never to think of you

again, but with the most fearful of curses. Who are you? And who is

Sara? You are a voluptuous, egoistic, shameful strumpet, who certainly

can scarcely remember any longer that she ever was innocent. I have

nothing to reproach myself with but that I have enjoyed with you that

which otherwise you would perhaps have let the whole world enjoy. You

have sought me, not I you, and if I now know who Marwood is, I have

paid for this knowledge dearly enough. It has cost me my fortune, my

honour, my happiness----

MARWOOD.

And I would that it might also cost you your eternal happiness.

Monster! Is the devil worse than you, when he lures feeble mortals into

crimes and himself accuses them afterwards for these crimes which are

his own work! What is my innocence to you? What does it matter to you

when and how I lost it. If I could not sacrifice my virtue, I have at

least staked my good name for you. The former is no more valuable than

the latter. What do I say? More valuable? Without it the former is a

silly fancy, which brings one neither happiness nor guilt. The good

name alone gives it some value, and can exist quite well without it.

What did it matter what I was before I knew you, you wretch! It is

enough that in the eyes of the world I was a woman without reproach.

Through you only it has learned that I am not so; solely through my

readiness to accept your heart, as I then thought, without your hand.

MELLEFONT.

This very readiness condemns you, vile woman!

MARWOOD.

But do you remember to what base tricks you owed it? Was I not

persuaded by you, that you could not be publicly united to me without

forfeiting an inheritance which you wished to share with me only? Is it

time now to renounce it? And to renounce it, not for me but for

another!

MELLEFONT.

It is a real delight to me to be able to tell you that this difficulty

will soon be removed. Content yourself therefore with having deprived

me of my father's inheritance, and let me enjoy a far smaller one with

a more worthy wife.

MARWOOD.

Ha! Now I see what it is that makes you so perverse. Well, I will lose

no more words. Be it so! Be assured I shall do everything to forget

you. And the first thing that I will do to this end, shall be this. You

will understand me! Tremble for your Bella! Her life shall not carry

the memory of my despised love down to posterity; my cruelty shall do

it. Behold in me a new Medea!

MELLEFONT (_frightened_).

Marwood!----

MARWOOD.

Or, if you know a more cruel mother still, behold her cruelty doubled

in me! Poison and dagger shall avenge me. But no, poison and dagger are

tools too merciful for me! They would kill your child and mine too

soon. I will not see it dead. I will see it dying! I will see each

feature of the face which she has from you disfigured, distorted, and

obliterated by slow torture. With eager hand will I part limb from

limb, vein from vein, nerve from nerve, and will not cease to cut and

burn the very smallest of them, even when there is nothing remaining

but a senseless carcass! I--I shall at least feel in it--how sweet is

revenge!

MELLEFONT.

You are raving, Marwood----

MARWOOD.

You remind me that my ravings are not directed against the right

person. The father must go first! He must already be in yonder world,

when, through a thousand woes the spirit of his daughter follows him

(_she advances towards him with a dagger which she draws from her

bosom_). So die, traitor!

MELLEFONT (_seizing her arm, and snatching the dagger from her_).

Insane woman! What hinders me now from turning the steel against you?

But live, and your punishment shall be left for a hand void of honour.

MARWOOD (_wringing her hands_).

Heaven, what have I done? Mellefont----

MELLEFONT.

Your grief shall not deceive me. I know well why you are sorry--not

that you wished to stab me, but that you failed to do so.

MARWOOD.

Give me back the erring steel! Give it me back, and you shall see for

whom it was sharpened! For this breast alone, which for long has been

too narrow for a heart which will rather renounce life than your love.

MELLEFONT.

Hannah!

MARWOOD.

What are you doing, Mellefont?

Scene VIII.

Hannah (_in terror_), Marwood, Mellefont.

MELLEFONT.

Did you hear, Hannah, how madly your mistress was behaving? Remember

that I shall hold you responsible for Arabella!

HANNAH.

Madam, how agitated you are!

MELLEFONT.

I will place the innocent child in safety immediately. Justice will

doubtless be able to bind the murderous hands of her cruel mother

(_going_).

MARWOOD.

Whither, Mellefont? Is it astonishing that the violence of my grief

deprived me of my reason? Who forces me to such unnatural excess? Is it

not you yourself? Where can Bella be safer than with me? My lips may

rave, but my heart still remains the heart of a mother. Oh, Mellefont,

forget my madness, and to excuse it think only of its cause.

MELLEFONT.

There is only one thing which can induce me to forget it.

MARWOOD.

And that is?

MELLEFONT.

That you return immediately to London! I will send Arabella there under

another escort. You must by no means have anything further to do with

her.

MARWOOD.

Very well! I submit to everything; but grant me one single request

more. Let me see your Sara once.

MELLEFONT.

And what for?

MARWOOD.

To read in her eyes my future fate. I will judge for myself whether she

is worthy of such a breach of faith as you commit against me; and

whether I may cherish the hope of receiving again, some day at any

rate, a portion of your love.

MELLEFONT.

Vain hope!

MARWOOD.

Who is so cruel as to grudge even hope to the unhappy? I will not show

myself to her as Marwood, but as a relation of yours. Announce me to

her as such; you shall be present when I call upon her, and I promise

you, by all that is sacred, to say nothing that is in any way

displeasing to her. Do not refuse my request, for otherwise I might

perhaps do all that is in my power to show myself to her in my true

character.

MELLEFONT.

Marwood! This request----(_after a moment's reflection_) might be

granted.--But will you then be sure to quit this spot?

MARWOOD.

Certainly; yes I promise you. Even more, I will spare you the visit

from her father, if that is still possible.

MELLEFONT.

There is no need of that! I hope that he will include me too in the

pardon which he grants to his daughter. But if he will not pardon her,

I too shall know how to deal with him. I will go and announce you to my

Sara. Only keep your promise, Marwood. (_Exit_.)

MARWOOD.

Alas, Hannah, that our powers are not as great as our courage. Come,

help me to dress. I do not despair of my scheme. If I could only make

sure of him first. Come!

ACT III.

Scene I. (_A room in the first inn_.)

Sir William Sampson, Waitwell.

SIR WILLIAM SAMPSON.

There, Waitwell, take this letter to her! It is the letter of an

affectionate father, who complains of nothing but her absence. Tell her

that I have sent you on before with it, and that I only await her

answer, to come myself and fold her again in my arms.

WAITWELL.

I think you do well to prepare them for your arrival in this way.

SIR WILLIAM SAMPSON.

I make sure of her intentions by this means, and give her the

opportunity of freeing herself from any shame or sorrow which

repentance might cause her, before she speaks verbally with me. In a

letter it will cost her less embarrassment, and me, perhaps, fewer

tears.

WAITWELL.

But may I ask, Sir, what you have resolved upon with regard to

Mellefont?

SIR WILLIAM SAMPSON.

Ah, Waitwell, if I could separate him from my daughter's lover, I

should make some very harsh resolve. But as this cannot be, you see, he

is saved from my anger. I myself am most to blame in this misfortune.

But for me Sara would never have made the acquaintance of this

dangerous man. I admitted him freely into my house on account of an

obligation under which I believed myself to be to him. It was natural

that the attention which in gratitude I paid him, should win for him

the esteem of my daughter. And it was just as natural, that a man of

his disposition should suffer himself to be tempted by this esteem to

something more. He had been clever enough to transform it into love

before I noticed anything at all, and before I had time to inquire into

his former life. The evil was done, and I should have done well, if I

had forgiven them everything immediately. I wished to be inexorable

towards him, and did not consider that I could not be so towards him

alone. If I had spared my severity, which came too late, I would at

least have prevented their flight. But here I am now, Waitwell! I must

fetch them back myself and consider myself happy if only I can make a

son of a seducer. For who knows whether he will give up his Marwoods

and his other creatures for the sake of a girl who has left nothing for

his desires to wish for and who understands so little the bewitching

arts of a coquette?

WAITWELL.

Well, Sir, it cannot be possible, that a man could be so wicked----

SIR WILLIAM SAMPSON.

This doubt, good Waitwell, does honour to your virtue. But why, at the

same time, is it true that the limits of human wickedness extend much

further still? Go now, and do as I told you! Notice every look as she

reads my letter. In this short deviation from virtue she cannot yet

have learned the art of dissimulation, to the masks of which only

deep-rooted vice can have recourse. You will read her whole soul in her

face. Do not let a look escape you which might perhaps indicate

indifference to me--disregard of her father. For if you should

unhappily discover this, and if she loves me no more, I hope that I

shall be able to conquer myself and abandon her to her fate. I hope so,

Waitwell. Alas! would that there were no heart here, to contradict this

hope. (_Exeunt on different sides_.)

Scene II.

Miss Sara, Mellefont.

(Sara's _room_.)

MELLEFONT.

I have done wrong, dearest Sara, to leave you in uneasiness about the

letter which came just now.

SARA.

Oh dear, no, Mellefont! I have not been in the least uneasy about it.

Could you not love me even though you still had secrets from me?

MELLEFONT.

You think, then, that it was a secret?

SARA.

But not one which concerns me. And that must suffice for me.

MELLEFONT.

You are only too good. Let me nevertheless reveal my secret to you. The

letter contained a few lines from a relative of mine, who has heard of

my being here. She passes through here on her way to London, and would

like to see me. She has begged at the same time to be allowed the

honour of paying you a visit.

SARA.

It will always be a pleasure to me to make the acquaintance of the

respected members of your family. But consider for yourself, whether I

can yet appear before one of them without blushing.

MELLEFONT.

Without blushing? And for what? For your love to me? It is true, Sara,

you could have given your love to a nobler or a richer man. You must be

ashamed that you were content to give your heart for another heart

only, and that in this exchange you lost sight of your happiness.

SARA.

You must know yourself how wrongly you interpret my words.

MELLEFONT.

Pardon me, Sara; if my interpretation is wrong, they can have no

meaning at all.

SARA.

What is the name of your relation?

MELLEFONT.

She is--Lady Solmes. You will have heard me mention the name before.

SARA.

I don't remember.

MELLEFONT.

May I beg you to see her?

SARA.

Beg me? You can command me to do so.

MELLEFONT.

What a word! No, Sara, she shall not have the happiness of seeing you.

She will regret it, but she must submit to it. Sara has her reasons,

which I respect without knowing them.

SARA.

How hasty you are, Mellefont! I shall expect Lady Solmes, and do my

best to show myself worthy of the honour of her visit. Are you content?

MELLEFONT.

Ah, Sara! let me confess my ambition. I should like to show you to the

whole world! And were I not proud of the possession of such a being, I

should reproach myself with not being able to appreciate her value. I

will go and bring her to you at once. (_Exit_.)

SARA (_alone_).

I hope she will not be one of those proud women, who are so full of

their own virtue that they believe themselves above all failings. With

one single look of contempt they condemn us, and an equivocal shrug of

the shoulders is all the pity we seem to deserve in their eyes.

Scene III.

Waitwell, Sara.

BETTY (_behind the scenes_).

Just come in here, if you must speak to her yourself!

SARA (_looking round_).

Who must speak to me? Whom do I see? Is it possible? You, Waitwell?

WAITWELL.

How happy I am to see our young lady again!

SARA.

Good God, what do you bring me? I hear already, I hear already; you

bring me the news of my father's death! He is gone, the excellent man,

the best of fathers! He is gone, and I--I am the miserable creature who

has hastened his death.

WAITWELL.

Ah, Miss----

SARA.

Tell me, quick! tell me, that his last moments were not embittered by

the thought of me; that he had forgotten me; that he died as peacefully

as he used to hope to die in my arms; that he did not remember me even

in his last prayer----

WAITWELL.

Pray do not torment yourself with such false notions! Your father is

still alive! He is still alive, honest Sir William!

SARA.

Is he still alive? Is it true? Is he still alive? May he live a long

while yet, and live happily! Oh, would that God would add the half of

my years to his life! Half! How ungrateful should I be, if I were not

willing to buy even a few moments for him with all the years, that may

yet be mine! But tell me at least, Waitwell, that it is not hard for

him to live without me; that it was easy to him to renounce a daughter

who could so easily renounce her virtue, that he is angry with me for

my flight, but not grieved; that he curses me, but does not mourn for

me.

WAITWELL.

Ah! Sir William is still the same fond father, as his Sara is still the

same fond daughter that she was.

SARA.

What do you say? You are a messenger of evil, of the most dreadful of

all the evils which my imagination has ever pictured to me! He is still

the same fond father? Then he loves me still? And he must mourn for me,

then! No no, he does not do so; he cannot do so? Do you not see how

infinitely each sigh which he wasted on me would magnify my crime?

Would not the justice of heaven have to charge me with every tear which

I forced from him, as if with each one I repeated my vice and my

ingratitude? I grow chill at the thought. I cause him tears? Tears? And

they are other tears than tears of joy? Contradict me, Waitwell! At

most he has felt some slight stirring of the blood on my account; some

transitory emotion, calmed by a slight effort of reason. He did not go

so far as to shed tears, surely not to shed tears, Waitwell?

WAITWELL (_wiping his eyes_).

No, Miss, he did not go so far as that.

SARA.

Alas! your lips say no, and your eyes say yes.

WAITWELL.

Take this letter Miss, it is from him himself----

SARA.

From whom? From my father? To me?

WAITWELL.

Yes, take it! You can learn more from it, than I am able to say. He

ought to have given this to another to do, not to me. I promised myself

pleasure from it; but you turn my joy into sadness.

SARA.

Give it me, honest Waitwell! But no! I will not take it before you tell

me what it contains.

WAITWELL.

What can it contain? Love and forgiveness.

SARA.

Love? Forgiveness?

WAITWELL.

And perhaps a real regret, that he used the rights of a father's power

against a child, who should only have the privileges of a father's

kindness.

SARA.

Then keep your cruel letter.

WAITWELL.

Cruel? Have no fear. Full liberty is granted you over your heart and

hand.

SARA.

And it is just this which I fear. To grieve a father such as he, this I

have had the courage to do. But to see him forced by this very grief-by

his love which I have forfeited, to look with leniency on all the wrong

into which an unfortunate passion has led me; this, Waitwell, I could

not bear. If his letter contained all the hard and angry words which an

exasperated father can utter in such a case, I should read it--with a

shudder it is true--but still I should be able to read it. I should be

able to produce a shadow of defence against his wrath, to make him by

this defence if possible more angry still. My consolation then would be

this-that melancholy grief could have no place with violent wrath and

that the latter would transform itself finally into bitter contempt.

And we grieve no more for one whom we despise. My father would have

grown calm again, and I would not have to reproach myself with having

made him unhappy for ever.

WAITWELL.

Alas, Miss! You will have to reproach yourself still less for this if

you now accept his love again, which wishes only to forget everything.

SARA.

You are mistaken, Waitwell! His yearning for me misleads him, perhaps,

to give his consent to everything. But no sooner would this desire be

appeased a little, than he would feel ashamed before himself of his

weakness. Sullen anger would take possession of him, and he would never

be able to look at me without silently accusing me of all that I had

dared to exact from him. Yes, if it were in my power to spare him his

bitterest grief, when on my account he is laying the greatest restraint

upon himself; if at a moment when he would grant me everything I could

sacrifice all to him; then it would be quite a different matter. I

would take the letter from your hands with pleasure, would admire in it

the strength of the fatherly love, and, not to abuse this love, I would

throw myself at his feet a repentant and obedient daughter. But can I

do that? I shall be obliged to make use of his permission, regardless

of the price this permission has cost him. And then, when I feel most

happy, it will suddenly occur to me that he only outwardly appears to

share my happiness and that inwardly he is sighing--in short, that he

has made me happy by the renunciation of his own happiness. And to wish

to be happy in this way,--do you expect that of me, Waitwell?

WAITWELL.

I truly do not know what answer to give to that.

SARA.

There is no answer to it. So take your letter back! If my father must

be unhappy through me, I will myself remain unhappy also. To be quite

alone in unhappiness is that for which I now pray Heaven every hour,

but to be quite alone in my happiness--of that I will not hear.

WAITWELL (_aside_).

I really think I shall have to employ deception with this good child to

get her to read the letter.

SARA.

What are you saying to yourself?

WAITWELL.

I was saying to myself that the idea I had hit on to get you to read

this letter all the quicker was a very clumsy one.

SARA.

How so?

WAITWELL.

I could not look far enough. Of course you see more deeply into things

than such as I. I did not wish to frighten you; the letter is perhaps

only too hard; and when I said that it contained nothing but love and

forgiveness, I ought to have said that I wished it might not contain

anything else.

SARA.

Is that true? Give it me then! I will read it. If one has been

unfortunate enough to deserve the anger of one's father, one should at

least have enough respect for it to submit to the expression of it on

his part. To try to frustrate it means to heap contempt on insult. I

shall feel his anger in all its strength. You see I tremble already.

But I must tremble; and I will rather tremble than weep (_opens the

letter_). Now it is opened! I sink! But what do I see? (_she reads_)

"My only, dearest daughter"--ah, you old deceiver, is that the language

of an angry father? Go, I shall read no more----

WAITWELL.

Ah, Miss! You will pardon an old servant! Yes, truly, I believe it is

the first time in my life that I have intentionally deceived any one.

He who deceives once, Miss, and deceives for so good a purpose, is

surely no old deceiver on that account. That touches me deeply, Miss! I

know well that the good intention does not always excuse one; but what

else could I do? To return his letter unread to such a good father?

That certainly I cannot do! Sooner will I walk as far as my old legs

will carry me, and never again come into his presence.

SARA.

What? You too will leave him?

WAITWELL.

Shall I not be obliged to do so if you do not read the letter? Read it,

pray! Do not grudge a good result to the first deceit with which I have

to reproach myself. You will forget it the sooner, and I shall the

sooner be able to forgive myself. I am a common, simple man, who must

not question the reasons why you cannot and will not read the letter.

Whether they are true, I know not, but at any rate they do not appear

to me to be natural. I should think thus, Miss: a father, I should

think, is after all a father; and a child may err for once, and remain

a good child in spite of it. If the father pardons the error, the child

may behave again in such a manner that the father may not even think of

it any more. For who likes to remember what he would rather had never

happened? It seems, Miss, as if you thought only of your error, and

believed you atoned sufficiently in exaggerating it in your imagination

and tormenting yourself with these exaggerated ideas. But, I should

think, you ought also to consider how you could make up for what has

happened. And how will you make up for it, if you deprive yourself of

every opportunity of doing so. Can it be hard for you to take the

second step, when such a good father has already taken the first?

SARA.

