Citation
Goethe's Works illustrated by the best German artists, Volume 3, Part 2

Material Information

Title:
Goethe's Works illustrated by the best German artists, Volume 3, Part 2
Creator:
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von
Place of Publication:
Philadelphia, Penn.
Publisher:
G. Barrie
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
5 v. in 10 : ill. ; 30 cm.

Notes

General Note:
v. 1. The life of Goethe / by Hjalmar H. Boyesen ; Poems (Songs ; Familiar songs ; From Wilhelm Meister ; Ballads ; Antiques ; Elegies ; Epigrams ; The four seasons ; Sonnets ; Miscellaneous poems ; Art ; Parables ; Epigrams ; God und world ; West-Eastern Divan ; Hermann und Dorothea) -- v. 2. Faust ; Egmont ; The natural daughter ; The sorrows of young Werther -- v. 3. Goetz von Berlichingen ; Iphigenia in Tauris ; Torquato Tasso ; Clavigo ; Stella; The brother and sister ; A tale ; The good women ; Reynard the Fox -- v. 4. The recreations of the German emigrants ; Wilhelm Meister's apprenticeship -- v. 5. , pt. 1. Wilhelm Meister's travels --Elective affinities.

Record Information

Source Institution:
Auraria Library
Holding Location:
Auraria Library
Rights Management:
Copyright [name of copyright holder or Creator or Publisher as appropriate]. Permission granted to University of Colorado Denver to digitize and display this item for non-profit research and educational purposes. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions requires permission of the copyright holder.
Resource Identifier:
1060201 ( OCLC )

Auraria Membership

Aggregations:
Auraria Library
Literature Collections

Full Text






(J^ocHie s ^1ork$
'l&olume ^Krec




DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
Clavigo.
Carlos, his friend.
Beaumarchais.
Mari e Beaumarchais.
Sophie Guilbert {nee Beaumarchais)
Guilbert, her husband.
Buenco.
St. George.
The scene is at Madrid.


Ft. Trckt del. PUBLISHED BY GEORGE BARRIE. l/Ij. RtUlb SClllp
/


ACT I.
SCENE I.Clavigos Dwelling.
Enter Clavigo and Carlos.
Clavigo. (Rising up from the writing-
table.) The journal will do a good work, it
must charm all women. Tell me, Carlos, do
you not think that my weekly periodical is
now one of the first in Europe ?
Carlos. We Spaniards, at least, have no
modern author who unites such great strength
of thought, so much florid imagination, with
so brilliant and easy a style.
Clavigo. Please dont. I must still be
among the people the creator of the good
style ; people are ready to take all sorts of
impressions; I have a reputation among my
fellow-citizens, their confidence; and, between
ourselves, my acquirements extend daily; my
experience widens, and my style becomes ever
truer and stronger.
Carlos. Good, Clavigo! Yet, if you will
not take it ill, your paper pleased me far better
when you yet wrote it at Maries feet, when
the lovely cheerful creature had still an in-
fluence over you. I know not how, the whole
had a more youthful blooming appearance.
Clavigo. Those were good times, Carlos,
which are now gone. I gladly avow to thee,
I wrote then with opener heart; and, it is
true, she had a large share in the approbation
which the public accorded me at the very be-
ginning. But at length, Carlos, one becomes
very soon weary of women; and were you not
the first to applaud my resolution when I de-
termined to forsake her?
Carlos. You would have become rusty.
Women are far too monotonous. Only, it
seems to me, it were again time that you cast
about for a new plan, for it is all up when one
is so entirely aground.
Clavigo. My plan is the court; there
there is no leisure nor holiday. For a stranger,
who, without standing, without name, without
fortune, came here, have I not already ad-
vanced far enough ? Here in a court! amid
the throng of men, where it is not easy to at-
tra<5l attention? I do so rejoice, when I look
on the road which I have left behind me.
Loved by the first in the kingdom! Honored
for my attainments, my rank Recorder of
the king Carlos, all that spurs me on ; I were
nothing if I remained what I am! Forward !
340
157