What daggers pierce my heart in your simple words! That he has to take

the first step is just what I cannot bear. And, besides, is it only the

first step which he takes? He must do all! I cannot take a single one

to meet him. As far as I have gone from him, so far must he descend to

me. If he pardons me, he must pardon the whole crime, and in addition

must bear the consequences of it continually before his eyes. Can one

demand that from a father?

WAITWELL.

I do not know, Miss, whether I understand this quite right. But it

seems to me, you mean to say that he would have to forgive you too

much, and as this could not but be very difficult to him, you make a

scruple of accepting his forgiveness. If you mean that, tell me, pray,

is not forgiving a great happiness to a kind heart? I have not been so

fortunate in my life as to have felt this happiness often. But I still

remember with pleasure the few instances when I have felt it. I felt

something so sweet, something so tranquillising, something so divine,

that I could not help thinking of the great insurpassable blessedness

of God, whose preservation of miserable mankind is a perpetual

forgiveness. I wished that I could be forgiving continually, and was

ashamed that I had only such trifles to pardon. To forgive real painful

insults, deadly offences, I said to myself, must be a bliss in which

the whole soul melts. And now, Miss, will you grudge your father such

bliss?

SARA.

Ah! Go on, Waitwell, go on!

WAITWELL.

I know well there are people who accept nothing less willingly than

forgiveness, and that because they have never learned to grant it. They

are proud, unbending people, who will on no account confess that they

have done wrong. But you do not belong to this kind, Miss! You have the

most loving and tender of hearts that the best of your sex can have.

You confess your fault too. Where then is the difficulty? But pardon

me, Miss! I am an old chatterer, and ought to have seen at once that

your refusal is only a praiseworthy solicitude, only a virtuous

timidity. People who can accept a great benefit immediately without any

hesitation are seldom worthy of it. Those who deserve it most have

always the greatest mistrust of themselves. Yet mistrust must not be

pushed beyond limits!

SARA.

Dear old father! I believe you have persuaded me.

WAITWELL.

If I have been so fortunate as that it must have been a good spirit

that has helped me to plead. But no, Miss, my words have done no more

than given you time to reflect and to recover from the bewilderment of

joy. You will read the letter now, will you not? Oh, read it at once!

SARA.

I will do so, Waitwell! What regrets, what pain shall I feel!

WAITWELL.

Pain, Miss! but pleasant pain.

SARA.

Be silent! (_begins reading to herself_).

WAITWELL (_aside_).

Oh! If he could see her himself!

SARA (_after reading a few moments_).

Ah, Waitwell, what a father! He calls my flight "an absence." How much

more culpable it becomes through this gentle word! (_continues reading

and interrupts herself again_). Listen! he flatters himself I shall

love him still. He flatters himself! He begs me--he begs me? A father

begs his daughter? his culpable daughter? And what does he beg then? He

begs me to forget his over-hasty severity, and not to punish him any

longer with my absence. Over-hasty severity! To punish! More still! Now

he thanks me even, and thanks me that I have given him an opportunity

of learning the whole extent of paternal love. Unhappy opportunity!

Would that he also said it had shown him at the same time the extent of

filial disobedience. No, he does not say it! He does not mention my

crime with one single word. (_Continues reading_.) He will come himself

and fetch his children. His children, Waitwell! that surpasses

everything! Have I read it rightly? (_reads again to herself_) I am

overcome! He says, that he without whom he could not possess a daughter

deserves but too well to be his son. Oh that he had never had this

unfortunate daughter! Go, Waitwell, leave me alone! He wants an answer,

and I will write it at once. Come again in an hour! I thank you

meanwhile for your trouble. You are an honest man. Few servants are the

friends of their masters!

WAITWELL.

Do not make me blush, Miss! If all masters were like Sir William,

servants would be monsters, if they would not give their lives for

them. (_Exit_.)

Scene IV.

SARA (_sits down to write_).

If they had told me a year ago that I should have to answer such a

letter! And under such circumstances! Yes, I have the pen in my hand.

But do I know yet what I shall write? What I think; what I feel. And

what then does one think when a thousand thoughts cross each other in

one moment? And what does one feel, when the heart is in a stupor from

a thousand feelings. But I must write! I do not guide the pen for the

first time. After assisting me in so many a little act of politeness

and friendship, should its help fail me at the most important office?

(_She pauses, and then writes a few lines_.) It shall commence so? A

very cold beginning! And shall I then begin with his love? I must begin

with my crime. (_She scratches it out and writes again_.) I must be on

my guard not to express myself too leniently. Shame may be in its place

anywhere else, but not in the confession of our faults. I need not fear

falling into exaggeration, even though I employ the most dreadful

terms. Ah, am I to be interrupted now?

Scene V.

Marwood, Mellefont, Sara.

MELLEFONT.

Dearest Sara, I have the honour of introducing Lady Solmes to you; she

is one of the members of my family to whom I feel myself most indebted.

MARWOOD.

I must beg your pardon, Madam, for taking the liberty of convincing

myself with my own eyes of the happiness of a cousin, for whom I should

wish the most perfect of women if the first moment had not at once

convinced me, that he has found her already in you.

SARA.

Your ladyship does me too much honour! Such a compliment would have

made me blush at any time, but now I would almost take it as concealed

reproach, if I did not think that Lady Solmes is much too generous to

let her superiority in virtue and wisdom be felt by an unhappy girl.

MARWOOD (_coldly_).

I should be inconsolable if you attributed to me any but the most

friendly feelings towards you. (_Aside_.) She is good-looking.

MELLEFONT.

Would it be possible Madam, to remain indifferent to such beauty, such

modesty? People say, it is true, that one charming woman rarely does

another one justice, but this is to be taken only of those who are

over-vain of their superiority, and on the other hand of those who are

not conscious of possessing any superiority. How far are you both

removed from this. (_To_ Marwood, _who stands in deep thought_.) Is it

not true, Madam, that my love has been anything but partial? Is it not

true, that though I have said much to you in praise of my Sara, I have

not said nearly so much as you yourself see? But why so thoughtful.

(_Aside to her_.) You forget whom you represent.

MARWOOD.

May I say it? The admiration of your dear young lady led me to the

contemplation of her fate. It touched me, that she should not enjoy the

fruits of her love in her native land. I recollected that she had to

leave a father, and a very affectionate father as I have been told, in

order to become yours; and I could not but wish for her reconciliation

with him.

SARA.

Ah, Madam! how much am I indebted to you for this wish. It encourages

me to tell you the whole of my happiness. You cannot yet know,

Mellefont, that this wish was granted before Lady Solmes had the

kindness to wish it.

MELLEFONT.

How do you mean, Sara?

MARWOOD (_aside_).

How am I to interpret that?

SARA.

I have just received a letter from my father. Waitwell brought it to

me. Ah, Mellefont, such a letter!

MELLEFONT.

Quick, relieve me from my uncertainty. What have I to fear? What have I

to hope? Is he still the father from whom we fled? And if he is, will

Sara be the daughter who loves me so tenderly as to fly again? Alas,

had I but done as you wished, dearest Sara, we should now be united by

a bond which no caprice could dissolve. I feel now all the misfortune

which the discovery of our abode may bring upon me.--He will come and

tear you out of my arms. How I hate the contemptible being who has

betrayed us to him (_with an angry glance at_ Marwood).

SARA.

Dearest Mellefont, how flattering to me is this uneasiness I And how

happy are we both in that it is unnecessary. Read his letter! (_To_

Marwood, _whilst_ Mellefont _reads the letter_.) He will be astonished

at the love of my father. Of my father? Ah, he is _his_ now too.

MARWOOD (_perplexed_).

Is it possible?

SARA.

Yes, Madam, you have good cause to be surprised at this change. He

forgives us everything; we shall now love each other before his eyes;

he allows it, he commands it. How has this kindness gone to my very

soul! Well, Mellefont? (_who returns the letter to her_). You are

silent? Oh no, this tear which steals from your eye says far more than

your lips could say.

MARWOOD (_aside_).

How I have injured my own cause. Imprudent woman that I was!

SARA.

Oh, let me kiss this tear from your cheek.

MELLEFONT.

Ah, Sara, why was it our fate to grieve such a godlike man? Yes, a

godlike man, for what is more godlike than to forgive? Could we only

have imagined such a happy issue possible, we should not now owe it to

such violent means, we should owe it to our entreaties alone. What

happiness is in store for me! But how painful also will be the

conviction, that I am so unworthy of this happiness!

MARWOOD (_aside_).

And I must be present to hear this.

SARA.

How perfectly you justify my love by such thoughts.

MARWOOD (_aside_.)

What restraint must I put on myself!

SARA.

You too, Madam, must read my father's letter. You seem to take too

great an interest in our fate to be indifferent to its contents.

MARWOOD.

Indifferent? (_takes the letter_).

SARA.

But, Madam, you still seem very thoughtful, very sad----

MARWOOD.

Thoughtful, but not sad!

MELLEFONT (_aside_).

Heavens! If she should betray herself!

SARA.

And why then thoughtful?

MARWOOD.

I tremble for you both. Could not this unforeseen kindness of your

father be a dissimulation? An artifice?

SARA.

Assuredly not, Madam, assuredly not. Only read and you will admit it

yourself. Dissimulation is always cold, it is not capable of such

tender words. (Marwood _reads_.) Do not grow suspicious, Mellefont, I

beg. I pledge myself that my father cannot condescend to an artifice.

He says nothing which he does not think, falseness is a vice unknown to

him.

MELLEFONT.

Oh, of that I am thoroughly convinced, dearest Sara! You must pardon

Lady Solmes for this suspicion, since she does not know the man whom it

concerns.

SARA (_whilst_ Marwood _returns the letter to her_).

What do I see, my lady? You are pale! You tremble! What is the matter

with you?

MELLEFONT (_aside_).

What anxiety I suffer? Why did I bring her here?

MARWOOD.

It is nothing but a slight dizziness, which will pass over. The night

air on my journey must have disagreed with me.

MELLEFONT.

You frighten me! Would you not like to go into the air? You will

recover sooner than in a close room.

MARWOOD.

If you think so, give me your arm!

SARA.

I will accompany your ladyship!

MARWOOD.

I beg you will not trouble to do so! My faintness will pass over

immediately.

SARA.

I hope then, to see you again soon.

MARWOOD.

If you permit me (Mellefont _conducts her out_).

SARA (_alone_).

Poor thing! She does not seem exactly the most friendly of people; but

yet she does not appear to be either proud or ill-tempered. I am alone

again. Can I employ the few moments, while I remain so, better than by

finishing my answer? (_Is about to sit down to write_.)

Scene VI.

Betty, Sara.

BETTY.

That was indeed a very short visit.

SARA.

Yes, Betty! It was Lady Solmes, a relation of my Mellefont. She was

suddenly taken faint. Where is she now?

BETTY.

Mellefont has accompanied her to the door.

SARA.

She is gone again, then?

BETTY.

I suppose so. But the more I look at you--you must forgive my freedom,

Miss--the more you seem to me to be altered. There is something calm,

something contented in your looks. Either Lady Solmes must have been a

very pleasant visitor, or the old man a very pleasant messenger.

SARA.

The latter, Betty, the latter! He came from my father. What a tender

letter I have for you to read! Your kind heart has often wept with me,

now it shall rejoice with me, too. I shall be happy again, and be able

to reward you for your good services.

BETTY.

What services could I render you in nine short weeks?

SARA.

You could not have done more for me in all the rest of my life, than in

these nine weeks. They are over! But come now with me, Betty. As

Mellefont is probably alone again, I must speak to him. It just occurs

to me that it would be well if he wrote at the same time to my father,

to whom an expression of gratitude from him could hardly come

unexpectedly. Come! (_Exeunt_.)

Scene VII.

Sir William Sampson, Waitwell.

(_The drawing-room_.)

SIR WILLIAM.

What balm you have poured on my wounded heart with your words,

Waitwell! I live again, and the prospect of her return seems to carry

me as far back to my youth as her flight had brought me nearer to my

grave. She loves me still? What more do I wish! Go back to her soon,

Waitwell? I am impatient for the moment when I shall fold her again in

these arms, which I had stretched out so longingly to death! How

welcome would it have been to me in the moments of my grief! And how

terrible will it be to me in my new happiness! An old man, no doubt, is

to be blamed for drawing the bonds so tight again which still unite him

to the world. The final separation becomes the more painful. But God

who shows Himself so merciful to me now, will also help me to go

through this. Would He, I ask, grant me a mercy in order to let it

become ray ruin in the end? Would He give me back a daughter, that I

should have to murmur when He calls me from life? No, no! He gives her

back to me that in my last hour I may be anxious about myself alone.

Thanks to Thee, Eternal Father! How feeble is the gratitude of mortal

lips? But soon, soon I shall be able to thank Him more worthily in an

eternity devoted to Him alone!

WAITWELL.

How it delights me, Sir, to know you happy again before my death!

Believe me, I have suffered almost as much in your grief as you

yourself. Almost as much, for the grief of a father in such a case must

be inexpressible.

SIR WILLIAM.

Do not regard yourself as my servant any longer, my good Waitwell. You

have long deserved to enjoy a more seemly old age. I will give it you,

and you shall not be worse off than I am while I am still in this world.

I will abolish all difference between us; in yonder world, you well know,

it will be done. For this once be the old servant still, on whom I never

relied in vain. Go, and be sure to bring me her answer, as soon as it

is ready.

WAITWELL.

I go, Sir! But such an errand is not a service. It is a reward which

you grant me for my services. Yes, truly it is so! (_Exeunt on

different sides of the stage_.)

ACT IV.

Scene I.--Mellefont's _room_.

Mellefont, Sara.

MELLEFONT.

Yes, dearest Sara, yes! That I will do! That I must do.

SARA.

How happy you make me!

MELLEFONT.

It is I who must take the whole crime upon myself. I alone am guilty; I

alone must ask for forgiveness.

SARA.

No, Mellefont, do not take from me the greater share which I have in

our error! It is dear to me, however wrong it is, for it must have

convinced you that I love my Mellefont above everything in this world.

But is it, then, really true, that I may henceforth combine this love

with the love of my father? Or am I in a pleasant dream? How I fear it

will pass and I shall awaken in my old misery! But no! I am not merely

dreaming, I am really happier than I ever dared hope to become; happier

than this short life may perhaps allow. But perhaps this beam of

happiness appears in the distance, and delusively seems to approach

only in order to melt away again into thick darkness, and to leave me

suddenly in a night whose whole terror has only become perceptible to

me through this short illumination. What forebodings torment me! Are

they really forebodings, Mellefont, or are they common feelings, which

are inseparable from the expectation of an undeserved happiness, and

the fear of losing it? How fast my heart beats, and how wildly it

beats. How loud now, how quick! And now how weak, how anxious, how

quivering! Now it hurries again, as if these were its last throbbings,

which it would fain beat out rapidly. Poor heart!

MELLEFONT.

The tumult of your blood, which a sudden surprise cannot fail to cause,

will abate, Sara, and your heart will continue its work more calmly.

None of its throbs point to aught that is in the future, and we are to

blame--forgive me, dearest Sara!--if we make the mechanic pressure of

our blood into a prophet of evil. But I will not leave anything undone

which you yourself think good to appease this little storm within your

breast. I will write at once, and I hope that Sir William will be

satisfied with the assurances of my repentance, with the expressions of

my stricken heart, and my vows of affectionate obedience.

SARA.

Sir William? Ah, Mellefont, you must begin now to accustom yourself to

a far more tender name. My father, your father, Mellefont----

MELLEFONT.

Very well, Sara, our kind, our dear father! I was very young when I

last used this sweet name; very young, when I had to unlearn the

equally sweet name of mother.

SARA.

You had to unlearn it, and I--I was never so happy, as to be able to

pronounce it at all. My life was her death! O God, I was a guiltless

matricide! And how much was wanting--how little, how almost nothing was

wanting to my becoming a parricide too! Not a guiltless, but a

voluntary parricide. And who knows, whether I am not so already? The

years, the days, the moments by which he is nearer to his end than he

would have been without the grief I have caused him--of those I have

robbed him. However old and weary he may be when Fate shall permit him

to depart, my conscience will yet be unable to escape the reproach that

but for me he might have lived yet longer. A sad reproach with which I

doubtless should not need to charge myself, if a loving mother had

guided me in my youth. Through her teaching and her example my heart

would--you look tenderly on me, Mellefont? You are right; a mother

would perhaps have been a tyrant for very love, and I should not now

belong to Mellefont. Why do I wish then for that, which a wiser Fate

denied me out of kindness? Its dispensations are always best. Let us

only make proper use of that which it gives us; a father who never yet

let me sigh for a mother; a father who will also teach you to forget

the parents you lost so soon. What a flattering thought. I fall in love

with it, and forget almost, that in my innermost heart there is still

something which refuses to put faith in it. What is this rebellious

something?

MELLEFONT.

This something, dearest Sara, as you have already said yourself, is the

natural, timid incapability to realize a great happiness. Ah, your

heart hesitated less to believe itself unhappy than now, to its own

torment, it hesitates to believe in its own happiness! But as to one

who has become dizzy with quick movement, the external objects still

appear to move round when again he is sitting still, so the heart which

has been violently agitated cannot suddenly become calm again; there

remains often for a long time, a quivering palpitation which we must

suffer to exhaust itself.

SARA.

I believe it, Mellefont, I believe it, because you say it, because I

wish it. But do not let us detain each other any longer! I will go and

finish my letter. And you will let me read yours, will you not, after I

have shown you mine?

MELLEFONT.

Each word shall be submitted to your judgment; except what I must say

in your defence, for I know you do not think yourself so innocent as

you are. (_Accompanies Sara to the back of the stage_.)

Scene II.

MELLEFONT (_after walking up and down several times in thought_).

What a riddle I am to myself! What shall I think myself? A fool? Or a

knave? Heart, what a villain thou art! I love the angel, however much

of a devil I may be. I love her! Yes, certainly! certainly I love her.

I feel I would sacrifice a thousand lives for her, for her who

sacrificed her virtue for me; I would do so,--this very moment without

hesitation would I do so. And yet, yet--I am afraid to say it to

myself--and yet--how shall I explain it? And yet I fear the moment

which will make her mine for ever before the world. It cannot be

avoided now, for her father is reconciled. Nor shall I be able to put

it off for long. The delay has already drawn down painful reproaches

enough upon me. But painful as they were, they were still more

supportable to me than the melancholy thought of being fettered for

life. But am I not so already? Certainly,--and with pleasure! Certainly

I am already her prisoner. What is it I want, then? At present I am a

prisoner, who is allowed to go about on parole; that is flattering! Why

cannot the matter rest there? Why must I be put in chains and thus lack

even the pitiable shadow of freedom? In chains? Quite so! Sara Sampson,

my beloved! What bliss lies in these words! Sara Sampson, my wife! The

half of the bliss is gone! and the other half--will go! Monster that I

am! And with such thoughts shall I write to her father? Yet these are

not my real thoughts, they are fancies! Cursed fancies, which have

become natural to me through my dissolute life! I will free myself from

them, or live no more.

Scene III.

Norton, Mellefont.

MELLEFONT.

You disturb me, Norton!

NORTON.

I beg your pardon, Sir (_withdrawing again_).

MELLEFONT.

No, no! Stay! It is just as well that you should disturb me. What do

you want?

NORTON.

I have heard some very good news from Betty, and have come to wish you

happiness.

MELLEFONT.

On the reconciliation with her father, I suppose you mean? I thank you.

NORTON.

So Heaven still means to make you happy.

MELLEFONT.

If it means to do so,--you see, Norton, I am just towards myself--it

certainly does not mean it for my sake.

NORTON.

No, no; if you feel that, then it will be for your sake also.

MELLEFONT.

For my Sara's sake alone. If its vengeance, already armed, could spare

the whole of a sinful city for the sake of a few just men, surely it

can also bear with a sinner, when a soul in which it finds delight, is

the sharer of his fate.

NORTON.

You speak with earnestness and feeling. But does not joy express itself

differently from this?

MELLEFONT.

Joy, Norton? (_Looking sharply at him_.) For me it is gone now for

ever.

NORTON.

May I speak candidly?

MELLEFONT.

You may.

NORTON.

The reproach which I had to hear this morning of having made myself a

participator in your crimes, because I had been silent about them, may

excuse me, if I am less silent henceforth.

MELLEFONT.

Only do not forget who you are!

NORTON.

I will not forget that I am a servant, and a servant, alas, who might

be something better, if he had lived for it. I am your servant, it is

true, but not so far as to wish to be damned along with you.

MELLEFONT.

With me? And why do you say that now?

NORTON.

Because I am not a little astonished to find you different from what I

expected.

MELLEFONT.

Will you not inform me what you expected?

NORTON.

To find you all delight.

MELLEFONT.

It is only the common herd who are beside themselves immediately when

luck smiles on them for once.

NORTON.

Perhaps, because the common herd still have the feelings which among

greater people are corrupted and weakened by a thousand unnatural

notions. But there is something besides moderation to be read in your

face--coldness, irresolution, disinclination.

MELLEFONT.

And if so? Have you forgotten who is here besides Sara? The presence of

Marwood----

NORTON.

Could make you anxious, I daresay, but not despondent. Something else

troubles you. And I shall be glad to be mistaken in thinking you would

rather that the father were not yet reconciled. The prospect of a

position which so little suits your way of thinking----

MELLEFONT.

Norton, Norton! Either you must have been, or still must be, a dreadful

villain, that you can thus guess my thoughts. Since you have hit the

nail upon the head, I will not deny it. It is true--so certain as it is

that I shall love my Sara for ever so little does it please me, that I

_must_--_must_ love her for ever! But do not fear; I shall conquer this

foolish fancy. Or do you think that it is no fancy? Who bids me look at

marriage as compulsion? I certainly do not wish to be freer than she

will permit me to be.

NORTON.

These reflections are all very well. But Marwood will come to the aid

of your old prejudices, and I fear, I fear----

MELLEFONT.

That which will never happen! You shall see her go back this very

evening to London. And as I have confessed my most secret--folly we

will call it for the present--I must not conceal from you either, that

I have put Marwood into such a fright that she will obey the slightest

hint from me.

NORTON.

That sounds incredible to me.

MELLEFONT.

Look! I snatched this murderous steel from her hand (_showing the

dagger which he had taken from_ Marwood) when in a fearful rage she was

on the point of stabbing me to the heart with it. Will you believe now,

that I offered her a stout resistance? At first she well nigh succeeded

in throwing her noose around my neck again. The traitoress!--She has

Arabella with her.

NORTON.

Arabella?

MELLEFONT.

I have not yet been able to fathom by what cunning she got the child

back into her hands again. Enough, the result did not fall out as she

no doubt had expected.

NORTON.

Allow me to rejoice at your firmness, and to consider your reformation

half assured. Yet,--as you wish me to know all--what business had she

here under the name of Lady Solmes?

MELLEFONT.

She wanted of all things to see her rival. I granted her wish partly

from kindness, partly from rashness, partly from the desire to

humiliate her by the sight of the best of her sex. You shake your head,

Norton?

NORTON.

I should not have risked that.

MELLEFONT.

Risked? I did not risk anything more, after all, than what I should

have had to risk if I had refused her. She would have tried to obtain

admittance as Marwood; and the worst that can be expected from her

incognito visit is not worse than that.

NORTON.

Thank Heaven that it went off so quietly.

MELLEFONT.

It is not quite over yet, Norton. A slight indisposition came over her

and compelled her to go away without taking leave. She wants to come

again. Let her do so! The wasp which has lost its sting (_pointing to

the dagger_) can do nothing worse than buzz. But buzzing too shall cost

her dear, if she grows too troublesome with it. Do I not hear somebody

coming? Leave me if it should be she. It is she. Go! (_Exit_ Norton.)

Scene IV.

Mellefont, Marwood.

MARWOOD.

No doubt you are little pleased to see me again.

MELLEFONT.

I am very pleased, Marwood, to see that your indisposition has had no

further consequences. You are better, I hope?

MARWOOD.

So, so.

MELLEFONT.

You have not done well, then, to trouble to come here again.

MARWOOD.

I thank you, Mellefont, if you say this out of kindness to me; and I do

not take it amiss, if you have another meaning in it.

MELLEFONT.

I am pleased to see you so calm.

MARWOOD.

The storm is over. Forget it, I beg you once more.

MELLEFONT.

Only remember your promise, Marwood, and I will forget everything with

pleasure. But if I knew that you would not consider it an offence, I

should like to ask----

MARWOOD.

Ask on, Mellefont! You cannot offend me any more. What were you going

to ask?

MELLEFONT.

How you liked my Sara?

MARWOOD.

The question is natural. My answer will not seem so natural, but it is

none the less true for that. I liked her very much.

MELLEFONT.

Such impartiality delights me. But would it be possible for him who

knew how to appreciate the charms of a Marwood to make a bad choice?

MARWOOD.

You ought to have spared me this flattery, Mellefont, if it is

flattery. It is not in accordance with our intention to forget each

other.

MELLEFONT.

You surely do not wish me to facilitate this intention by rudeness? Do

not let our separation be of an ordinary nature. Let us break with each

other as people of reason who yield to necessity; without bitterness,

without anger, and with the preservation of a certain degree of

respect, as behoves our former intimacy.

MARWOOD.

Former intimacy! I do not wish to be reminded of it. No more of it.

What must be, must, and it matters little how. But one word more about

Arabella. You will not let me have her?

MELLEFONT.

No, Marwood!

MARWOOD.

It is cruel, since you can no longer be her father, to take her mother

also from her.

MELLEFONT.

I can still be her father, and will be so.

MARWOOD.

Prove it, then, now!

MELLEFONT.

How?

MARWOOD.

Permit Arabella to have the riches which I have in keeping for you, as

her father's inheritance. As to her mother's inheritance I wish I could

leave her a better one than the shame of having been borne by me.

MELLEFONT.

Do not speak so! I shall provide for Arabella without embarrassing her

mother's property. If she wishes to forget me, she must begin by

forgetting that she possesses anything from me. I have obligations

towards her, and I shall never forget that really--though against her

will--she has promoted my happiness. Yes, Marwood, in all seriousness I

thank you for betraying our retreat to a father whose ignorance of it

alone prevented him from receiving us again.

MARWOOD.

Do not torture me with gratitude which I never wished to deserve. Sir

William is too good an old fool; he must think differently from what I

should have thought in his place. I should have forgiven my daughter,

but as to her seducer I should have----

MELLEFONT.

Marwood!

MARWOOD.

True; you yourself are the seducer! I am silent. Shall I be presently

allowed to pay my farewell visit to Miss Sampson?

MELLEFONT.

Sara could not be offended, even if you left without seeing her again.

MARWOOD.

Mellefont, I do not like playing my part by halves, and I have no wish

to be taken, even under an assumed name, for a woman without breeding.

MELLEFONT.

If you care for your own peace of mind you ought to avoid seeing a

person again who must awaken certain thoughts in you which----

MARWOOD (_smiling disdainfully_).

You have a better opinion of yourself than of me. But even if you

believed that I should be inconsolable on your account, you ought at

least to believe it in silence.--Miss Sampson would awaken certain

thoughts in me? Certain thoughts! Oh yes; but none more certain than

this--that the best girl can often love the most worthless man.

MELLEFONT.

Charming, Marwood, perfectly charming. Now you are as I have long

wished to see you; although I could almost have wished, as I told you

before, that we could have retained some respect for each other. But

this may perhaps come still when once your fermenting heart has cooled

down. Excuse me for a moment. I will fetch Miss Sampson to see you.

Scene V.

MARWOOD (_looking round_).

Am I alone? Can I take breath again unobserved, and let the muscles of

my face relax into their natural position? I must just for a moment be

the true Marwood in all my features to be able again to bear the

restraint of dissimulation! How I hate thee, base dissimulation! Not

because I love sincerity, but because thou art the most pitiable refuge

of powerless revenge. I certainly would not condescend to thee, if a

tyrant would lend me his power or Heaven its thunderbolt.--Yet, if thou

only servest my end! The beginning is promising, and Mellefont seems

disposed to grow more confident. If my device succeeds and I can speak

alone with his Sara; then-yes, then, it is still very uncertain whether

it will be of any use to me. The truths about Mellefont will perhaps be

no novelty to her; the calumnies she will perhaps not believe, and the

threats, perhaps, despise. But yet she shall hear truths, calumnies and

threats. It would be bad, if they did not leave any sting at all in her

mind. Silence; they are coming. I am no longer Marwood, I am a

worthless outcast, who tries by little artful tricks to turn aside her

shame,--a bruised worm, which turns and fain would wound at least the

heel of him who trod upon it.

Scene VI.

Sara, Mellefont, Marwood.

SARA.

I am happy, Madam, that my uneasiness on your account has been

unnecessary.

MARWOOD.

I thank you! The attack was so insignificant that it need not have made

you uneasy.

MELLEFONT.

Lady Solmes wishes to take leave of you, dearest Sara!

SARA.

So soon, Madam?

MARWOOD.

I cannot go soon enough for those who desire my presence in London.

MELLEFONT.

You surely are not going to leave to-day?

MARWOOD.

To-morrow morning, first thing.

MELLEFONT.

To-morrow morning, first thing? I thought to-day.

SARA.

Our acquaintance, Madam, commences hurriedly. I hope to be honoured

with a more intimate intercourse with you at some future time.

MARWOOD.

I solicit your friendship, Miss Sampson.

MELLEFONT.

I pledge myself, dearest Sara, that this desire of Lady Solmes is

sincere, although I must tell you beforehand that you will certainly

not see each other again for a long time. Lady Solmes will very rarely

be able to live where we are.

MARWOOD (_aside_).

How subtle!

SARA.

That is to deprive me of a very pleasant anticipation, Mellefont!

MARWOOD.

I shall be the greatest loser!

MELLEFONT.

But in reality, Madam, do you not start before tomorrow morning?

MARWOOD.

It may be sooner! (_Aside_.) No one comes.

MELLEFONT.

We do not wish to remain much longer here either. It will be well, will

it not, Sara, to follow our answer without delay? Sir William cannot be

displeased with our haste.

Scene VII.

Betty, Mellefont, Sara, Marwood.

MELLEFONT.

What is it, Betty?

BETTY.

Somebody wishes to speak with you immediately.

MARWOOD (_aside_).

Ha! now all depends on whether----

MELLEFONT.

Me? Immediately? I will come at once. Madam, is it agreeable to you to

shorten your visit?

SARA.

Why so, Mellefont? Lady Solmes will be so kind as to wait for your

return.

MARWOOD.

Pardon me; I know my cousin Mellefont, and prefer to depart with him.

BETTY.

The stranger, sir--he wishes only to say a word to you. He says, that

he has not a moment to lose.

MELLEFONT.

Go, please! I will be with him directly. I expect it will be some news

at last about the agreement which I mentioned to you. (_Exit_ Betty.)

MARWOOD (_aside_).

A good conjecture!

MELLEFONT.

But still, Madam----

MARWOOD.

If you order it, then, I must bid you----

SARA.

Oh no, Mellefont; I am sure you will not grudge me the pleasure of

entertaining Lady Solmes during your absence?

MELLEFONT.

You wish it, Sara?

SARA.

Do not stay now, dearest Mellefont, but come back again soon! And come

with a more joyful face, I will wish! You doubtless expect an

unpleasant answer. Don't let this disturb you. I am more desirous to

see whether after all you can gracefully prefer me to an inheritance,

than I am to know that you are in the possession of one.

MELLEFONT.

I obey. (_In a warning tone_.) I shall be sure to come back in a

moment, Madam.

MARWOOD (_aside_).

Lucky so far. (_Exit_ Mellefont.)

Scene VIII.

Sara, Marwood.

SARA.

My good Mellefont sometimes gives his polite phrases quite a wrong

accent. Do not you think so too, Madam?

MARWOOD.

I am no doubt too much accustomed to his way already to notice anything

of that sort.

SARA.

Will you not take a seat, Madam?

MARWOOD.

If you desire it. (_Aside, whilst they are seating themselves_.) I must

not let this moment slip by unused.

SARA.

Tell me! Shall I not be the most enviable of women with my Mellefont?

MARWOOD.

If Mellefont knows how to appreciate his happiness, Miss Sampson will

make him the most enviable of men. But----

SARA.

A "but," and then a pause, Madam----

MARWOOD.

I am frank, Miss Sampson.

SARA.

And for this reason infinitely more to be esteemed.

MARWOOD.

Frank--not seldom imprudently so. My "but" is a proof of it. A very

imprudent "but."

SARA.

I do not think that my Lady Solmes can wish through this evasion to

make me more uneasy. It must be a cruel mercy that only rouses

suspicions of an evil which it might disclose.

MARWOOD.

Not at all, Miss Sampson! You attach far too much importance to my

"but." Mellefont is a relation of mine----

SARA.

Then all the more important is the slightest charge which you have to

make against him.

MARWOOD.

But even were Mellefont my brother, I must tell you, that I should

unhesitatingly side with one of my own sex against him, if I perceived

that he did not act quite honestly towards her. We women ought properly

to consider every insult shown to one of us as an insult to the whole

sex, and to make it a common affair, in which even the sister and

mother of the guilty one ought not to hesitate to share.

SARA.

This remark----

MARWOOD.

Has already been my guide now and then in doubtful cases.

SARA.

And promises me--I tremble.

MARWOOD.

No, Miss Sampson, if you mean to tremble, let us speak of something

else----

SARA.

Cruel woman!

MARWOOD.

I am sorry to be misunderstood. I at least, if I place myself in

imagination in Miss Sampson's position, would regard as a favour any

more exact information which one might give me about the man with whose

fate I was about to unite my own for ever.

SARA.

What do you wish, Madam? Do I not know my Mellefont already? Believe me

I know him, as I do my own soul. I know that he loves me----

MARWOOD.

And others----

SARA.

_Has_ loved others. That I know also. Was he to love me, before he knew

anything about me? Can I ask to be the only one who has had charm

enough to attract him? Must I not confess it to myself, that I have

striven to please him? Is he not so lovable, that he must have awakened

this endeavour in many a breast? And isn't it but natural, if several

have been successful in their endeavour?

MARWOOD.

You defend him with just the same ardour and almost the same words with

which I have often defended him already. It is no crime to have loved;

much less still is it a crime to have been loved. But fickleness is a

crime.

SARA.

Not always; for often, I believe, it is rendered excusable by the

objects of one's love, which seldom deserve to be loved for ever.

MARWOOD.

Miss Sampson's doctrine of morals does not seem to be of the strictest.

SARA.

It is true; the one by which I judge those who themselves confess that

they have taken to bad ways is not of the strictest. Nor should it be

so. For here it is not a question of fixing the limits which virtue

marks out for love, but merely of excusing the human weakness that has

not remained within those limits and of judging the consequences

arising therefrom by the rules of wisdom. If, for example, a Mellefont

loves a Marwood and eventually abandons her; this abandonment is very

praiseworthy in comparison with the love itself. It would be a

misfortune if he had to love a vicious person for ever because he once

had loved her.

MARWOOD.

But do you know this Marwood, whom you so confidently call a vicious

person?

SARA.

I know her from Mellefont's description.

MARWOOD.

Mellefont's? Has it never occurred to you then that Mellefont must be a

very invalid witness in his own affairs?

SARA.

I see now, Madam, that you wish to put me to the test. Mellefont will

smile, when you repeat to him how earnestly I have defended him.

MARWOOD.

I beg your pardon, Miss Sampson, Mellefont must not hear anything about

this conversation. You are of too noble a mind to wish out of gratitude

for a well-meant warning to estrange from him a relation, who speaks

against him only because she looks upon his unworthy behaviour towards

more than one of the most amiable of her sex as if she herself had

suffered from it.

SARA.

I do not wish to estrange anyone, and would that others wished it as

little as I do.

MARWOOD.

Shall I tell you the story of Marwood in a few words?

SARA.

I do not know. But still--yes, Madam! but under the condition that you

stop as soon as Mellefont returns. He might think that I had inquired

about it myself; and I should not like him to think me capable of a

curiosity so prejudicial to him.

MARWOOD.

I should have asked the same caution of Miss Sampson, if she had not

anticipated me. He must not even be able to suspect that Marwood has

been our topic; and you will be so cautious as to act in accordance

with this. Hear now! Marwood is of good family. She was a young widow,

when Mellefont made her acquaintance at the house of one of her

friends. They say, that she lacked neither beauty, nor the grace

without which beauty would be nothing. Her good name was spotless.

One single thing was wanting. Money. Everything that she had

possessed,--and she is said to have had considerable wealth,--she had

sacrificed for the deliverance of a husband from whom she thought it

right to withhold nothing, after she had willed to give him heart and

hand.

SARA.

Truly a noble trait of character, which I wish could sparkle in a

better setting!

MARWOOD.