forward There it costs toil and art! One
needs all his wits; and the women! the
women one loses far too much time with
them.
Carlos. Simpleton, that is your fault. I
can never live without women, and they are
not in my way at all. Moreover, I do not
say so very many fine things to them, I do not
amuse myself entire months with sentiment
and such like; for I do not at all like to have
to do with prudish girls. One has soon said
his say with them : afterwards, should one pay
them attention for a while, scarcely are they
a little bit inflamed with one, than straight-
way the deuce you are pestered with
thoughts, of marriage and promises of mar-
riage, which I fear as the plague. You are
pensive, Clavigo ?
Clavigo. I cannot get rid of the recollec-
tion that I jilted, deceived Marie, call it as
you will.
Cari.os. Wonderful! It seems to me,
however, that one lives only once in this
world, has only once this power, these pros-
pers, and he who does not make the most of
them, and rise as high as possible, is a fool.
And to marry! to marry just at the time when
life is for the first time about to soar aloft on
wide-spread pinions to bury ones self in do-
mestic repose, to shut ones self up when one
has not traversed the half of his journeyhas
not yet achieved the half of his conquests!
To love her was natural; to promise her mar-
riage was folly, and if you had kept your word
it would have been downright madness.
Clavigo. Hold! I do not understand
men. I loved her truly, she drew me to her,
she held me, and as I sat at her feet I vowed
to herI vowed to rnvselfthat it should ever

be so, that I would be hers as soon as I had an
office, a positionand now, Carlos !
Carlos. It will be quite time enough when
you are a made man, when you have reached
the desired goal, if thento crown and con-
firm all your happinessyou seek to ally your-
self by a prudent marriage with a family of
wealth and consequence. !
Clavigo. She has vanished quite out of
my heart vanished, and if her unhappiness
does not sometimes remind mestrange that
one is so changeable !
Carlos. If one were constant I would
wonder. Look, pray, does not everything in
the world change? Why should our passions
endure? Be tranquil; she is not the first |
jilted girl, nor the first that has consoled her- |
15S
self. If I were to advise you, there is the
young widow over the way
Clavigo. You know I do not set much
store on such proposals. A love affair which
does not come of its own accord has no charm
for me.
Carlos. So dainty people !
Clavigo. Be it so, and forget not that our
chief work at present is to render ourselves
necessary to the new minister. That Whal
resigns the government of India is trouble-
some enough for 11s. In truth, otherwise it
does not disquiet me; his influence abides
Grimaldi and he are friends, and we know
how to talk and manoeuvre.
Carlos. And think and do what we will.
Clavigo. That is the grand point in the
world. (Rings for the servant.) Take this
sheet to the printing-office.
Carlos. Are you to be seen in the evening?
Clavigo. I do not think so. However,
you can inquire.
Carlos. This evening I should like to
undertake something which gladdened my
heart; all this afternoon I must write again,
there is no end of it.
Clavigo. Have patience. If we did not
toil for so many persons, we would not get the
ascendency over so many. (Exit.
SCENE II.Guilberts Dwelling.
Sophie Guilbert, Marie and Don Buenco.
Buenco. You have had a bad night?
Sophie. I told her so yesterday evening.
She was so foolishly merry and prattled till
eleven, then she was overheated, could not
sleep, and now again she has no breath and
weeps the whole morning.
Marie. Strange that our brother comes
not! It is two days past the time.
Sophie. Only have patience, he will not
fail 11s.
Marie. (Rising up.) How anxious am I
' to see this brother, my avenger and my saviour.
I scarcely remember him.
Sophie. Indeed Oh, I can well pidlure
him to myself; he was a fiery, open, brave boy
of thirteen years, when our father sent us here.
Marie. A noble great soul. You have read
the letter which he wrote when he learned my
unhappiness; each letter of it is enshrined in
j my heart. If you are guilty, writes he,
1 expedl no forgiveness; over and above your


misery the contempt of a brother will fall '
heavily upon you, and the curse of a father.
If you are innocent, oh, then, all vengeance,
all, all glowing vengeance on the traitor!
I tremble! He will come. I tremble, not for
myself, I stand before God in my innocence !
You must, my friendsI know not what I
want! O Clavigo !
Sophie. You will not listen! You will kill
yourself.
Marie. I will be still. Yes, I will not
weep. It seems to me, however, I could have
no more tears. And why tears ? I am only
sorry that I make my life bitter to you. For
when all is said and done, what have I to com-
plain of? I have had much joy as long as out-
old friend still lived. Clavigos love has caused
me much joy, perhaps more than mine for him.
And now, what is it after all? of what impor-
tance am I ? What matters it if a girls heart
is broken ? What matters it whether she pines
away and torments her poor young heart ?
Buenco. For Gods sake, mademoiselle !
Marie. Whether it is all one to himthat
he loves me no more? Ah! why am I not
more amiable? But he should pity, at least
pity'me!that the hapless girl, to whom he
had made himself so needful, now without
him should pine and weep her life away
Pity! I wish not to be pitied by this man.
Sophie. If I could teach you to despise
himthe worthless, detestable man !
Marie. No, sister, worthless he is not;
and must I then despise him whom I hate ?
Hate! Indeed, sometimes I can hate him
sometimes, when the Spanish spirit possesses
me. Lately, oh lately, when we met him,
his look wrought full, warm love in me! And
as I again came home, and his manner re-
curred to me, and the calm, cold glance
that he cast over me, while beside the bril-
liant Donna; then I became a Spaniard in my
heart, and seized my dagger and poison, and
disguised myself. Are you amazed, Buenco?
All in thought only, of course!
Sophie. Foolish girl!
Marie. My imagination led me after him.
I saw him as he lavished all the tenderness, all
the gentleness at the feet of his new love
the charms with which he poisoned meI
aimed at the heart of the traitor! Ah!
Buenco !all at once the good-hearted French
girl was again there, who knows of no love-
sickness, and no daggers for revenge. We are
badly off! Vaudevilles to entertain our lovers,
fans to punish them, and, if they are faithless?
Say, sister, what do they do in France when
lovers are faithless?
Sophie. They curse them.
Marie. And
Sophie. And let them go their ways.
Marie. Go !and whv shall I not let Cla-
vigo go? If that is the French fashion, why
shall it not be so in Spain ? Why shall a
Frenchwoman not be a Frenchwoman in
Spain? We will let him go and take to our-
selves another; it appears to me they do so
with us too.
Buenco. He has broken a sacred promise,
and no light love-affair, no friendly attach-
ment. Mademoiselle, you are pained, hurt
even to the depths of your heart. Oh! never
was my position of an unknown, peaceful
citizen of Madrid so burdensome, so painful
as at this moment, in which I feel myself so
feeble, so powerless to obtain justice for you
against the treacherous courtier !
Marie. When he was still Clavigo, not yet
recorder of the king; when he was the stranger,
the guest, the new-comer in our house, how
amiable was he, how good! How all his
ambition, all his desire to rise, seemed to be a
child of his love! For me, he struggled for
name, rank, fortune ; he has all now, and I!
Guilbert comes.
Guilbert. (Privately to his wife.) Our
brother is coming!
Marie. My brother (She trembles; they
conduct her to a seat.) Where? where?
Bring him to me Take me to him !
Beaumarchais comes.
Beaumarchais. My sister ! ( Quitting the
eldest to rush towards the youngest.) My sister!
My friends! Oh, my sister !
"Marie. Is it you indeed? God be thanked
it is you!
Beaumarchais. Let me come to myself.
Marie. My heart!my poor heart!
Sophie. Be calm Dear brother, I hoped
to see you more tranquil.
Beaumarchais. More tranquil! Are you,
then, tranquil? Do I not behold in the wasted
figure of this dear one, in your tearful eyes,
your sorrowful paleness, in the dead silence
of your friends, that you are as wretched as I
have imagined you to be during all the long
way ? and more wretched; for I see you, I
hold you in my arms; your presence redoubles
my sufferings. Oh, my sister !
Sophie. And our father ?
159


Beaumarchais. He blesses you and me,
if I save vou.

Buenco. Sir, permit one unknown who, at
the first look, recognizes in you a noble, brave
man, to bear witness to the deep interest which
all this matter inspires in me. Sir, you un-
dertake this long journey to save,, to avenge
your sister! Welcome! be welcome as a
guardian angel, though, at the same time, you
put us all to the blush !
Beaumarchais. I hoped, sir, to find in
Spain such hearts as yours; that encouraged
me to take this step. Nowhere, nowhere in
the world are feeling, congenial souls wanting,
if only one steps forward whose circumstances
leave him full freedom to carry his courage
through. And oh, my friends, I feel full of
hope Everywhere there are men of honor
among the powerful and great, and the ear
of majesty is rarely deaf; only our voice is
almost always too weak to reach to. their
height.
Sophie. Come, sister! come, rest a mo-
ment. She is quite beside herself.
[ They lead her a7vay.
Marie. My brother!
Beaumarchais. God willing, if you are
innocent, then all, all vengeance on the traitor!
(Exeunt Marie and Sophie.) My brother!
my friends!I see it in your looks that you
are so. Let me come to myself, and then !
a pure, impartial recital' of the whole story.
This must determine my adtions. The feeling
of a good cause shall confirm my courage;
and, believe me, if we are right, we shall get
justice.