In spite of her want of fortune she was sought by persons, who wished

nothing more than to make her happy. Mellefont appeared amongst her

rich and distinguished admirers. His offer was serious, and the

abundance in which he promised to place Marwood was the least on which

he relied. He knew, in their earliest intimacy, that he had not to deal

with an egoist, but with a woman of refined feelings, who would have

preferred to live in a hut with one she loved, than in a palace with

one for whom she did not care.

SARA.

Another trait which I grudge Miss Marwood. Do not flatter her any more,

pray, Madam, or I might be led to pity her at last.

MARWOOD.

Mellefont was just about to unite himself with her with due solemnity,

when he received the news of the death of a cousin who left him his

entire fortune on the condition that he should marry a distant

relation. As Marwood had refused richer unions for his sake, he would

not now yield to her in generosity. He intended to tell her nothing of

this inheritance, until he had forfeited it through her. That was

generously planned, was it not?

SARA.

Oh, Madam, who knows better than I, that Mellefont possesses the most

generous of hearts?

MARWOOD.

But what did Marwood do? She heard late one evening, through some

friends, of Mellefont's resolution. Mellefont came in the morning to

see her, and Marwood was gone.

SARA.

Whereto? Why?

MARWOOD.

He found nothing but a letter from her, in which she told him that he

must not expect ever to see her again. She did not deny, though, that

she loved him; but for this very reason she could not bring herself to

be the cause of an act, of which he must necessarily repent some day.

She released him from his promise, and begged him by the consummation

of the union, demanded by the will, to enter without further delay into

the possession of a fortune, which an honourable man could employ for a

better purpose than the thoughtless flattery of a woman.

SARA.

But, Madam, why do you attribute such noble sentiments to Marwood? Lady

Solmes may be capable of such, I daresay, but not Marwood. Certainly

not Marwood.

MARWOOD.

It is not surprising, that you are prejudiced against her. Mellefont

was almost distracted at Marwood's resolution. He sent people in all

directions to search for her, and at last found her.

SARA.

No doubly because she wished to be found!

MARWOOD.

No bitter jests! They do not become a woman of such gentle disposition.

I say, he found her; and found her inexorable. She would not accept his

hand on any account; and the promise to return to London was all that

he could get from her. They agreed to postpone their marriage until his

relative, tired of the long delay, should be compelled to propose an

arrangement. In the meantime Marwood could not well renounce the daily

visits from Mellefont, which for a long time were nothing but the

respectful visits of a suitor, who has been ordered back within the

bounds of friendship. But how impossible is it for a passionate temper

not to transgress these bounds. Mellefont possesses everything which

can make a man dangerous to us. Nobody can be more convinced of this

than you yourself, Miss Sampson.

SARA.

Alas!

MARWOOD.

You sigh! Marwood too has sighed more than once over her weakness, and

sighs yet.

SARA.

Enough, Madam, enough! These words I should think, are worse than the

bitter jest which you were pleased to forbid me.

MARWOOD.

Its intention was not to offend you, but only to show you the unhappy

Marwood in a light, in which you could most correctly judge her. To be

brief--love gave Mellefont the rights of a husband; and Mellefont did

not any longer consider it necessary to have them made valid by the

law. How happy would Marwood be, if she, Mellefont, and Heaven alone

knew of her shame! How happy if a pitiable daughter did not reveal to

the whole world that which she would fain be able to hide from herself.

SARA.

What do you say? A daughter----

MARWOOD.

Yes, through the intervention of Sara Sampson, an unhappy daughter

loses all hope of ever being able to name her parents without

abhorrence.

SARA.

Terrible words! And Mellefont has concealed this from me? Am I to

believe it, Madam?

MARWOOD.

You may assuredly believe that Mellefont has perhaps concealed still

more from you.

SARA.

Still more? What more could he have concealed from me?

MARWOOD.

This,--that he still loves Marwood.

SARA.

You will kill me!

MARWOOD.

It is incredible that a love which has lasted more than ten years can

die away so quickly. It may certainly suffer a short eclipse, but

nothing but a short one, from which it breaks forth again with renewed

brightness. I could name to you a Miss Oclaff, a Miss Dorcas, a Miss

Moore, and several others, who one after another threatened to alienate

from Marwood the man by whom they eventually saw themselves most

cruelly deceived. There is a certain point beyond which he cannot go,

and as soon as he gets face to face with it he draws suddenly back. But

suppose, Miss Sampson, you were the one fortunate woman in whose case

all circumstances declared themselves against him; suppose you

succeeded in compelling him to conquer the disgust of a formal yoke

which has now become innate to him; do you then expect to make sure of

his heart in this way?

SARA.

Miserable girl that I am! What must I hear?

MARWOOD.

Nothing less than that! He would then hurry back all the more into the

arms of her who had not been so jealous of his liberty. You would be

called his wife and she would be it.

SARA.

Do not torment me longer with such dreadful pictures! Advise me rather,

Madam, I pray you, advise me what to do. You must know him! You must

know by what means it may still be possible to reconcile him with a

bond without which even the most sincere love remains an unholy

passion.

MARWOOD.

That one can catch a bird, I well know; but that one can render its

cage more pleasant than the open field, I do not know. My advice,

therefore, would be that one should rather not catch it, and should

spare oneself the vexation of the profitless trouble. Content yourself,

young lady, with the pleasure of having seen him very near your net;

and as you can foresee, that he would certainly tear it if you tempted

him in altogether, spare your net and do not tempt him in.

SARA.

I do not know whether I rightly understand your playful parable----

MARWOOD.

If you are vexed with it, you have understood it. In one word. Your own

interest as well as that of another--wisdom as well as justice, can,

and must induce Miss Sampson to renounce her claims to a man to whom

Marwood has the first and strongest claim. You are still in such a

position with regard to him that you can withdraw, I will not say with

much honour, but still without public disgrace. A short disappearance

with a lover is a stain, it is true; but still a stain which time

effaces. In some years all will be forgotten, and for a rich heiress

there are always men to be found, who are not so scrupulous. If Marwood

were in such a position, and she needed no husband for her fading

charms nor father for her helpless daughter, I am sure she would act

more generously towards Miss Sampson than Miss Sampson acts towards her

when raising these dishonourable difficulties.

SARA (_rising angrily_).

This is too much! Is that the language of a relative of Mellefont's?

How shamefully you are betrayed, Mellefont! Now I perceive, Madam, why

he was so unwilling to leave you alone with me. He knows already, I

daresay, how much one has to fear from your tongue. A poisoned tongue!

I speak boldly--for your unseemly talk has continued long enough. How

has Marwood been able to enlist such a mediator; a mediator who summons

all her ingenuity to force upon me a dazzling romance about her; und

employs every art to rouse my suspicion against the loyalty of a man,

who is a man but not a monster? Was it only for this that I was told

that Marwood boasted of a daughter from him; only for this that I was

told of this and that forsaken girl--in order that you might be enabled

to hint to me in cruel fashion that I should do well if I gave place to

a hardened strumpet!

MARWOOD.

Not so passionate, if you please, young lady! A hardened strumpet? You

are surely using words whose full meaning you have not considered.

SARA.

Does she not appear such, even from Lady Solmes's description? Well,

Madam, you are her friend, perhaps her intimate friend. I do not say

this as a reproach, for it may well be that it is hardly possible in

this world to have virtuous friends only. Yet why should I be so

humiliated for the sake of this friendship of yours? If I had had

Marwood's experience, I should certainly not have committed the error

which places me on such a humiliating level with her. But if I had

committed it, I should certainly not have continued in it for ten

years. It is one thing to fall into vice from ignorance; and another to

grow intimate with it when you know it. Alas, Madam, if you knew what

regret, what remorse, what anxiety my error has cost me! My error, I

say, for why shall I be so cruel to myself any longer, and look upon it

as a crime? Heaven itself ceases to consider it such; it withdraws my

punishment, and gives me back my father.--But I am frightened, Madam;

how your features are suddenly transformed! They glow-rage speaks from

the fixed eye, and the quivering movement of the mouth. Ah, if I have

vexed you, Madam, I beg for pardon! I am a foolish, sensitive creature;

what you have said was doubtless not meant so badly. Forget my

rashness! How can I pacify you? How can I also gain a friend in you as

Marwood has done? Let me, let me entreat you on my knees (_falling down

upon her knees_) for your friendship, and if I cannot have this, at

least for the justice not to place me and Marwood in one and the same

rank.

MARWOOD (_proudly stepping back and leaving Sara on her knees_).

This position of Sara Sampson is too charming for Marwood to triumph in

it unrecognised. In me, Miss Sampson, behold the Marwood with whom on

your knees you beg--Marwood herself--not to compare you.

SARA (_springing up and drawing back in terror_).

You Marwood? Ha! Now I recognise her--now I recognise the murderous

deliverer, to whose dagger a warning dream exposed me. It is she! Away,

unhappy Sara! Save me, Mellefont; save your beloved! And thou, sweet

voice of my beloved father, call! Where does it call? Whither shall I

hasten to it?--here?--there?--Help, Mellefont! Help, Betty! Now she

approaches me with murderous hand! Help! (_Exit_.)

Scene IX.

MARWOOD.

What does the excitable girl mean? Would that she spake the truth, and

that I approached her with murderous hand! I ought to have spared the

dagger until now, fool that I was! What delight to be able to stab a

rival at one's feet in her voluntary humiliation! What now? I am

detected. Mellefont may be here this minute. Shall I fly from him?

Shall I await him? I will wait, but not in idleness. Perhaps the

cunning of my servant will detain him long enough? I see I am feared.

Why do I not follow her then? Why do I not try the last expedient which

I can use against her? Threats are pitiable weapons; but despair

despises no weapons, however pitiable they may be. A timid girl, who

flies stupid and terror-stricken from my mere name, can easily take

dreadful words for dreadful deeds. But Mellefont! Mellefont will give

her fresh courage, and teach her to scorn my threats. He will! Perhaps

he will not! Few things would have been undertaken in this world, if

men had always looked to the end. And am I not prepared for the most

fatal end? The dagger was for others, the drug is for me! The drug

for me! Long carried by me near my heart, it here awaits its sad

service; here, where in better times I hid the written flatteries of my

lovers,--poison for us equally sure if slower. Would it were not

destined to rage in my veins only! Would that a faithless one--why do I

waste my time in wishing? Away! I must not recover my reason nor she

hers. He will dare nothing, who wishes to dare in cold blood!

ACT V.

Scene I.

Sara's _room_.

Sara (_reclining in an armchair_), Betty.

BETTY.

Do you feel a little better, Miss?

SARA.

Better--I wish only that Mellefont would return! You have sent for him,

have you not?

BETTY.

Norton and the landlord have gone for him.

SARA.

Norton is a good fellow, but he is rash. I do not want him by any means

to be rude to his master on my account. According to his story,

Mellefont is innocent of all this. She follows him; what can he do? She

storms, she raves, she tries to murder him. Do you see, Betty, I have

exposed him to this danger? Who else but me? And the wicked Marwood at

last insisted on seeing me or she would not return to London. Could he

refuse her this trifling request? Have not I too often been curious to

see Marwood. Mellefont knows well that we are curious creatures. And if

I had not insisted myself that she should remain with me until his

return, he would have taken her away with him. I should have seen her

under a false name, without knowing that I had seen her. And I should

perhaps have been pleased with this little deception at some future

time. In short, it is all my fault. Well, well, I was frightened;

nothing more! The swoon was nothing. You know, Betty, I am subject to

such fits.

BETTY.

But I had never seen you in so deep a swoon before.

SARA.

Do not tell me so, please! I must have caused you a great deal of

trouble, my good girl.

BETTY.

Marwood herself seemed moved by your danger. In spite of all I could do

she would not leave the room, until you had opened your eyes a little

and I could give you the medicine.

SARA.

After all I must consider it fortunate that I swooned. For who knows

what more I should have had to hear from her! She certainly can hardly

have followed me into my room without a purpose! You cannot imagine how

terrified I was. The dreadful dream I had last night recurred to me

suddenly, and I fled, like an insane woman who does not know why and

whither she flies. But Mellefont does not come. Ah!

BETTY.

What a sigh, Miss! What convulsions!

SARA.

God! what sensation was this----

BETTY.

What was that?

SARA.

Nothing, Betty! A pain! Not one pain, a thousand burning pains in one!

But do not be uneasy; it is over now!

Scene II.

Norton, Sara, Betty.

NORTON.

Mellefont will be here in a moment.

SARA.

That is well, Norton! But where did you find him?

NORTON.

A stranger had enticed him beyond the town gate, where he said a

gentleman waited for him, to speak with him about matters of the

greatest importance. After taking him from place to place for a long

time, the swindler slunk away from him. It will be bad for him if he

lets himself be caught; Mellefont is furious.

SARA.

Did you tell him what has happened?

NORTON.

All.

SARA.

But in such a way!----

NORTON.

I could not think about the way. Enough! He knows what anxiety his

imprudence has again caused you.

SARA.

Not so, Norton; I have caused it myself.

NORTON.

Why may Mellefont never be in the wrong? Come in, sir; love has already

excused you.

Scene III.

Mellefont, Norton, Sara, Betty.

MELLEFONT.

Ah, Sara! If this love of yours were not----

SARA.

Then I should certainly be the unhappier of the two. If nothing more

vexatious has happened to you in your absence than to me, I am happy.

MELLEFONT.

I have not deserved to be so kindly received.

SARA.

Let my weakness be my excuse, that I do not receive you more tenderly.

If only for your sake, I would that I was well again.

MELLEFONT.

Ha! Marwood! this treachery too! The scoundrel who led me with a

mysterious air from one street to another can assuredly have been a

messenger of her only! See, dearest Sara, she employed this artifice to

get me away from you. A clumsy artifice certainly, but just from its

very clumsiness, I was far from taking it for one. She shall have her

reward for this treachery! Quick, Norton, go to her lodgings; do not

lose sight of her, and detain her until I come!

SARA.

What for, Mellefont? I intercede for Marwood.

MELLEFONT.

Go! (_Exit_ Norton.)

Scene IV.

Sara, Mellefont, Betty.

SARA.

Pray let the wearied enemy who has ventured the last fruitless assault

retire in peace! Without Marwood I should be ignorant of much----

MELLEFONT.

Much? What is the "much?"

SARA.

What you would not have told me, Mellefont! You start! Well, I will

forget it again, since you do not wish me to know it.

MELLEFONT.

I hope that you will not believe any ill of me which has no better

foundation than the jealousy of an angry slanderer.

SARA.

More of this another time! But why do you not tell me first of all

about the danger in which your precious life was placed? I, Mellefont,

I should have been the one who had sharpened the sword, with which

Marwood had stabbed you.

MELLEFONT.

The danger was not so great. Marwood was driven by blind passion, and I

was cool, so her attack could not but fail. I only wish that she may

not have been more successful with another attack--upon Sara's good

opinion of her Mellefont! I must almost fear it. No, dearest Sara, do

not conceal from me any longer what you have learned from her.

SARA.

Well! If I had still had the least doubt of your love, Mellefont,

Marwood in her anger would have removed it. She surely must feel that

through me she has lost that which is of the greatest value to her; for

an uncertain loss would have let her act more cautiously.

MELLEFONT.

I shall soon learn to set some store by her bloodthirsty jealousy, her

impetuous insolence, her treacherous cunning! But Sara! You wish again

to evade my question and not to reveal to me----

SARA.

I will; and what I said was indeed a step towards it. That Mellefont

loves me, then, is undeniably certain. If only I had not discovered

that his love lacked a certain confidence, which would be as flattering

to me as his love itself. In short, dearest Mellefont--Why does a

sudden anxiety make it so difficult for me to speak?--Well, I suppose I

shall have to tell it without seeking for the most prudent form in

which to say it. Marwood mentioned a pledge of love; and the talkative

Norton--forgive him, pray--told me a name--a name, Mellefont, which

must rouse in you another tenderness than that which you feel for me.

MELLEFONT.

Is it possible? Has the shameless woman confessed her own disgrace?

Alas, Sara, have pity on my confusion! Since you already know all, why

do you wish to hear it again from my lips? She shall never come into

your sight,--the unhappy child, who has no other fault than that of

having such a mother.

SARA.

You love her, then, in spite of all?

MELLEFONT.

Too much, Sara, too much for me to deny it.

SARA.

Ah, Mellefont! How I too love you, for this very love's sake! You would

have offended me deeply, if you had denied the sympathy of your blood

for any scruples on my account. You have hurt me already in that you

have threatened me never to let her come into my sight. No, Mellefont!

That you will never forsake Arabella must be one of the promises which

you vow to me in presence of the Almighty! In the hands of her mother

she is in danger of becoming unworthy of her father. Use your authority

over both, and let me take the place of Marwood. Do not refuse me the

happiness of bringing up for myself a friend who owes her life to

you--a Mellefont of my own sex. Happy days, when my father, when you,

when Arabella will vie in your calls on my filial respect, my confiding

love, my watchful friendship. Happy days! But, alas! They are still far

distant in the future. And perhaps even the future knows nothing of

them, perhaps they exist only in my own desire for happiness!

Sensations, Mellefont, sensations which I never before experienced,

turn my eyes to another prospect. A dark prospect, with awful shadows!

What sensations are these? (_puts her hand before her face_.)

MELLEFONT.

What sudden change from exultation to terror! Hasten, Betty! Bring

help! What ails you, generous Sara! Divine soul! Why does this jealous

hand (_moving it away_) hide these sweet looks from me? Ah, they are

looks which unwillingly betray cruel pain. And yet this hand is jealous

to hide these looks from me. Shall I not share your pain with you?

Unhappy man, that I can only share it--that I may not feel it alone!

Hasten, Betty!

BETTY.

Whither shall I hasten?

MELLEFONT.

You see, and yet ask? For help!

SARA.

Stay. It passes over. I will not frighten you again, Mellefont.

MELLEFONT.

What has happened to her, Betty? These are not merely the results of a

swoon.

Scene V.

Norton, Mellefont, Sara, Betty.

MELLEFONT.

You are back again already, Norton? That is well! You will be of more

use here.

NORTON.

Marwood is gone----

MELLEFONT.

And my curses follow her! She is gone? Whither? May misfortune and

death, and, were it possible, a whole hell lie in her path! May Heaven

thunder a consuming fire upon her, may the earth burst open under her,

and swallow the greatest of female monsters!

NORTON.

As soon as she returned to her lodgings, she threw herself into her

carriage, together with Arabella and her maid, and hurried away, at

full gallop. This sealed note was left behind for you.

MELLEFONT (_taking the note_).

It is addressed to me. Shall I read it, Sara?

SARA.

When you are calmer, Mellefont.

MELLEFONT.

Calmer? Can I be calmer, before I have revenged myself on her, and

before I know that you are out of danger, dearest Sara?