artist: c. karger.
CLAVIGO.
MARIE AND BEAUMARCHAIS


ACT II;
SCENE I.Clavigos House.
Clavigo. Who may these Frenchmen be,
who' have got themselves announced in my
house? Frenchmen! In former days this
nation was welcome to me! And why not
now? It is singular that a man .who sets so
much at naught is yet bound with feeble thread
to a single point. It is too much And did !
I owe more to Marie than to myself? and is
it a duty to make m'yself unhappy because a
girl loves me ?
A Servant.
Servant. The foreign gentlemen, sir.
Clavigo. Bid them enter. Pray, did you
tell their servant that I expert them to break-
fast ?
Servant. As you ordered.
Clavigo. I shall be back presently. [Exit.
Beaumarchais, .St. George.
The Servant places chairs for them and with-
draws.
' Beaumarchais. I feel myself so much at
ease; so content, my .friend, to be at length
here, to hold him; he shall not escape me.
Becalm: at least show him a calm exterior.
My sister! my sister! who-could believe that
you are as innocent as unhappy? It shall
come to light; you shall be terribly avenged !
And Thou, good God preserve to me the
tranquillity of soul which Thou accordest to
me at this moment, that, amid this frightful
grief, I may a<5l as prudently as possible and
with all moderation.
St. George. Yes; this wisdomall, my
friend, which you have ever shown of pru-
denceI claim here. Promise me, once
more, dear friend, that you will reflect where
3rou are. In a strange kingdom, where all
your protedlors, all your money cannot secure
you from the secret machinations of worth-
less foes.
Beaumarchais. Be tranquil: play your
part well; he shall not know with which of
us he has to do. I will torture him! Oh! I
am just in a fine humor to roast this fellow
over a slow fire !
341
161


Clavigo returns.
Clavigo. Gentlemen, it gives me joy to
see in my house men of a nation that I have
always esteemed.
Beaumarchais. Sir, I wish that we, too,
may be worthy of the honor which you are
good enough to confer on our fellow country-
men.
St. George. The pleasure of making your
acquaintance has surmounted the fear of being
troublesome to you.
Clavigo. Persons, whom the first look
recommends, should not push modesty so far.
Beaumarchais. In truth it cannot be a
novelty to you to be sought out by strangers;
for, by the excellence of your writings, you
have made yourself as much known in foreign
lands as the important offices which his majesty
has intrusted to' you distinguish you in your
fatherland.
Clavigo. The king looks with much favor
on my humble services, and the public with
much indulgence on the trifling essays of my
pen; I have wished that I could contribute in
some measure to the improvement of taste, to
the propagation of the sciences in my country;
for they only unite us with other nations, they
only make friends of the most distant spirits,
and maintain the sweetest union among those
even, who, alas! are too often disunited
through political interests.
Beaumarchais. It is captivating to hear a
man so speak who has equal influence in the
state and in letters. I must also avow you
have taken the word out of my mouth and
brought me straight to the purpose, on account
of which you see me here. A society of
learned worthy men has commissioned me, in
every place through which I travel and find
opportunity, to establish a correspondence
between them and the best minds in the king-
dom. As no Spaniard writes better than the
author of the journal called the Thinkera
man with whom I have the honor to speak
(Clavigo ?nakes a polite bow), and who is an
especial ornament of learned men, since he
has known how to unite with his literary talents
so great a capacity for political affairs, he can-
not fail to climb the highest steps, of which
his character and acquirements render him
worthy. I believe I can perform no more
acceptable service to my friends than to put
them in connexion with a man of such merit.
Clavigo. No proposal in the world could
be more agreeable to me, gentlemen; I thereby
see fulfilled the sweetest hopes, with which my
heart was often occupied without any prospedt
of their happy accomplishment. Not that I
believe I shall be able, through my correspond-
ence, to satisfy the wishes of your learned
friends; my vanity does not go so far. But
as I have the happiness to be in accordance
with the best minds in Spain, as nothing can
remain unknown to me which is achieved in
our vast kingdom by isolated, often obscure,
individuals for the arts and sciences, so I have
looked upon myself, till now, as a kind of
colporteur, who possesses the feeble merit of
rendering the inventions of others generally
useful; but now I become, through your in-
tervention, a merchant, happy enough through
the exportation of native produces to extend
the renown of his fatherland and thereby to
enrich it with foreign treasures. So then,
allow me, sir, to treat as not a stranger a man
who, with such frankness, brings such agreeable
news; allow me to ask what businesswhat
project made you undertake this long journey?
It is not that I would, through this officious-
ness, gratify vain curiosity; no, believe rather
that it is with the purest intention of exerting
in your behalf all the resources, all the in-
fluence which I may perchance possess; for I
tell you beforehand, you have come to a place
where countless difficulties encounter a stranger
in the prosecution of his business, especially
at the court.
Beaumarchais. I accept so obliging an
offer with warmest thanks. I have no secrets
with you, sir, and this friend at my statement
will not be in the way; he is sufficiently
acquainted with what I have to say. (Clavigo
regards St. George with attention.) A French
merchant, with a large family and a limited
fortune, had many business friends in Spain.
One of the richest came fifteen years ago to
Paris, and made him this proposal: Give
me two of your daughters, and I shall take
them with me to Madrid and provide for them.
I am an aged bachelor without relatives; they
will form the happiness of my declining years,
and after my decease I shall leave them one
of the most considerable establishments in
Spain. The eldest and one of the younger
sisters were confided to his care. The father
undertook to supply the house with all kinds
of French merchandise which could be re-
quired, and so all went well, till the friend
died without the least mention of the French-
women in his will, who then saw themselves
in the embarrassing position of superintending
162