SARA.

Let me not hear of revenge! Revenge is not ours.--But you open the

letter? Alas, Mellefont! Why are we less prone to certain virtues with

a healthy body, which feels its strength, than with a sick and wearied

one? How hard are gentleness and moderation to you, and how unnatural

to me appears the impatient heat of passion! Keep the contents for

yourself alone.

MELLEFONT.

What spirit is it that seems to compel me to disobey you? I opened it

against my will, and against my will I must read it!

SARA (_whilst_ Mellefont _reads to himself_).

How cunningly man can disunite his nature, and make of his passions

another being than himself, on whom he can lay the blame for that which

in cold blood he disapproves.--The water, Betty! I fear another shock,

and shall need it. Do you see what effect the unlucky note has on him?

Mellefont! You lose your senses, Mellefont! God! he is stunned! Here,

Betty. Hand him the water! He needs it more than I.

MELLEFONT (_pushing_ Betty _back_).

Back, unhappy girl! Your medicines are poison!

SARA.

What do you say? Recover yourself! You do not recognise her.

BETTY.

I am Betty,--take it!

MELLEFONT.

Wish rather, unhappy girl, that you were not she! Quick! Fly, before in

default of the guiltier one you become the guilty victim of my rage.

SARA.

What words! Mellefont, dearest Mellefont----

MELLEFONT.

The last "dearest Mellefont" from these divine lips, and then no more

for ever! At your feet, Sara----(_throwing himself down_). But why at

your feet? (_springing up again_). Disclose it? I disclose it to you?

Yes! I will tell you, that you will hate me, that you must hate me! You

shall not hear the contents, no, not from me. But you will hear them.

You will----Why do you all stand here, stock still, doing nothing?

Run, Norton, bring all the doctors? Seek help, Betty! Let your help be

as effective as your error! No, stop here! I will go myself----

SARA.

Whither, Mellefont? Help for what? Of what error do you speak?

MELLEFONT.

Divine help, Sara! or inhuman revenge! You are lost, dearest Sara! I

too am lost! Would the world were lost with us!

Scene VI.

Sara, Norton, Betty.

SARA.

He is gone! I am lost? What does he mean? Do you understand him,

Norton? I am ill, very ill; but suppose the worst, that I must die, am

I therefore lost? And why does he blame you, poor Betty? You wring your

hands? Do not grieve; you cannot have offended him; he will bethink

himself; Had he only done as I wished, and not read the note! He could

have known that it must contain the last poisoned words from Marwood.

BETTY.

What terrible suspicion! No, it cannot be. I do not believe it!

NORTON (_who has gone towards the back of the stage_).

Your father's old servant, Miss.

SARA.

Let him come in, Norton.

Scene VII.

Waitwell, Sara, Betty, Norton.

SARA.

I suppose you are anxious for my answer, dear Waitwell. It is ready

except a few lines. But why so alarmed? They must have told you that I

am ill.

WAITWELL.

And more still.

SARA.

Dangerously ill? I conclude so from Mellefont's passionate anxiety

more than from my own feelings. Suppose, Waitwell, you should have

to go with an unfinished letter from your unhappy Sara to her still

more unhappy father! Let us hope for the best! Will you wait until

to-morrow? Perhaps I shall find a few good moments to finish off the

letter to your satisfaction. At present, I cannot do so. This hand

hangs as if dead by my benumbed side. If the whole body dies away as

easily as these limbs----you are an old man, Waitwell, and cannot be

far from the last scene. Believe me, if that which I feel is the

approach of death, then the approach of death is not so bitter. Ah! Do

not mind this sigh! Wholly without unpleasant sensation it cannot be.

Man could not be void of feeling; he must not be impatient. But, Betty,

why are you so inconsolable?

BETTY.

Permit me, Miss, permit me to leave you.

SARA.

Go; I well know it is not every one who can bear to be with the dying.

Waitwell shall remain with me! And you, Norton, will do me a favour, if

you go and look for your master. I long for his presence.

BETTY (_going_).

Alas, Norton, I took the medicine from Marwood's hands!

Scene VIII.

Waitwell, Sara.

SARA.

Waitwell, if you will do me the kindness to remain with me, you must

not let me see such a melancholy face. You are mute! Speak, I pray! And

if I may ask it, speak of my father! Repeat all the comforting words

which you said to me a few hours ago. Repeat them to me, and tell me

too, that the Eternal Heavenly Father cannot be less merciful. I can

die with that assurance, can I not? Had this befallen me before your

arrival, how would I have fared? I should have despaired, Waitwell. To

leave this world burdened with the hatred of him, who belies his

nature when he is forced to hate--what a thought! Tell him that I died

with the feelings of the deepest remorse, gratitude and love. Tell

him--alas, that I shall not tell him myself--how full my heart is of

all the benefits I owe to him. My life was the smallest amongst them.

Would that I could yield up at his feet the ebbing portion yet

remaining!

WAITWELL.

Do you really wish to see him, Miss?

SARA.

At length you speak--to doubt my deepest, my last desire!

WAITWELL.

Where shall I find the words which I have so long been vainly seeking?

A sudden joy is as dangerous as a sudden terror. I fear only that the

effect of his unexpected appearance might be too violent for so tender

a heart!

SARA.

What do you mean? The unexpected appearance of whom?

WAITWELL.

Of the wished-for one! Compose yourself!

Scene IX.

Sir William Sampson, Sara, Waitwell.

SIR WILLIAM.

You stay too long, Waitwell! I must see her!

SARA.

Whose voice----

SIR WILLIAM.

Oh, my daughter!

SARA.

Oh, my father! Help me to rise, Waitwell, help me to rise that I may

throw myself at his feet, (_she endeavours to rise and falls back again

into the arm-chair_). Is it he, or is it an apparition sent from heaven

like the angel who came to strengthen the Strong One? Bless me, whoever

thou art, whether a messenger from the Highest in my father's form or

my father himself!

SIR WILLIAM.

God bless thee, my daughter! Keep quiet (_she tries again to throw

herself at his feet_). Another time, when you have regained your

strength, I shall not be displeased to see you clasp my faltering

knees.

SARA.

Now, my father, or never! Soon I shall be no more! I shall be only too

happy if I still have a few moments to reveal my heart to you. But not

moments--whole days--another life, would be necessary to tell all that

a guilty, chastened and repentant daughter can say to an injured but

generous and loving father. My offence, and your forgiveness----

SIR WILLIAM.

Do not reproach yourself for your weakness, nor give me credit for that

which is only my duty. When you remind me of my pardon, you remind me

also of my hesitation in granting it. Why did I not forgive you at

once? Why did I reduce you to the necessity of flying from me. And this

very day, when I had already forgiven you, what was it that forced me

to wait first for an answer from you? I could already have enjoyed a

whole day with you if I had hastened at once to your arms. Some latent

spleen must still have lain in the innermost recesses of my

disappointed heart, that I wished first to be assured of the

continuance of your love before I gave you mine again. Ought a father

to act so selfishly? Ought we only to love those who love us? Chide me,

dearest Sara! Chide me! I thought more of my own joy in you than of you

yourself. And if I were now to lose this joy? But who, then, says that

I must lose it? You will live; you will still live long. Banish all

these black thoughts! Mellefont magnifies the danger. He put the whole

house in an uproar, and hurried away himself to fetch the doctors, whom

he probably will not find in this miserable place. I saw his passionate

anxiety, his hopeless sorrow, without being seen by him. Now I know

that he loves you sincerely; now I do not grudge him you any longer. I

will wait here for him and lay your hand in his. What I would otherwise

have done only by compulsion, I now do willingly, since I see how dear

you are to him. Is it true that it was Marwood herself who caused you

this terror? I could understand this much from your Betty's

lamentations, but nothing more. But why do I inquire into the causes of

your illness, when I ought only to be thinking how to remedy it. I see

you growing fainter every moment, I see it and stand helplessly here.

What shall I do, Waitwell? Whither shall I run? What shall I give her?

My fortune? My life? Speak!

SARA.

Dearest father! all help would be in vain! The dearest help, purchased

with your life, would be of no avail.

Scene X.

Mellefont, Sara, Sir William, Waitwell.

MELLEFONT.

Do I dare to set my foot again in this room? Is she still alive?

SARA.

Step nearer, Mellefont!

MELLEFONT.

Am I to see your face again? No, Sara; I return without consolation,

without help. Despair alone brings me back. But whom do I see? You,

Sir? Unhappy father! You have come to a dreadful scene! Why did you not

come sooner? You are too late to save your daughter! But, be comforted!

You shall not have come too late to see yourself revenged.

SIR WILLIAM.

Do not remember in this moment, Mellefont, that we have ever been at

enmity! We are so no more, and we shall never be so again. Only keep my

daughter for me, and you shall keep a wife for yourself.

MELLEFONT.

Make me a god, and then repeat your prayer! I have brought so many

misfortunes to you already, Sara, that I need not hesitate to announce

the last one. You must die! And do you know by whose hand you die?

SARA.

I do not wish to know it--that I can suspect it is already too much----

MELLEFONT.

You must know it, for who could be assured that you did not suspect

wrongly? Marwood writes thus: (_he reads_) "When you read this letter,

Mellefont, your infidelity will already be punished in its cause. I had

made myself known to her and she had swooned with terror. Betty did her

utmost to restore her to consciousness. I saw her taking out a

soothing-powder, and the happy idea occurred to me of exchanging it for

a poisonous one. I feigned to be moved, and anxious to help her, and

prepared the draught myself. I saw it given to her, and went away

triumphant. Revenge and rage have made me a murderess; but I will not

be like a common murderess who does not venture to boast of her deed. I

am on my way to Dover; you can pursue me, and let my own handwriting

bear witness against me. If I reach the harbour unpursued I will leave

Arabella behind unhurt. Till then I shall look upon her as a hostage,

Marwood." Now you know all, Sara! Here, Sir, preserve this paper! You

must bring the murderess to punishment, and for this it is

indispensable.--How motionless he stands!

SARA.

Give me this paper, Mellefont! I will convince myself with my own eyes

(_he hands it to her and she looks at it for a moment_). Shall I still

have sufficient strength? (_tears it_.)

MELLEFONT.

What are you doing, Sara!

SARA.

Marwood will not escape her fate; but neither you nor my father shall

be her accusers. I die, and forgive the hand through which God chastens

me. Alas, my father, what gloomy grief has taken hold of you? I love

you still, Mellefont, and if loving you is a crime, how guilty shall I

enter yonder world! Would I might hope, dearest father, that you would

receive a son in place of a daughter! And with him you will have a

daughter too, if you will acknowledge Arabella as such. You must fetch

her back, Mellefont; her mother may escape. Since my father loves me,

why should I not be allowed to deal with this love as with a legacy? I

bequeath this fatherly love to you and Arabella. Speak now and then to

her of a friend from whose example she may learn to be on her guard

against love. A last blessing, my father!--Who would venture to judge

the ways of the Highest?--Console your master, Waitwell! But you too

stand there in grief and despair, you who lose in me neither a lover

nor a daughter?

SIR WILLIAM.

We ought to be giving you courage, and your dying eyes are giving it to

us. No more, my earthly daughter--half angel already; of what avail can

the blessing of a mourning father be to a spirit upon whom all the

blessings of heaven flow? Leave me a ray of the light which raises you

so far above everything human. Or pray to God, who hears no prayer so

surely as that of a pious and departing soul--pray to Him that this day

may be the last of my life also!

SARA.

God must let the virtue which has been tested remain long in this world

as an example; only the weak virtue which would perhaps succumb to too

many temptations is quickly raised above the dangerous confines of the

earth. For whom do these tears flow, my father? They fall like fiery

drops upon my heart; and yet--yet they are less terrible to me than

mute despair. Conquer it, Mellefont!--My eyes grow dim.--That sigh was

the last! But where is Betty?--Now I understand the wringing of her

hands.--Poor girl!--Let no one reproach her with carelessness, it

is excused by a heart without falsehood, and without suspicion of

it.--The moment is come! Mellefont--my father--(_dies_).

MELLEFONT.

She dies! Ah, let me kiss this cold hand once more (_throwing himself

at her feet_). No! I will not venture to touch her. The old saying that

the body of the slain bleeds at the touch of the murderer, frightens

me. And who is her murderer? Am I not he, more than Marwood? (_rises_)

She is dead now, Sir; she does not hear us any more. Curse me now. Vent

your grief in well-deserved curses. May none of them miss their mark,

and may the most terrible be fulfilled twofold! Why do you remain

silent? She is dead! She is certainly dead. Now, again, I am nothing

but Mellefont! I am no more the lover of a tender daughter, whom you

would have reason to spare in him. What is that? I do not want your

compassionate looks! This is your daughter! I am her seducer. Bethink

yourself, Sir! In what way can I rouse your anger? This budding beauty,

who was yours alone, became my prey! For my sake her innocent virtue

was abandoned! For my sake she tore herself from the arms of a beloved

father! For my sake she had to die! You make me impatient with your

forbearance, Sir! Let me see that you are a father!

SIR WILLIAM.

I am a father, Mellefont, and am too much a father not to respect the

last wish of my daughter. Let me embrace you, my son, for whom I could

not have paid a higher price!

MELLEFONT.

Not so, Sir! This angel enjoined more than human nature is capable of!

You cannot be my father. Behold, Sir (_drawing the dagger from his

bosom_), this is the dagger which Marwood drew upon me to-day. To my

misfortune, I disarmed her. Had I fallen a guilty victim of her

jealousy, Sara would still be living. You would have your daughter

still, and have her without Mellefont. It is not for me to undo what is

done--but to punish myself for it is still in my power! (_he stabs

himself and sinks down at_ Sara's _side_.)

SIR WILLIAM.

Hold him, Waitwell! What new blow upon my stricken head! Oh, would that

my own might make the third dying heart here.

MELLEFONT (_dying_).

I feel it. I have not struck false. If now you will call me your son

and press my hand as such, I shall die in peace. (Sir William _embraces

him_.) You have heard of an Arabella, for whom Sara pleaded; I should

also plead for her; but she is Marwood's child as well as mine. What

strange feeling seizes me? Mercy--O Creator, mercy!

SIR WILLIAM.

If the prayers of others are now of any avail, Waitwell, let us help

him to pray for this mercy! He dies! Alas! He was more to pity than to

blame.

Scene XI.

Norton, The Others.

NORTON.

Doctors, Sir!----

SIR WILLIAM.

If they can work miracles, they may come in! Let me no longer remain at

this deadly spectacle! One grave shall enclose both. Come and make

immediate preparations, and then let us think of Arabella. Be she who

she may, she is a legacy of my daughter! (_Exeunt_.)

PHILOTAS.

A TRAGEDY IN ONE ACT.

Philotos was written at Berlin in the year 1759. It was never

represented, and was probably not intended for the stage. It is here

translated for the first time into English.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Aridaeus, _the King_.

Strato, _a General of_ Aridaeus.

Philotas, _a prisoner_.

Parmenio, _a soldier_.

PHILOTAS.

Scene I.

_The scene is laid in a tent in the camp of_ Aridaeus.

PHILOTAS.

Am I really a prisoner? A prisoner? A worthy commencement this of my

apprenticeship in war. O ye gods! O my father! How gladly would I

persuade myself that all was but a dream! My earliest years have never

dreamt of anything but arms and camps, battles and assaults. Could not

the youth too be dreaming now of loss and defeat? Do not delude thyself

thus, Philotas!--If I did not see, did not feel the wound through which

the sword dropped from my palsied hand.--They have dressed it for me

against my will! O cruel mercy of a cunning foe! "It is not mortal,"

said the surgeon, and thought to console me. Wretch, it should be

mortal! And one wound only, only one! Did I know that I should make it

mortal by tearing it open and dressing it and tearing it open again.--I

rave, unhappy wretch. And with what a scornful face--I now recall

it--that aged warrior looked at me--who snatched me from my horse! He

called me--child! His king, too, must take me for a child, a pampered

child. To what a tent he has had me brought! Adorned and provided with

comforts of every sort! It must belong to one of his mistresses! A

disgusting place for a soldier! And instead of being guarded, I am

served. O mocking civility!

Scene II.

Strato. Philotas.

STRATO.

Prince--

PHILOTAS.

Another visitor already? Old man, I like to be alone!

STRATO.

Prince! I come by order of the king.

PHILOTAS.

I understand you! It is true, I am the king's prisoner, and it rests

with him how he will have me treated. But listen: if you are the man

whose features you bear,--if you are an old and honest warrior, have

pity on me, and beg the king to have me treated as a soldier, not as a

woman.

STRATO.

He will be with you directly; I come to announce his approach.

PHILOTAS.

The king with me? And you come to announce him? I do not wish that he

should spare me one of the humiliations to which a prisoner must

submit. Come, lead me to him! After the disgrace of having been

disarmed, nothing is disgraceful to me now.

STRATO.

Prince! Your countenance, so full of youthful graces, bespeaks a softer

heart!

PHILOTAS.

Mock not my countenance! Your visage, full of scars, is assuredly a

more handsome face.

STRATO.

By the gods! A grand answer! I must admire and love you.

PHILOTAS.

I would not object if only you had feared me first.

STRATO.

More and more heroic! We have the most terrible of enemies before us,

if there are many like Philotas amongst his youths.

PHILOTAS.

Do not flatter me! To become terrible to you, they must combine greater

deeds with my thoughts. May I know your name?

STRATO.

Strato.

PHILOTAS.

Strato? The brave Strato, who defeated my father on the Lycus?

STRATO.

Do not recall that doubtful victory! And how bloodily did your father

revenge himself in the plain of Methymna! Such a father must needs have

such a son.

PHILOTAS.

To you, the worthiest of my father's enemies, I may bewail my fate! You

only can fully understand me; you too, you too have been consumed in

your youth by the ambition of the glory--the glory of bleeding for your

native land. Would you otherwise be what you are? How have I not

begged, implored, conjured him--my father these seven days--for only

seven days has the manly toga covered me--conjured him seven times on

each of these seven days upon my knees to grant me that I should not in

vain have outgrown my childhood,--to let me go with his warriors who

had long cost me many a tear of jealousy. Yesterday I prevailed on him,

the best of fathers, for Aristodem assisted my entreaties. You know

Aristodem; he is my father's Strato.--"Give me this youth, my king, to

go with me to-morrow," spoke Aristodem, "I am going to scour the

mountains, in order to keep open the way to Caesena." "Would I could

accompany you!" sighed my father. He still lies sick from his wounds.

"But be it so!" and with these words he embraced me. Ah, what did his

happy son feel in that embrace! And the night which followed! I did not

close my eyes; and yet dreams of glory and victory kept me on my couch

until the second watch. Then I sprang up, threw on my new armour,

pushed the uncurled hair beneath the helmet, chose from amongst my

father's swords the one which matched my strength, mounted my horse and

had tired out one already before the silver trumpet awakened the chosen

band. They came, and I spoke with each of my companions, and many a

brave warrior there pressed me to his scarred breast. Only with my

father I did not speak; for I feared he might retract his word, if he

should see me again. Then we marched. By the side of the immortal gods

one cannot feel happier than did I by the side of Aristodem. At every

encouraging glance from him I would have attacked a host alone, and

thrown myself on the certain death of the enemy's swords. In quiet

determination I rejoiced at every hill, from which I hoped to discern

the enemy in the plain below, at every bend of the valley behind which

I flattered myself that we should come upon them. And when at last I

saw them rushing down upon us from the woody height,--showed them to my

companions with the point of my sword,--flew up the mountain towards

them, recall, O renowned warrior, the happiest of your youthful

ecstasies, you could never have been happier. But now, now behold me,

Strato; behold me ignominiously fallen from the summit of my lofty

expectations! O how I shudder to repeat this fall again in thought! I

had rushed too far in advance; I was wounded, and--imprisoned!

Poor youth, thou hadst prepared thyself only for wounds, only for

death,--and thou art made a prisoner! Thus always do the gods, in their

severity, send only unforeseen evils to stultify our self-complacency.

I weep--I must weep, although I fear to be despised for it by you. But

despise me not! You turn away?

STRATO.

I am vexed: you should not move me thus. I become a child with you.

PHILOTAS.

No; hear why I weep! It is no childish weeping which you deign to

accompany with your manly tears. What I thought my greatest happiness,

the tender love with which my father loves me, will now become my

greatest misery. I fear, I fear he loves me more than he loves his

empire! What will he not sacrifice, what will not your king exact from

him, to rescue me from prison! Through me, wretched youth, will he lose

in one day more than he has gained in three long toilsome years with

the blood of his noble warriors, with his own blood. With what face

shall I appear again before him? I, his worst enemy! And my father's

subjects--mine at some future day, if I had made myself worthy to rule

them. How will they be able to endure the ransomed prince amongst them

without contemptuous scorn. And when I die for shame, and creep

unmourned to the shades below, how gloomy and proud will pass by the

souls of those heroes who for their king had to purchase with their

lives those gains, which, as a father, he renounces for an unworthy

son! Oh, that is more than a feeling heart can endure!

STRATO.

Be comforted, dear prince! It is the fault of youth always to think

itself more happy or less than it really is. Your fate is not so cruel

yet;--the king approaches, you will hear more consolation from his

lips.

Scene III.

King Aridaeus, Philotas, Strato.

ARIDAeUS.

The wars which kings are forced to wage together are no personal

quarrels. Let me embrace you, prince! Ah what happy days your blooming

youth recalls to me! Thus bloomed your father's youth! This was his

open, speaking eye; these his earnest, honest features; this his noble

bearing! Let me embrace you again; in you I embrace your younger

father. Have you never heard from him, prince, what good friends we

were at your age? That was the blessed age, when we could still abandon

ourselves to our feelings without restraint. But soon we were both

called to the throne, and the anxious king, the jealous neighbour,

stifled, alas, the willing friend.

PHILOTAS.

Pardon me, O king, if you find me too cold in my reply to such sweet

words. My youth has been taught to think, but not to speak. What can it

now aid me, that you and my father once were friends? Were! so you say

yourself. The hatred which one grafts on an extinguished friendship

bears the most deadly fruit of all; or I still know the human heart too

little. Do not, therefore, O king, do not prolong my despair. You have

spoken as the polished statesman: speak now as the monarch, who has the

rival of his greatness completely in: his power.

STRATO.

O king, do not let him be tormented longer by the uncertainty of his

fate!

PHILOTAS.

I thank you, Strato! Yes, let me hear at once, I beg you, how

despicable you will render an unfortunate son in his father's eyes.

With what disgraceful peace, with how many lands shall he redeem him?

How small and contemptible shall he become, in order to regain his

child? O my father!

ARIDAeUS.

This early, manly language too, prince, was your father's! I like to

hear you speak thus. And would that my son, no less worthy of me, spoke

thus before your father now.

PHILOTAS.

What mean you by that?

ARIDAeUS.

The gods--I am convinced of it--watch over our virtue, as they watch

over our lives. To preserve both as long as possible is their secret

and eternal work. Where is the mortal who knows how wicked he is at

heart,--how viciously he would act, if they allowed free scope to each

treacherous inducement to disgrace himself by little deeds! Yes,

prince! Perhaps I might be he, whom you think me; perhaps I might not

have sufficient nobleness of thought to use with modesty the strange

fortune of war, which delivered you into my hands; perhaps I might have

tried through you to exact that for which I would no longer venture to

contend by arms; perhaps--but fear nothing; a higher power has

forestalled this. Perhaps. I cannot let your father redeem his son more

dearly than by--mine.

PHILOTAS.

I am astounded! You give me to understand that----

ARIDAeUS.

That my son is your father's prisoner, as you are mine.

PHILOTAS.

Your son my father's prisoner? Your Polytimet? Since when? How? Where?

ARIDAeUS.

Fate willed it thus! From equal scales it took equal weights at the

same time, and the scales are balanced still.

STRATO.

You wish to know more details. Polytimet led the very squadron, towards

which you rushed too rashly; and when your soldiers saw that you were

lost, rage and despair gave them superhuman strength. They broke

through the lines and all assailed the one in whom they saw the

compensation for their loss. The end you know! Now accept a word of

advice from an old soldier: The assault is not a race; not he who

first, but he who most surely meets the enemy, approaches victory. Note

this, too ardent prince! otherwise the future hero may be stifled in

his earliest bud.

ARIDAeUS.

Strato, you vex the prince with your warning, though it be friendly.

How gloomily he stands there!

PHILOTAS.

Not so. But do not mind me. In deep adoration of Providence--

ARIDAeUS.

The best adoration, prince, is grateful joy! Cheer up! We fathers will

not long withhold our sons from one another. My herald is now ready; he

shall go and hasten the exchange. But you know that joyful tidings,

heard from the enemy alone, have the appearance of snares. They might

suspect that you, perchance, had died from your wound. It will be

necessary, therefore, for you to send a trustworthy messenger to your

father with the herald. Come with me! Choose among the prisoners one

whom you hold worthy of your confidence.

PHILOTAS.

You wish, then, that I shall detest myself a hundredfold? In each of

the prisoners I shall behold myself! Spare me this embarrassment!

ARIDAeUS.

But----

PHILOTAS.

Parmenio must be among the prisoners. Send him to me! I will despatch

him.

ARIDAeUS.

Well, be it so! Come, Strato! Prince, we shall see each other soon

again!

Scene IV.

PHILOTAS.

O God! the lightning could not have struck nearer without destroying me

entirely. Wondrous gods! The flash returns! The vapour passes off, and

I was only stunned. My whole misery then was seeing how miserable I

might have become--how miserable my father through me!--Now I may

appear again before you, my father! But still with eyes cast down;

though shame alone will cast them down, and not the burning

consciousness of having drawn you down with me to destruction. Now I

need fear nothing from you but a smiling reprimand; no silent grief; no

curses stifled by the stronger power of paternal love----

But--yes, by Heavens! I am too indulgent towards myself. May I forgive

myself all the errors which Providence seems to pardon me? Shall I not

judge myself more severely than Providence and my father judge me? All

too indulgent judges! All other sad results of my imprisonment the gods

could annihilate; one only they could not--the disgrace! It is true

they could wipe out that fleeting shame, which falls from the lips of

the vulgar crowd: but not the true and lasting disgrace, which the

inner judge, my impartial self, pronounces over me!

And how easily I delude myself! Does my father then lose nothing

through me?

The weight which the capture of Polytimet must throw into the scale if

I were not a prisoner--is that nothing? Only through me does it become

nothing! Fortune would have declared for him for whom it should

declare;--the right of my father would triumph, if Polytimet was

prisoner and not Philotas and Polytimet!

And now--but what was that which I thought just now? Nay, which a god

thought within me--I must follow it up! Let me chain thee, fleeting

thought! Now I have it again! How it spreads, farther and farther; and

now it beams throughout my soul!

What did the king say? Why did he wish that I myself should send a

trustworthy messenger to my father? In order that my father should not

suspect--yes, thus ran his own words--that I had already died,

perchance, from my wounds. He thinks, then, that the affair would take

a different aspect, if I had died already from my wound. Would it do

so? A thousand thanks for this intelligence. A thousand thanks! Of

course it is so. For my father would then have a prince as his

prisoner, for whom he could make any claim; and the king, his enemy,

would have the body of a captured prince, for which he could demand

nothing; which he must have buried or burned, if it should not become

an object of disgust to him.

Good! I see that! Consequently, if I, I the wretched prisoner, will

still turn the victory into my father's hands--on what does it depend?

on death? On nothing more? O truly--the man is mightier than he thinks,

the man who knows how to die!

But I? I, the germ, the bud of a man, do I know how to die? Not the

man, the grown man alone, knows how to die; the youth also, the boy

also; or he knows nothing at all. He who has lived ten years has had

ten years time to learn to die; and what one does not learn in ten

years, one neither learns in twenty, in thirty, nor in more. All that

which I might have been, I must show by what I already am. And what

could I, what would I be? A hero! Who is a hero? O my excellent, my

absent father, be now wholly present in my soul! Have you not taught me

that a hero is a man who knows higher goods than life? A man who has

devoted his life to the welfare of the state; himself, the single one,

to the welfare of the many? A hero is a man--a man? Then not a youth,

my father? Curious question! It is good that my father did not hear it.

He would have to think that I should be pleased, if he answered "No" to

it. How old must the pine-tree be which has to serve as a mast? How

old?--It must be tall enough, and must be strong enough.

Each thing, said the sage who taught me, is perfect if it can fulfil

its end. I can fulfil my end, I can die for the welfare of the state; I

am therefore perfect, I am a man. A man! although but a few days ago I

was still a boy.

What fire rages in my veins? What inspiration falls on me? The breast

becomes too narrow for the heart! Patience, my heart! Soon will I give

thee space! Soon will I release thee from thy monotonous and tedious

task! Soon shalt thou rest, and rest for long!

Who comes? It is Parmenio! Quick! I must decide! What must I say to

him? What message must I send my father through him?--Right! that I

must say, that message I must send.

Scene V.

Parmenio. Philotas.

PHILOTAS.

Approach, Parmenio! Well? Why so shy--so full of shame? Of whom are you

ashamed? Of yourself or of me?

PARMENIO.

Of both of us, prince!

PHILOTAS.

Speak always as you think! Truly, Parmenio, neither of us can be good

for much, since we are here. Have you already heard my story?

PARMENIO.

Alas!

PHILOTAS.

And when you heard it?

PARMENIO.

I pitied you, I admired you, I cursed you; I do not know myself what I

did.

PHILOTAS.

Yes, yes! But now that you have also learned, as I suppose, that the

misfortune is not so great since Polytimet immediately afterwards

was----

PARMENIO.

Yes, now; now I could almost laugh! I find that Fate often stretches

its arm to terrible length to deal a trifling blow. One might think it

wished to crush us, and it has after all done nothing but killed a fly

upon our forehead.

PHILOTAS.

To the point. I am to send you to my father with the king's herald.

PARMENIO.

Good! Your imprisonment will then plead for mine. Without the good news

which I shall bring him from you, and which is well worth a friendly

look, I should have had to promise myself rather a frosty one from him.

PHILOTAS.

No, honest Parmenio; in earnest now! My father knows that the enemy

carried you from the battle-field bleeding and half dead. Let him boast

who will. He whom approaching death has already disarmed is easily

taken captive. How many wounds have you now, old warrior?

PARMENIO.

O, I could cite a long list of them once. But now I have shortened it a

good deal.

PHILOTAS.

How so?

PARMENIO.

Ha! I do not any more count the limbs on which I am wounded; to save

time and breath I count those which still are whole. Trifles after all!

For what else has one bones, but that the enemy's iron should notch

itself upon them?

PHILOTAS.

That is bold! But now--what will you say to my father?

PARMENIO.

What I see: that you are well. For your wound, if I have heard the

truth----

PHILOTAS.

Is as good as none.

PARMENIO.

A sweet little keepsake. Such as an ardent maid nips in our cheek. Is

it not, prince?

PHILOTAS.

What do I know of that?

PARMENIO.

Well, well, time brings experience! Further I will tell your father

what I believe you wish----

PHILOTAS.

And what is that?

PARMENIO.

To be with him again as soon as possible. Your childlike longing, your

anxious impatience----

PHILOTAS.

Why not home-sickness at once! Knave! Wait and I will teach you to

think differently.

PARMENIO.

By Heavens you must not! My dear youthful hero, let me tell you, you

are still a child! Do not let the rough soldier so soon stifle in you

the loving child! Or else one might not put the best construction on

your heart; one might take your valour for inborn ferocity. I also am a

father, father of an only son, who is but a little older than you, who

with equal ardour--But you know him!

PHILOTAS.

I know him. He promises everything that his father has accomplished.

PARMENIO.

But if I knew that the young rogue did not long for his father at every

moment when service leaves him free, and did not long for him as the

lamb longs for its dam, I should wish--you see--that I had not begotten

him. At present he must love more than respect me. I shall soon enough

have to content myself with the respect, when nature guides the stream

of his affection in another channel; when he himself becomes a father.

Do not grow angry, prince!

PHILOTAS.

Who can grow angry with you? You are right! Tell my father everything

which you think a loving son should say to him at such a time. Excuse

my youthful rashness, which has almost brought him and his empire to

destruction. Beg him to forgive my fault. Assure him that I shall never

again remind him of it by a similar fault; that I will do everything

that he too may be able to forget it. Entreat him----

PARMENIO.

Leave it to me! Such things we soldiers can say well. And better than a

learned orator, for we say it more sincerely. Leave it to me! I know

it all already. Farewell, prince! I hasten----

PHILOTAS.

Stop!

PARMENIO.

Well? What means this serious air which you suddenly assume?

PHILOTAS.

The son has done with you, but not yet the prince. The one had to feel;

the other has to think! How willingly would the son be again with his

father,--his beloved father--this very moment--sooner than were

possible; but the prince, the prince cannot.--Listen!

PARMENIO.

The prince cannot?

PHILOTAS.

And will not!

PARMENIO.

Will not?

PHILOTAS.

Listen!

PARMENIO.

I am surprised!

PHILOTAS.

I say, you shall listen and not be surprised. Listen!

PARMENIO.

I am surprised, because I listen. It has lightened, and I expect the

thunderbolt. Speak!--But, young prince, no second rashness!

PHILOTAS.

But, soldier, no subtilising! Listen! I have my reasons for wishing not

to be redeemed before to-morrow. Not before to-morrow! Do you hear?

Therefore tell our king that he shall not heed the haste of our enemy's

herald! Tell him that a certain doubt, a certain plan compelled

Philotas to this delay. Have you understood me?

PARMENIO.

No!

PHILOTAS.

Not? Traitor!

PARMENIO.

Softly, prince! A parrot does not understand, but he yet recollects

what one says to him. Fear not! I will repeat everything to your father

that I hear from you.

PHILOTAS.

Ha! I forbade you to subtilise; and that puts you out of humour. But

how is it that you are so spoiled? Do all your generals inform you of

their reasons?

PARMENIO.

All, prince!--Except the young ones.

PHILOTAS.

Excellent! Parmenio, if I were so sensitive as you----

PARMENIO.

And yet he only to whom experience has given twofold sight can command

my blind obedience.

PHILOTAS.

Then I shall soon have to ask your pardon. Well, I ask your pardon,

Parmenio! Do not grumble, old man! Be kind again, old father! You are

indeed wiser than I am. But not the wisest only have the best ideas.

Good ideas are gifts of fortune, and good fortune, as you well know,

often gives to the youth rather than to the old man. For Fortune is

blind. Blind, Parmenio! Stone blind to all merit. If it were not so,

would you not have been a general long ago?

PARMENIO.

How you know how to flatter, prince! But in confidence, beloved prince,

do you not wish to bribe me--to bribe me with flatteries?

PHILOTAS.

I flatter? And bribe you? You are the man indeed whom one could bribe!

PARMENIO.

If you continue thus, I may become so. Already I no longer thoroughly

trust myself.

PHILOTAS.

What was it I was saying? One of those good ideas, which fortune often

throws into the silliest brain, I too have seized--merely seized, not

the slightest portion of it is my own. For if my reason,--my invention

had some part in it, should I not wish to consult with you about it?

But this I cannot do; it vanishes, if I impart it; so tender, so

delicate is it, that I do not venture to clothe it in words. I conceive

it only, as the philosopher has taught me to conceive God, and at the

most I could only tell you what it is not. It is possible enough that

it is in reality a childish thought; a thought which I consider happy,

because I have not yet had a happier. But let that be; if it can do no

good, it can at least do no harm. That I know for certain; it is the

most harmless idea in the world; as harmless as--as a prayer! Would you

cease to pray because you are not quite certain whether the prayer

will be of use to you? Do not then spoil my pleasure, Parmenio,

honest Parmenio! I beg you, I embrace you. If you love me but a very

little--will you? Can I rely on you? Will you manage that I am not

exchanged before to-morrow? Will you?

PARMENIO.

Will? Must I not? Must I not? Listen, prince; when you shall one day be

king, do not give commands. To command is an unsure means of being

obeyed. If you have a heavy duty to impose on anyone, do with him

as you have just now done with me; and if he then refuses his

obedience--Impossible! He cannot refuse it to you. I too must know what

a man can refuse.

PHILOTAS.

What obedience? What has the kindness which you show me to do with

obedience? Will you, my friend----

PARMENIO.

Stop! Stop! You have won me quite already. Yes! I will do everything. I

will, I will tell your father, that he shall not exchange you until

to-morrow. But why only to-morrow? I do not know! That I need not know.

That he need not know either. Enough that I know you wish it. And I

wish everything that you wish. Do you wish nothing else? Is there

nothing else that I shall do? Shall I run through the fire for you?

Shall I cast myself from a rock for you? Command only, my dear young

friend, command! I will do everything now for you. Even say a word and

I will commit a crime, an act of villainy for you! My blood, it is

true, curdles; but still, prince, if you wish, I will--I will----

PHILOTAS.