alone a new business. The eldest had mean- I
while married, and notwithstanding their mod- |
erate fortune, they secured through their good
conduct and varied accomplishments a multi-
tude of friends, who were eager to extend
their credit and business. (Clavigo becomes
more and, more attentive.) About the same
time, a young man, a native of the Canary
Islands, had got himself introduced into the
family. (Clavigos countenance loses all I
cheerfulness, and his seriousness changes by-
and-by into embarrassment, more and more
visible.) Despite his humble standing and
fortune, they receive him kindly. The French-
women, who remarked in him a great love of
the French language, favored him with every
means of making rapid progress in its study.
Extremely anxious to make himself known,
he forms the design of giving to the city of
Madrid the pleasure, hitherto unknown to
Spain, of reading a weekly periodical in the
style of the English Spectator. His lady
friends fail not to aid him in every way; they
do not doubt that such an undertaking would
meet with great success; in short, animated
by the hope of soon becoming a man of some
consequence, he ventures to make an offer of
marriage to the younger. Hopes are held out
to him. Try to make your fortune, says
the elder, and if an appointment, the favor
of the court, or any other means of subsistence
shall have given you a right to think of my
sister, if she still prefers you to other suitors,
I cannot refuse you my consent. (Clavigo,
covered with confusion, moves wieasily 07i his
seat.) The younger declines several advan-
tageous offers; her fondness for the man in-
creases, and helps her to bear the anxiety of
an uncertain expedtation; she interests herself
for his happiness as for her own, and encour-
ages him to issue the first number of his peri-
odical, which appears under an imposing title.
(Clavigo is terribly embarrassed. Beaumar-
chais, icy cold.) The journal is a great suc-
cess ; the king even, delighted with this charm-
ing production, gave the author public tokens
of his favor. He was promised the first hon-
orable office that might be vacant. From that
moment he removed all rivals from his be-
loved, while quite openly striving hard to
win her good graces. The marriage was de-
layed only in expectation of the promised
situation. At last, after six years patient
waiting, unbroken friendship, aid and love on
the part of the girl; after six years devotion,
gratitude, attentions, solemn assurances on the
part of the man, the office is forthcomingand
he vanishes. (Clavigo utters a deep sigh,
which he tries to stifle, and is quite ovef'eome.)
The matter had made so great a noise in the
world, that the issue could not be regarded
with indifference. A house had been rented
for two families. The whole town was talking
of it. The hearts of all friends were wrung
and sought revenge. Application was made
to powerful proteClors; but the worthless
fellow, already initiated in the cabals of the
court, knew how to render fruitless all their
efforts, and went so far in his insolence as to
dare to threaten the unhappy ladies; to dare
to say in the very face of those friends, who
had gone to find him, that the Frenchwomen
should take care; he defied them to injure
him, and if they made bold to undertake
aught against him, it would be easy for him
to ruin them in a foreign land, where they
would be without protection and help. At
this intelligence the poor girl fell into convul-
sions, which threatened death. In the depth
of her grief the elder wrote to France about
the public outrage which had been done to
them. The news most powerfully moves her
brother; he demands leave of absence to
obtain counsel and aid in so complicated an
affair, he flies from Paris to Madrid, and the
brotherit is I! who have left allfather-
land, duties, family, standing, pleasures, in
order to avenge, in Spain, an innocent, un-
happy sister. I come, armed with the best
cause and firm determination, to unmask a
traitor, to mark with bloody strokes his soul
on his face, and the traitorart thou !
Clavigo. Hear me, sirI amI haveI
doubt not
Beaumarchais. Interrupt me not. You
have nothing to say to me and much to hear
from me. Now, to make a beginning, have
the goodness, in presence of this gentle-
man, who has come from France expressly
with me, to declare: whether my sister has
deserved this public outrage from you through
any treachery, levity, weakness, rudeness, or
any other blemish.
Clavigo. No, sir. Your sister, Donna
Maria, is a lady overflowing with wit, amiabil-
ity and goodness.
Beaumarchais. Has she ever during your
acquaintance given you any occasion to com-
plain of her, or to esteem her less?
Clavigo. Never! never!
Beaumarchais. (Rising up.) And why,
monster, had you the barbarity to torture the
163