O my best, my fiery friend! O how shall I call you? You creator of my

future fame! I swear to you by everything that is sacred to me, by my

father's honour, by the fortune of his arms, by the welfare of his

land--I swear to you never in my life to forget this your readiness,

your zeal! Would that I also could reward it sufficiently! Hear, ye

gods, my oath! And now, Parmenio, swear too! Swear to keep your promise

faithfully!

PARMENIO.

I swear? I am too old for swearing.

PHILOTAS.

And I too young to trust you without an oath. Swear to me! I have sworn

to you by my father, swear you by your son. You love your son? You love

him from your heart?

PARMENIO.

From my heart, as I love you! You wish it, and I swear. I swear to you

by my only son, by my blood which flows in his veins, by the blood

which I would willingly have shed for your father's sake, and which he

will also willingly shed some future day for yours--by this blood I

swear to you to keep my word. And if I do not keep it, may my son fall

in his first battle, and never live to see the glorious days of your

reign! Hear, ye gods, my oath!

PHILOTAS.

Hear him not yet, ye gods! You will make fun of me, old man! To fall in

the first battle--not to live to see my reign; is that a misfortune? Is

it a misfortune to die early?

PARMENIO.

I do not say that. Yet only to see you on the throne, to serve you, I

should like--what otherwise I should not wish at all--to become young

again. Your father is good; but you will be better than he.

PHILOTAS.

No praise that slights my father! Alter your oath! Come, alter it like

this. If you do not keep your word, let your son become a coward, a

scoundrel; in the choice between death and disgrace, let him choose the

latter; let him live ninety years the laughing-stock of women, and even

die unwillingly in his ninetieth year.

PARMENIO.

I shudder, but I swear. Let him do so. Hear the most terrible of oaths,

ye gods!

PHILOTAS.

Hear it! Well, you can go, Parmenio! We have detained each other long

enough, and almost made too much ado about a trifle. For is it not a

very trifle to tell my father--to persuade him not to exchange us until

tomorrow? And if he should wish to know the reason--well, then invent a

reason on your way!

PARMENIO.

That, too, I'll do. Yet I have never, though I am so old, devised a

lie. But for your sake, prince--Leave it to me. Wickedness may still be

learned even in old age. Farewell!

PHILOTAS.

Embrace me! Go!

Scene VI.

PHILOTAS.

There are said to be so many rogues in the world, and yet deceiving is

so hard, even when done with the best intentions. Had I not to turn and

twist myself! Only see, good Parmenio, that my father does not exchange

us before to-morrow, and he shall not need to exchange us at all. Now I

have gained time enough! Time enough to strengthen myself in my

purpose--time enough to choose the surest means. To strengthen myself

in my purpose! Woe to me if I need that! Firmness of age, if thou art

not mine, then obstinacy of youth, stand thou by me!

Yes, it is resolved! It is firmly resolved! I feel that I grow calm--I

am calm! Thou who standest there, Philotas (_surveying himself_)--Ha!

It must be a glorious, a grand sight; a youth stretched on the ground,

the sword in his breast! The sword? Gods! O unhappy wretch that I am.

And now only do I become aware of it! I have no sword; I have not

anything! It became the booty of the warrior who made me prisoner.

Perhaps he would have left it me, but the hilt was of gold. Accursed

gold! art thou then always the ruin of virtue?

No sword? I no sword? Gods, merciful gods, grant me this one thing!

Mighty gods, ye who have created heaven and earth, ye could not create

a sword for me, if ye wished to do so? What is now my grand and

glorious design? I become a bitter cause of laughter to myself.

And there the king comes back already! Stop! Suppose I played the

child? This idea is promising. Yes, perhaps I may succeed.

Scene VII.

Aridaeus. Philotas.

ARIDAeUS.

The messengers have now gone, my prince! They have started on their

swiftest horses, and your father's camp is so near at hand, that we can

receive a reply in a few hours.

PHILOTAS.

You are then very impatient, king, to embrace your son once more?

ARIDAeUS.

Will your father be less so to press you to his heart again? But let me

enjoy your company, dearest prince! The time will speed more quickly in

it, and perhaps in other respects it may also have good results, if we

become more intimately acquainted with each other. Often already have

loving children been the mediators of their angry fathers. Follow me

therefore to my tent, where the greatest of my generals await you! They

burn with the desire to see you, and offer you their admiration.

PHILOTAS.

Men must not admire a child, king! Leave me here, therefore, I pray!

Shame and vexation would make me play a very foolish part. And as to

your conversation with me, I do not see at all what good could come of

it. I know nothing else, but that you and my father are involved in

war; and the right--the right, I think, is on my father's side. This I

believe, king! and will believe, even though you could prove the

reverse indisputably. I am a son and a soldier, and have no other

opinion than that of my father and my general.

ARIDAeUS.

Prince! it shows a great intelligence thus to deny one's intelligence.

Yet I am sorry that I shall not ever be able to justify myself before

you. Accursed war!

PHILOTAS.

Yes, truly, an accursed war! And woe to him who caused it.

ARIDAeUS.

Prince! prince! remember that it was your father who first drew the

sword. I do not wish to join in your curses. He was rash, he was too

suspicious.

PHILOTAS.

Well, my father drew the first sword. But does the conflagration only

take its rise when the bright flame already breaks through the roof?

Where is the patient, quiet creature, devoid of all feeling, which

cannot be embittered through incessant irritations? Consider--for

you compel me to speak of things of which I have no right to

speak--consider what a proud and scornful answer you sent him when

he--but you shall not compel me; I will not speak of it! Our guilt and

our innocence are liable to endless misinterpretations, endless

excuses. Only to the undeceived eye of the gods do we appear as we are;

they alone can judge us. But the gods, you know it, king, speak their

verdict through the sword of the bravest. Let us therefore wait to hear

their bloody sentence. Why shall we turn in cowardice from this highest

of judgments to a lower? Are our arms already so weary that the pliant

tongue must take their place?

ARIDAeUS.

I hear with astonishment----

PHILOTAS.

Ah! a woman, too, may be listened to with astonishment.

ARIDAeUS.

With astonishment, prince, and not without grief. Fate has destined you

for the throne! To you it will confide the welfare of a mighty and

noble nation; to you! What dreadful future reveals itself to me! You

will overwhelm your people with laurels,--and with misery. You will

count more victories than happy subjects. Well for me, that my days

will not reach into yours! But woe to my son, to my honest son! You

will scarcely allow him to lay aside his armour----

PHILOTAS.

Comfort the father, O king! I shall allow your son far more!--far more!

ARIDAeUS.

Far more? Explain yourself.

PHILOTAS.

Have I spoken a riddle? O do not ask, king, that a youth, such as I am,

shall always speak with caution and design. I only wished to say the

fruit is often very different from what the blossom promises. An

effeminate prince, history has taught me, has often proved a warlike

king. Could not the reverse occur with me? Or perhaps the meaning of

what I said was that I had still a long and dangerous way to the

throne. Who knows if the gods will allow me to accomplish it? And do

not let me accomplish it, father of gods and men, if in the future thou

seest in me a waster of the most precious gift which thou hast

entrusted to me,--the blood of my subjects!

ARIDAeUS.

Yes, prince; what is a king, if he be not a father? What is a hero void

of human love? Now I recognise this also in you, and am your friend

again! But come, come; we must not remain alone here! We are too

serious for one another. Follow me!

PHILOTAS.

Pardon, king----

ARIDAeUS.

Do not refuse!

PHILOTAS.

Thus, as I am, shall I show myself to many eyes?

ARIDAeUS.

Why not?

PHILOTAS.

I cannot, king, I cannot!

ARIDAeUS.

And the reason?

PHILOTAS.

O, the reason! It would make you laugh.

ARIDAeUS.

So much the better,--let me hear it! I am a human being, and like to

laugh and cry.

PHILOTAS.

Well, laugh then! See, king, I have no sword, and should not like to

appear amongst soldiers without this mark of the soldier.

ARIDAeUS.

My laughing turns to joy! I have thought of that beforehand, and your

wish will be gratified at once. Strato has the order to get your sword

again for you.

PHILOTAS.

Let us then await him here!

ARIDAeUS.

And then you will accompany me?

PHILOTAS.

Then I will follow you immediately.

ARIDAeUS.

As we willed it! There he comes! Well, Strato!

Scene VIII.

Strato (_with a sword in his hand_), Aridaeus, Philotas.

STRATO.

King! I came to the soldier who had taken the prince and demanded the

prince's sword from him in your name. But hear how nobly the soldier

refused! "The king," he said, "must not take the sword from me! It is a

good sword, and I shall use it in his service. I must also keep a

remembrance of this deed. By the gods, it was none of my least! The

prince is a young demon. But perhaps you wish only the precious hilt!"

And on this, before I could prevent it, his strong hand had broken off

the hilt, and throwing it contemptuously before my feet--"There it is,"

he continued, "what care I for your gold?"

ARIDAeUS.

O Strato, make good for me what this man has done!

STRATO.

I have done so. And here is one of your swords!

ARIDAeUS.

Give it me! Will you accept it, prince, instead of yours?

PHILOTAS.

Let me see! Ha! (_aside_.) Be thanked, ye gods! (_eyeing it long and

earnestly_). A sword!

STRATO.

Have I not chosen well, prince?

ARIDAeUS.

What do you find in it so worthy of your deep attention?

PHILOTAS.

That it is a sword!--(_recovering himself_.) And a beautiful sword! I

shall not lose anything by this exchange. A sword!

ARIDAeUS.

You tremble, prince!

PHILOTAS.

With joy! It seems, however, a trifle short for me. But why short? A

step nearer to the enemy replaces what is wanting in the steel. Beloved

sword! What a beautiful thing is a sword,--to play with and to use! I

have never played with anything else.

ARIDAeUS (_to_ Strato).

O the wondrous combination of child and hero!

PHILOTAS (_aside_).

Beloved sword! Could I but be alone with thee! But, courage!

ARIDAeUS.

Now gird on the sword, prince, and follow me!

PHILOTAS.

Directly! Yet one must not know one's friend and one's sword only

outwardly (_he draws it, and_ Strato _steps between him and the king_).

STRATO.

I understand the steel better than the workmanship. Believe me, prince,

the steel is good. The king has cleft more than one helmet with it

since his youth.

PHILOTAS.

I shall never grow so strong as that! But--Do not step so near, Strato!

STRATO.

Why not?

PHILOTAS.

So! (_springing back and swinging the sword through the air_). It has

the right swing.

ARIDAeUS.

Prince, spare your wounded arm! You will excite yourself!

PHILOTAS.

Of what do you remind me, king? Of my misfortune--no, of my shame! I

was wounded and made prisoner. Yes, but I shall never be so again! By

this my sword, I shall never be so again! No, my father, no! To-day a

wonder spares you the shameful ransom of your son; his death may spare

it you in the future!--His certain death, when he shall see himself

surrounded again! Surrounded again? Horrible! I am so! I am surrounded!

What now? Companions! Friends! Brothers! Where are you? All dead?

Enemies everywhere! Through here, Philotas! Ha! That is for you, rash

fellow!--And that for you!--And that for you! (_striking around him_.)

STRATO.

Prince! what ails you? Calm yourself (_approaches him_.)

PHILOTAS (_stepping away from him_).

You too, Strato? You too? O, foe, be generous! Kill me! Do not make me

captive! No, I do not deliver myself up! Were you all, who surround me,

Stratos, yet I will defend myself against you all--against a world will

I defend myself! Do your best, my foes! But you will not? You will not

kill me, cruel men? You only wish to have me alive? I laugh at you! To

take me prisoner alive? Me? Sooner shall this sword--this sword--shall

pierce this breast--sooner--before--(_he stabs himself_.)

ARIDAeUS.

God! Strato!

STRATO.

King!

PHILOTAS.

I wished it thus! (_sinking back_.)

ARIDAeUS.

Hold him, Strato! Help! help for the prince! Prince, what raving

anguish----

PHILOTAS.

Forgive me, king! I have dealt you a more deadly blow than myself! I

die, and soon will peaceful lands enjoy the fruit of my death. Your

son, king, is a prisoner, and the son of my father is free!

ARIDAeUS.

What do I hear?

STRATO.

Then it was your purpose, prince? But as our prisoner, you had no right

over yourself!

PHILOTAS.

Do not say that, Strato! Should a man be able to fetter another's

liberty to die, the liberty which the gods have left in all

vicissitudes of life?

STRATO.

O king! Terror has paralyzed him! King!

ARIDAeUS.

Who calls me?

STRATO.

King!

ARIDAeUS.

Be silent!

STRATO.

The war is over, king!

ARIDAeUS.

Over? You lie, Strato! The war is not over, prince! Die! yes, die! But

carry with you this tormenting thought! You believed, as a true

ignorant boy, that fathers were all of one and the same mould,--all of

the soft, effeminate nature of your father. They are not all like him!

I am not so! What do I care about my son? And do you think that he

cannot die as well for his father as you did for yours? Let him die!

Let his death too spare me the disgraceful ransom! Strato, I am bereft

now, I poor man! You have a son;--he shall be mine. For a son one must

have! Happy Strato!

PHILOTAS.

Your son too lives still, king! And will live! I hear it!

ARIDAeUS.

Does he live still? Then I must have him back. But you--die! I will

have him back, let what will come of it. And in exchange for you! Or I

will have such disgrace and dishonour shown to your body--I will have

it----

PHILOTAS.

The dead body!--If you will revenge yourself, king, awaken it again!

ARIDAeUS.

Ah! What do I say?

PHILOTAS.

I pity you! Farewell, Strato! There, where all virtuous friends and all

brave men are members of one blessed state--in Elysium we shall meet

again! We also, king, shall meet again.

ARIDAeUS.

And reconciled! Prince!

PHILOTAS.

O then, ye gods, receive my triumphant soul; and thou, goddess of

peace, thy offering!

ARIDAeUS.

Hear me, prince!

STRATO.

He dies! Am I traitor, king, if I weep over your enemy? I cannot

restrain myself. A wondrous youth!

ARIDAeUS.

Weep over him, weep! And I too! Come! I must have my son again. But do

not oppose me, if I pay too high a ransom for him! In vain have we shed

our streams of blood, in vain have we conquered lands. There he departs

with our booty, the greater victor!--Come! Get me my son! And when I

have him, I will no more be king. Do ye believe, ye men, that one does

not grow weary of it? (_Exeunt_.)

EMILIA GALOTTI.

A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS.

(_Translated by B. Dillon Boylan_.)

'Emilia Galotti' was commenced in 1757, when Lessing was at Leipzig,

but was thrown aside for some years, until in 1767, when at Hamburg, he

again took it up, intending to have it represented on the Hamburg

stage. But on the failure of the theatrical enterprise with which he

was connected, he once more abandoned it until 1771, when he again

turned his attention to it, and completed it in February of the

following year. It was immediately represented on the Brunswick stage.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

Emilia Galotti.

Odoardo _and_ \

> _parents of_ Emilia.

Claudia Galotti, /

Hettore Gonzaga, _Prince of Guastalla_.

Marinelli, _the Prince's Chamberlain_.

Camillo Rota, _one of the Prince's Councillors_.

Conti, _an artist_.

Count Appiani.

Angelo, _a bandit_.

Pirro _and sundry servants_.

EMILIA GALOTTI.

ACT I.

Scene I.--_The Prince's Cabinet_.

_The_ Prince, _seated at a desk, which is covered with papers_.

PRINCE.

Complaints; nothing but complaints! Petitions; nothing but petitions!

Wretched employment! And yet we are envied! To be sure, if we could

relieve every one, we might indeed be envied. Emilia? (_opening a

petition, and looking at the signature_.) An Emilia? Yes--but an Emilia

Bruneschi--not Galotti. Not Emilia Galotti. What does she want, this

Emilia Bruneschi? (_Reads_) She asks much--too much. But her name is

Emilia. It is granted (_signs the paper, and rings_).

_Enter a_ Servant.

PRINCE.

Are any of the Councillors in the antechamber?

SERVANT.

No, your Highness.

PRINCE.

I have begun the day too early. The morning is so beautiful, I will

take a drive. The Marquis Marinelli shall accompany me. Let him be

called. (_Exit_ Servant.) I can attend to nothing more. I was so

happy--delightful thought! so happy--when all at once this wretched

Bruneschi must be named Emilia. Now all my peace is fled.

_Re-enter the_ Servant, _bringing a note_.

SERVANT.

The Marquis has been sent for; and here is a letter from the Countess

Orsina.

PRINCE.

The Countess Orsina? Put it down.

SERVANT.

Her courier waits.

PRINCE.

I will send an answer if necessary. Where is she, in town, or at her

villa?

SERVANT.

She arrived in town yesterday.

PRINCE.

So much the worse--the better, I mean. There is less reason for the

messenger to wait. (_Exit_ Servant.) My dear Countess! (_with sarcasm,

as he takes up the letter_) as good as read (_throwing it down again_).

Well, well, I fancied I loved her--one may fancy anything. It may be

that I really did love her. But--I did.

_Re-enter_ Servant.

SERVANT.

The painter Conti requests the honour----

PRINCE.

Conti? Good! admit him. That will change the current of my thoughts

(_rising_).

Scene II.

Conti, _The_ Prince.

PRINCE.

Good morning, Conti. How goes it with you? How does art thrive?

CONTI.

Art is starving, Prince.

PRINCE.

That must not--shall not be, within the limits of my small dominions.

But the artist must be willing to work.

CONTI.

Work! that is his happiness. But too much work may rain his claim to

the title of artist.

PRINCE.

I do not mean that his works should be many, but his labour much: a

little, but well done. But you do not come empty-handed, Conti?

CONTI.

I have brought the portrait which your Highness ordered; and another

which you did not order; but as it is worthy of inspection----

PRINCE.

That one, is it? And yet I do not well remember----

CONTI.

The Countess Orsina.

PRINCE.

True. The commission, however, was given rather long ago.

CONTI.

Our beauties are not every day at the artist's command. In three

months, the Countess could only make up her mind to sit once.

PRINCE.

Where are the pictures?

CONTI.

In the antechamber. I will fetch them (_exit_).

Scene III.

PRINCE.

Her portrait! Let it come; it is not herself. But perhaps I may see in

the picture what I can no longer find in her person. But I have no wish

to make such a discovery. The importunate painter! I almost believe

that she has bribed him. But even were it so, if another picture which

is pourtrayed in brighter colours and on a different canvas, could be

obliterated to make room for her once more in my heart, I really think

that I should be content. When I loved the Countess, I was ever gay,

sprightly, and cheerful; now I am the reverse. But no, no, no; happy or

unhappy, it is better as it is.