girl to death? Only because her heart pre-
ferred you to ten others, all more honorable
and richer than you ?
Clavigo. Ah, sir If you knew how I have
been instigated ; how I, through manifold ad-
visers and circumstances
Beaumarchais. Enough! (ToSt. George.)
You have heard the vindication of my sister;
go and publish it. What I have further to say
to the gentleman, needs no witnesses. (Cla-
vigo rises. St. George retires.') Remain!
remain! (Both sit down again.) Having
now got so for, I shall make a proposal to you,
which I hope you will accept. It is equally
agreeable to you and me that you do not wed
Marie, and you are deeply sensible that I have
not come to play the part of a theatrical bro-
ther, who will unravel the drama, and present
a husband to his sister. You have cast a slur
upon an honorable lady in cold blood, because
you supposed that in a foreign land she was
without prop and avenger. Thus acts a base,
worthless fellow. And so, first of all, testify
with your own hand, spontaneously, with open
doors, in presence of your servants, that you
are an abominable man, who have deceived,
betrayed my sister without the least cause; and
with this declaration I set out for Aranjuez,
where our ambassador resides; I show it, I
get it printed, and after to-morrow the court
and the town are flooded with it. I have
powerful friends here, I have time and money,
and of all shall I avail myself, to pursue you in
the most furious manner possible, till the re-
sentment of my sister is appeased and satisfied,
and she herself says, Stop.
Clavigo. I will not make such a declaration.
Beaumarchais. I believe that, for in your
place neither perhaps would I do it. But here
is the reverse of the medal. If you do not
write it, I remain from this moment beside
you, I quit you no more, I follow you every-
where, till you, disgusted with such society,
have sought to get rid of me behind Buen-
retiro. If I am more fortunate than you,
without seeing the ambassador, without speak-
ing here with any one, I take my dying sister
in my arms, place ner in my carriage, and re-
turn to France with her. Should fate favor
you, I am played out, and so you may have a
laugh at our expense. Meanwhile, the break-
fast.
[Beaumarchais rings the bell. An attendant
brings the chocolate. Beaumarchais takes
a cup, and walks i?i the adjoining gallery,
examining the pictures.
Clavigo. Air! air! I have been surprised
and seized like a boy. Where are you then,
Clavigo? How will you end this? How can
you end it? Frightful position, into which
your folly, your treachery has plunged you !
(lie seizes his sword on the table.) Ha! short
and good! (Lays it down.) And is there
no way, no means, but deathor murder?
horrible murder! To deprive the hapless lady
of her last solace, her only stay, her brother !
To see gushing out the blood of a noble, brave
man And to draw upon yourself the double,
insupportable curse of a ruined family Oh,
this was not the prospect when this amiable
creature, even from your first meeting, at-
tracted you with so many winsome ways!
And when you abandoned her, did you not
see the frightful consequences of your crime ?
What blessedness awaited you in her arms !
in the friendship of such a brother Marie !
Marie Oh, that you could forgive that at
your feet I could atone for all by my tears!
And why not?My heart overflows; my soul
mounts up in hope Sir !
Beaumarchais. What is your determina-
tion ?
Clavigo. Hear me My deceit towards
your sister is unpardonable. Vanity has mis-
led me. I feared by this marriage to ruin all
my plans, all my projects for a world-wide
celebrity. Could I have known that she had
such a brother, she would have been in my
eyes no unimportant stranger; I would have
expedted from our union very considerable
advantages. You inspire me, sir, with the
highest esteem, and in making me so keenly
sensible of my errors, you impart to me a
desire, a power, to make all good again. I
throw myself at your feet! Help help, if it
is possible, to efface my guilt and put an end
to unhappiness. Give your sister to me again,
sir, give me to her How happy were I to
receive from your hand a wife and the forgive-
ness of all my faults !
Beaumarchais. It is too late My sister
loves you no more, and I detest you. Write
the desired declaration, that is all that I exadl
from you, and leave me to provide for a choice
revenge.
Clavigo. Your obstinacy is neither right
nor prudent. I grant you that it does not de-
pend on me, whether I will make good again
so irremediable an evil. Whether I can make
it good? That rests with the heart of your
excellent sister whether she may again look
upon a wretch who does not deserve to see the
164


Fr. Fci'fil
>_" v : T5 r; - r*. : K
f. r J,:rorr' sculp
//)
^vz///////y/;


light of day. Only it is your duty to ascertain
that and to conduCt yourself accordingly, if
your demeanor is not to resemble the incon-
siderate passion of a young man. If Donna
Maria is immovable Oh, I know her heart!
Oh, her good, her heavenly soul hovers before
me quite vividly! If she is inexorable, then
it is time, sir.
Beaumarchais. I insist on the vindication.
Clavigo. (Approaching the table.) And
if I seize the sword ?
Beaumarchais. (Advancing.) Good, sir!
Excellent, sir!
Clavigo. (Holding him back.) One word
more! You have the better case; let me have
prudence for you. Consider what you are
doing. Whether you or I fall, we are irre-
coverably lost. Should I not die of pain, of
remorse, if your blood should stain my sword,
if I, to complete her wretchedness, bereft her
of her brother; and on the other handthe
murderer of Clavigo would not recross the
Pyrenees.
Beaumarchais. The vindication, sir, the
vindication !
Clavigo. Well! be it so. I will do all to
convince you of the upright feeling with which
your presence inspires me. I will write the
vindication, I will write it at your dilation.
Only promise me not to make use of it till
I am able to convince Donna Maria of the
change and repentance of my heart, till I have
spoken to her elder sister; till she has put in
a good word for me with my beloved one.
Not before, sir.
Beaumarchais. I am going to Aranjuez.
Clavigo. Well then, till your return, let
the vindication remain in your portfolio; if I
have not been forgiven, then let your ven-
geance have full swing. This proposal is just,
fair and prudent; and if you do not agree to
it, let us then play the game of life and death.
And whichever of us two become the victim
of his own rashness, you and your poor sister
will suffer in any case.
Beaumarchais. It becomes you to pity
those whom you have made wretched.
Clavigo. (Sittingdown.) Are you satisfied?
Beaumarchais. Well, then, I yield the
point. But not a moment longer. I come
from Aranjuez, I ask, I hear! And if they
have not forgiven you, which is what I hope
and desire, I am off direCtly with the paper to
the printing-office.
Clavigo. ( Takes paper.) How do you de-
mand it ?
Beaumarchais. Sir! in presence of your
attendants.
Clavigo. Why?
Beaumarchais. Command only that they
are present in the adjoining gallery. It shall
not be said that I have constrained you.
Clavigo. What scruples!
Beaumarchais. I am in Spain and have to
deal with you.
Clavigo. Now then! (Rings. A servant.)
Call my attendants together, and betake your-
selves to the gallery there. ( The servant re-
tires. The rest come and occupy the gallery.)
You allow me to write the vindication?
Beaumarchais. No, sir! Write it, I beg
youwrite it, as I dictate it to you. (Clavigo
writes.) I, the undersigned, Joseph Clavigo,
recorder of the king
Clavigo. Of the king.
Beaumarchais. Acknowledge that after
I was received into the family of Madame
Guilbert as a friend
Clavigo. As a friend.
Beaumarchais. I made her sister,
Mademoiselle de Beaumarchais, a promise
of marriage, repeated many times, which I
have unscrupulously broken. Have you
written it?
Clavigo. My dear sir !
Beaumarchais. Have you another expres-
sion for it ?
Clavigo. I should think
Beaumarchais. Unscrupulously broken.
What you have done you need not hesitate to
write. I have abandoned her, without any
fault or weakness on her part having suggested
a pretext or an excuse for this perfidy.
Clavigo. Come!
Beaumarchais. On the contrary, the
demeanor of the lady has been always pure,
blameless, and worthy of all honor.
Clavigo. Worthy of all honor.
Beaumarchais. I confess that, through
my deceit, the levity of my conversations, the
construdtion of which they were susceptible, I
have publicly humiliated this virtuous lady;
and on this account I entreat her forgiveness,
although I do not regard myself as worthy of
receiving it. (Clavigo stops.) Write! write!
And this testimony of my own free will, and
unforced, I have given, with this especial
promise, that if this satisfaction should not
please the injured lady, I am ready to afford
it in every other way required. Madrid.
Clavigo. (Rises, beckons to the servatits to
withdraw, and hands him the paper.) I have
165
342