Scene IV.

_The_ Prince, Conti, _with the portraits; he places one with the face

reversed against a chair, and prepares to show the other_.

CONTI.

I beg your Highness will bear in mind the limits of our art; much of

the highest perfection of beauty lies altogether beyond its limits.

Look at it in this position.

PRINCE (_after a brief inspection_).

Excellent! Conti, most excellent! It does credit to your taste,--to

your skill. But flattered, Conti--quite, infinitely flattered!

CONTI.

The original did not seem to be of your opinion. But, in truth, she is

not more flattered than art is bound to flatter. It is the province of

art to paint as plastic nature--if there is such a thing--intended her

original design, without the defects which the unmanageable materials

render inevitable, and free from the ravages which result from a

conflict with time.

PRINCE.

The intelligent artist has therefore double merit. But the original,

you say, notwithstanding all this----

CONTI.

Pardon me, Prince! The original is a person who commands my respect. I

did not intend to insinuate anything to her disadvantage.

PRINCE.

As much as you please. But what said the original?

CONTI.

"I am satisfied," said the Countess, "if I am not plainer."

PRINCE.

Not plainer! The original herself!

CONTI.

And she uttered this with an expression of which the portrait affords

no trace, no idea.

PRINCE.

That is just what I meant; therein lies your infinite flattery. Oh! I

know well her proud, contemptuous look, which would disfigure the face

of one of the Graces. I do not deny that a handsome mouth set off with

a slight curl of scorn, sometimes acquires thereby additional beauty.

But, observe, it must be only slight; the look must not amount to

grimace, as it does with this Countess. The eyes, too, must keep

control over the disdainful charmer; eyes which the worthy Countess

decidedly does not possess. You do not even give them to her in the

picture.

CONTI.

Your Highness, I am perfectly amazed.

PRINCE.

And wherefore? All that could be achieved by the resources of art out

of the great prominent staring Medusa eyes of the Countess, you have

honourably accomplished. Honourably, I say, but less honourably would

have been more honest; for tell me yourself, Conti, is the character of

the individual expressed by this picture? yet it should be. You have

converted pride into dignity, disdain into a smile, and the gloom of

discontent into soft melancholy.

CONTI (_somewhat vexed_).

Ah! Prince, we painters expect that a portrait when finished will find

the lover as warm as when he ordered it. We paint with eyes of love,

and the eyes of love alone must judge our works.

PRINCE.

'Tis true, Conti; but why did you not bring it a month sooner? Lay it

aside. What is the other?

CONTI (_taking it up and holding it still reversed_).

It is also a female portrait.

PRINCE.

Then I had almost rather not see it; for the ideal depicted here

(_pointing to his forehead_), or rather here (_laying his hand upon his

heart_), it cannot equal. I should like, Conti, to admire your art in

other subjects.

CONTI.

There may be more admirable examples of art, but a more admirable

subject than this cannot exist.

PRINCE.

Then I'll lay a wager, Conti, that it is the portrait of the artist's

own mistress. (Conti _turns the picture_.) What do I see? Your work,

Conti, or the work of my fancy? Emilia Galotti!

CONTI.

How, Prince! do you know this angel?

PRINCE (_endeavouring to compose himself, but unable to remove

his eyes from the picture_).

A little; just enough to recognise her. A few weeks ago I met her with

her mother at an assembly; since then I have only seen her in sacred

places, where staring is unseemly. I know her father also; he is not my

friend. He it was who most violently opposed my pretensions to

Sabionetta. He is a veteran, proud and unpolished, but upright and

brave.

CONTI.

You speak of the father, this is the daughter.

PRINCE.

By Heavens! you must have stolen the resemblance from her mirror (_with

his eyes still rivetted on the picture_). Oh, you well know, Conti,

that we praise the artist most when we forget his merits in his works.

CONTI.

Yet I am extremely dissatisfied with this portrait, and nevertheless I

am satisfied with being dissatisfied with myself. Alas! that we cannot

paint directly with our eyes! On the long journey from the eye through

the arm to the pencil, how much is lost! But, as I have already said,

though I know what is lost, and how and why it is lost, I am as proud

and prouder of this loss than of what I have preserved. For by the

former I perceive more than by the latter, that I am a good painter,

though my hand is not always so. Or do you hold, Prince, that Raffaelle

would not have been the greatest of all artists even had he

unfortunately been born without hands?

PRINCE (_turning his eyes a moment from the picture_).

What do you say, Conti? What was your enquiry?

CONTI.

Oh, nothing--nothing; mere idle observations! Your soul, I observe, was

wholly in your eyes. I like such souls and such eyes.

PRINCE (_affecting coldness_).

And so, Conti, you really consider Emilia Galotti amongst the first

beauties of our city.

CONTI.

Amongst them? Amongst the first? The first of our city? You jest,

Prince, or your eyesight must have been all this time as insensible as

your hearing.

PRINCE.

Dear Conti (_again fixing his eyes on the picture_), how can we

uninitiated trust our eyes? In fact, none but an artist can judge of

beauty.

CONTI.

And must the feeling of every person wait for the decision of a

painter? To a cloister with him who would learn from us what is

beautiful! But this much I must own to you, as a painter, Prince. It is

one of the greatest delights of my life that Emilia Galotti has sat to

me. This head, this countenance, this forehead, these eyes, this nose,

this mouth, this chin, this neck, this bosom, this shape, this whole

form, are from the present time forward my only model of female beauty.

The original picture for which she sat, is in the possession of her

absent father. But this copy----

PRINCE (_turning to him quickly_).

Well, Conti--is not surely bespoke already?

CONTI.

Is for you, Prince, if it affords you any pleasure.

PRINCE.

Pleasure! (_smiling_.) How can I do better than make your model of

female beauty my own? There, take back that other portrait, and order a

frame for it.

CONTI.

Good.

PRINCE.

As rich and splendid as the carver can possibly make it. It shall be

placed in the gallery. But this must remain here. A study need not be

treated with so much ceremony; one does not hang it up for display. It

should always be at hand. I thank you, Conti, cordially. And as I said

before, the arts shall never starve in my dominions, as long as I have

bread. Send to my treasurer, Conti, and let him pay your own price for

both pictures; as much as you please, Conti.

CONTI.

I must begin to fear, Prince, that you mean to reward me for something

else besides my art?

PRINCE.

Oh the jealousy of an artist! No, no! But remember, Conti, as much as

you please. (_Exit_ Conti.)

Scene V.

_The_ Prince.

PRINCE.

Yes, as much as he pleases. (_Turning to the picture_.) Thou art mine,

too cheap at any price. Oh, thou enchanting work of art! Do I then

possess thee? But who shall possess thyself, thou still more beautiful

masterpiece of nature? Claim what you will, honest old mother; ask what

you will, morose old father. Demand any price. Yet, dear enchantress, I

should be far more happy to buy thee from thyself! This eye! how full

of love and modesty! This mouth! when it speaks, when it smiles! This

mouth!--Some one comes.--I am still too jealous of thee. (_Turning the

picture to the wall_.) It is Marinelli. I wish I had not sent for him!

What a morning might I have had!

Scene VI.

Marinelli, _The_ Prince.

MARINELLI.

Your Highness will pardon me; I was not prepared for so early a

summons.

PRINCE.

I felt an inclination to drive out, the morning was so fine. But now it

is almost over, and my inclination has subsided. (_After a short

pause_). Any news, Marinelli?

MARINELLI.

Nothing of importance that I know. The Countess Orsina arrived in town

yesterday.

PRINCE.

Yes, here lies her morning salutation (_pointing to the letter_), or

whatever it may be. I am not inquisitive about it. Have you seen her?

MARINELLI.

Am I not unfortunately her confidant? But if ever I am so again with a

lady who takes it into her head to love you desperately, Prince, may

I----

PRINCE.

No rash vows, Marinelli.

MARINELLI.

Indeed, Prince! Is it possible? The Countess, then, is not so utterly

mistaken.

PRINCE.

Quite mistaken, certainly. My approaching union with the Princess of

Massa compels me in the first place to break off all such connections.

MARINELLI.

If that were all, the Countess would doubtless know as well how to

submit to her fate, as the Prince to his.

PRINCE.

My fate is harder far than hers. My heart is sacrificed to a miserable

political consideration. She has but to take back hers, and need not

bestow it against her inclination.

MARINELLI.

Take it back! "Why take it back," asks the Countess, "for a wife, whom

policy and not love attaches to the Prince?" With a wife of that kind

the mistress may still hold her place. It is not, therefore, for a wife

that she dreads being sacrificed, but----

PRINCE.

Perhaps another mistress. What then? would you make a crime of that,

Marinelli?

MARINELLI.

I, Prince? Oh, confound me not with the foolish woman whose cause I

advocate--from pity! For yesterday I own she greatly moved me. She

wished not to mention her attachment to you, and strove to appear cold

and tranquil. But in the midst of the most indifferent topics, some

expression, some allusion, escaped her, which betrayed her tortured

heart. With the most cheerful demeanour she said the most melancholy

things, and on the other hand uttered the most laughable jests with an

air of deep distress. She has taken to books for refuge, which I fear

will be her ruin.

PRINCE.

Yes, for books gave the first blow to her poor understanding. And,

Marinelli, you will scarcely employ for the purpose of renewing my

attachment, that which was the chief cause of our separation. If love

renders her foolish, she would sooner or later have become so, even

without such influence. But enough of her! To something else. Is there

nothing new in town?

MARINELLI.

Next to nothing; for that Count Appiani will be married to-day is

little better than nothing.

PRINCE.

Count Appiani! To whom? I have not heard that he is engaged.

MARINELLI.

The affair has been kept a profound secret. And indeed, there was not

much to create a sensation. You will smile, Prince; but it ever happens

so with sentimental youths! Love always plays the worst of tricks. A

girl without fortune or rank has managed to catch him in her snares,

without any trouble, but with a little display of virtue, sensibility,

wit, and so forth.

PRINCE.

The man who can wholly resign himself to the impressions which

innocence and beauty make upon him is, in my opinion, rather to be

envied than derided. And what is the name of the happy fair one? For

though I well know, Marinelli, that you and Appiani dislike each other,

he is nevertheless a very worthy young man, a handsome man, a rich man,

and an honourable man. I should like to be able to attach him to

myself.

MARINELLI.

If it be not too late; for, as far as I can learn, it is not his

intention to seek his fortune at court. He will retire with his spouse

to his native valleys of Piedmont, and indulge himself in hunting

chamois or training marmots upon the Alps. What can he do better? Here

his prospects are blighted by the connection he has formed. The first

circles are closed against him.

PRINCE.

The first circles! What are they worth, mere resorts of ceremony,

restraint, ennui, and poverty? But how call you the fair being who is

the cause of all these wondrous sacrifices?

MARINELLI.

A certain--Emilia Galotti?

PRINCE.

What! Marinelli! a certain----

MARINELLI.

Emilia Calotti.

PRINCE.

Emilia Galotti? Never!----

MARINELLI.

Assuredly, your Highness.

PRINCE.

But no, I say. It is not, and it cannot be! You mistake the name. The

family of Galotti is numerous. It may be a Galotti, but not Emilia

Galotti!

MARINELLI.

Emilia--Emilia Galotti.

PRINCE.

There must be another who bears the same names. You said, however, a

certain Emilia Galotti,--a certain one. Of the real Emilia, none but a

fool could so speak.

MARINELLI.

Your Highness is excited. Do you know this Emilia?

PRINCE.

It is my place to question, not yours, Marinelli. Is she the daughter

of Colonel Galotti, who resides at Sabionetta?

MARINELLI.

The same.

PRINCE.

Who lives here in Guastalla with her mother.

MARINELLI.

The same.

PRINCE.

Near the church of All-Saints.

MARINELLI.

The same.

PRINCE.

In a word (_turning hastily to the portrait, and giving it to_

Marinelli)--there! is it this Emilia Galotti? Pronounce again those

damning words, "the same," and plunge a dagger in my heart.

MARINELLI.

The same.

PRINCE.

Traitor! This? this Emilia Galotti--will to-day be----

MARINELLI.

The Countess Appiani. (_The_ Prince _seizes the portrait from the hands

of_ Marinelli, _and flings it aside_.)--The marriage will be celebrated

privately at her father's villa, in Sabionetta. About noon the mother

and daughter, the Count, and perhaps a few friends, will leave town

together.

PRINCE (_throwing himself in a state of desperation into a chair_).

Then I am lost, and care no more for life.

MARINELLI.

What thus affects your Highness?

PRINCE (_starting towards him again_).

Traitor! what affects me thus? Yes, in truth, I love her! I adore her!

You may, perhaps, know it, may even long have known it; all of you who

desire that I should wear for ever the ignominious fetters of the

proud Orsina. That you, Marinelli, who have so often assured me

of your sincere friendship--but a Prince has no friend, can have no

friend--that you should act so treacherously, so deceitfully, as to

conceal till this moment the peril which threatened my love.--Oh, if

ever I forgive you this, let no sin of mine be pardoned!

MARINELLI.

I could scarcely find words, Prince, to express my astonishment--even

if you gave me the opportunity. You love Emilia Galotti? Hear, then, my

oath in reply to yours. If I have ever known or suspected this

attachment in the slightest degree, may the angels and saints abandon

me! I repeat the same imprecation for Orsina. Her suspicions were

directed to a wholly different quarter.

PRINCE.

Pardon me, then, Marinelli (_throwing himself into his arms_), and pity

me.

MARINELLI.

Well, yes, Prince. There see the consequence of your reserve. "A prince

has no friends." And why? Because he will have none. To-day you honour

us with your confidence, entrust to us your most secret wishes, open

your whole soul to us--and to-morrow we are as perfect strangers to

you, as if you had never exchanged a word with us.

PRINCE.

Alas, Marinelli, how could I entrust a secret to you which I would

scarcely confess to myself?

MARINELLI.

And, which you have, therefore, of course, not confessed to the author

of your uneasiness?

PRINCE.

To her!--All my endeavours have been fruitless to speak with her a

second time.

MARINELLI.

And the first time----

PRINCE.

I spoke to her;--Oh, my brain is turned, and must I continue this

conversation longer? You behold me at the mercy of the waves, and why

inquire how all this has happened? Save me if you can, and then

question me.

MARINELLI.

Save you! Is there much to save? What your Highness has not confessed

to Emilia Galotti, you will confess to the Countess Appiani. Goods

which cannot be obtained in their primitive perfection, must be bought

at second hand, and are often, on that account, bought at a cheaper

rate.

PRINCE.

Be serious, Marinelli, or----

MARINELLI.

To be sure, such articles are generally so much the worse----

PRINCE.

For shame, Marinelli.

MARINELLI.

And the Count intends to leave this country too. Well, we must devise

some scheme----

PRINCE.

And what scheme? My best and dearest Marinelli, contrive something for

me. What would you do, were you in my situation?

MARINELLI.

Above all things, I should regard a trifle as a trifle--and say to

myself that I would not be what I am for nothing--your Highness!

PRINCE.

Delude me not with a power of which I can, on this occasion, make no

use. To-day, said you?--This very day?

MARINELLI.

To-day it is to take place;--but it is only things which have taken

place that cannot be recalled. (_After a short pause_.) Prince, will

you let me act as I please? Will you approve all I do?

PRINCE.

Anything, Marinelli, which can avert this blow.

MARINELLI.

Then let us lose no time. You must not remain in town, but go to your

palace at Dosalo. The road to Sabionetta passes it. Should I not

succeed in removing the Count, I think--yes, yes, he will be caught in

that snare without doubt. You wish to send an ambassador to Massa

respecting your marriage. Let the Count be ambassador, and order him to

depart this very day.

PRINCE.

Excellent!--Bring him to my palace.--Haste, haste!--I will leave town

instantly. (_Exit_ Marinelli.)

Scene VII.

PRINCE.

Instantly, instantly. Where is it? (_Turns to the portrait_) On the

ground! That was too bad. (_Takes it up_) But look! And yet I will look

at thee no more now. Why should I plunge the arrow deeper into the

wound? (_Lays it on the table_). I have suffered and sighed long

enough--longer than I ought, but done nothing, and my listless

inactivity had nearly ruined all.--And may not all yet be lost? May not

Marinelli fail? Why should I rely on him alone?--It occurs to me that

at this hour (_looks at his watch_) at this very hour, the pious girl

daily attends mass at the church of the Dominicans. How, if I attempted

to address her there? But to-day--the day of her marriage--her heart

will be occupied with other things than mass. Yet, who knows?--'tis but

a step--(_rings, and whilst he hastily arranges the papers on the

table_)--

_Enter_ Servant.

My carriage!--Have none of the council arrived?

SERVANT.

Camillo Rota waits without.

PRINCE.

Admit him. (_Exit_ Servant). But he must not attempt to detain

me long. Not now--another time, I will attend to his scrupulous

investigations----There was a petition of one Emilia Bruneschi--here it

is--but, good Bruneschi, if your intercessor----

Scene VIII.

_Enter_ Camillo Rota.

Come, Rota, come. There lie the papers which I have opened this

morning--not very consoling--you will see what is to be done. Take them

with you.

CAMILLO.

I will attend to them.

PRINCE.

Here is a petition from one Emilia Galot--I mean Bruneschi. I have

already signed my consent to it--but yet the request is no trifle. You

may defer the execution of it--or not--as you please.

CAMILLO.

Not as I please, your Highness.

PRINCE.

What more is there--anything to sign?

CAMILLO.

Sentence of death for your Highness's signature.

PRINCE.

With all my heart!--Where is it? Quick!

CAMILLO (_starts and gazes at the_ Prince).

I said a death--warrant.

PRINCE.

I understood you plain enough. It might have been done by this. I am in

haste.

CAMILLO (_looking at his papers_).

I really believe I have not brought it. I beg your Highness's

forgiveness. It can be deferred till to-morrow.

PRINCE.

Be it so. Just collect these papers together. I must away. The rest

to-morrow, Rota.

CAMILLO (_shaking his head, as he collects the papers_).

"With all my heart!"--A death-warrant, with all my heart! I would not

have let him sign at such a moment, had the criminal murdered my own

son.--"With all my heart!" "With all my heart"--The cruel words pierce

my very soul. (_Exit_.)

ACT II.

Scene I.--_A room in_ Galotti's _house_.

Claudia Galotti, Pirro.

CLAUDIA.

Who dismounted just now in the court-yard? Pirro.

PIRRO.

My master, madam.

CLAUDIA.

My husband? Is it possible?

PIRRO.

Here he comes.

CLAUDIA.

So unexpectedly? (_hastens towards him_). My dearest lord!