to do with an injured, but a noble man. You
will keep your word, and put off your ven-
geance. Only on this consideration, in this
hope, I have granted you the shameful docu-
ment, to which nothing else would have re-
duced me. But before I venture to appear
before Donna Maria, I have resolved to engage
some one to put in a word for me, to speak in
my behalfand you are the man.
Beaumarchais. Do not reckon on that.
Clavigo. At least make her aware of the
bitter heartfelt repentance which you have seen
in me. That is allall that I beg of you ; do
not deny me this; I should have to choose
another less powerful intercessor, and even you
owe her anyhow a faithful account. Do tell
her how you have found me!
Beaumarchais. Well! this I can do, this
I shall do. Good-by, then.
Clavigo. Farewell! (He wishes to take
his hand; Beaumarchais draws it back.)
Clavigo. (Alone.) So unexpectedly from
one position into the other. It is an infat-
uation, a dream!I should not have given
this vindication.It came so quickly, so sud-
denly, like a thunder-storm!
Carlos enters.
Carlos. What visit is this you have had?
The whole house is astir. What is the mat-
ter?
Clavigo. Maries brother.
Carlos. I suspected it. This old dog of
a servant, who was formerly with Guilbert, and
who at present acts the spy for me, knew
yesterday that he was expected, and found me
only this moment. Fie was here then?
Clavigo. An excellent young man.
Carlos. Of whom we shall soon be rid.
Already I have spread nets on his way !What, i
then, was the matter? A challenge? An
apology? Was he very hot, the fellow?
Clavigo. He demanded a declaration, that
his sister gave me no occasion for the change
in my feelings towards her.
Carlos. And have you granted it ?
Clavigo. T thought it was best.
Carlos. Well, very well! Was that all?
Clavigo. He insisted on a duel or the vin-
dication.
Carlos. The last was the most judicious.
Who will risk his life for a boy so romantic?
And did he exact the paper with violence?
Clavigo. He dictated it to me, and I had
to call the servants into the gallery.
Carlos. I understand! ah! now I have
you, little master! That will prove his ruin.
Call me a scrivener, if I have not in two days
the varlet in prison and off for India by the
next transport.
Clavigo. No, Carlos. The matter stands
otherwise than as you think.
Carlos. How ?
Clavigo. I hope through his intervention,
through my earnest endeavors, to obtain for-
giveness from the unhappy lady.
Carlos. Clavigo!
Clavigo. I hope to efface all the past, to
heal the breach, and so in my own eyes and
in the eyes of the world again to become an
honorable man.
Carlos. The devil! Have you become
childish? One can still detedl the bookworm
in you.To let yourself be so befooled Do
you not see that that is a stupidly laid plan to
entrap you?
Clavigo. No, Carlos, he does not wish
marriage; they are even opposed to it; she
will not listen to aught from me.
Carlos. That is the very point. No, my
good friend, take it not ill; I may, perhaps, in
plays have seen a country squire thus cheated.
Clavigo. You pain me. I beg you will
reserve your humor for my wedding. I have
resolved to marry Marie of my own accord,
from the impulse of my heart. All my hope,
all my felicity, rests on the thought of pro-
curing her forgiveness. And then away, Pride!
Heaven still lies, as before, in the breast of
| this loved one. All the fame which I acquire,
all the greatness to which I rise will fill me
with double joy, for it is shared by the lady
who makes me twice a man. Farewell! I
must hence. I must at least speak with Guil-
bert.
Carlos. Wait only till after dinner.
Clavigo. Not a moment. (Exit.
Carlos. (Looking after him after a mo-
ment's silence.) There is some one going to
burn his fingers again !
166


ARTIST : C. KARGER.
CLAVIGO.
BEAUMARCHAIS DICTATING TO CLAVIGO.


ACT III.
SCENE I.Guilberts abode.
Sophie Guilbert, Marie, Beaumarchais.
Marie. You have seen him? All my limbs
tremble! You have seen him? I had almost
fainted when I heard he was come; and you
have seen him? No, I canI willnoI
can never see him again.
Sophie. I was beside myself when he
stepped in. For ah! did I not love him as
you, with the fullest, purest, most sisterly love?
Has not his estrangement grieved, tortured
me? And now, the returning, the repentant
one, at my feet! Sister, there is something
so charming in his look, in the tone of his
voice. He
Marie. Never, never more!
Sophie. He is the same as ever; has still
that good, soft, feeling heart; still even that
impetuosity of passion. There is still even
the desire to be loved, and the excruciatingly
painful torture when love is denied him. All!
all! and of thee he speaks, Marie as in those
happy days of the most ardent passion. It is
as if your good genius had even brought about
this interval of infidelity and separation, to
break the uniformity and tediousness of a
prolonged attachment, and impart to the feel-
ing a fresh vivacity.
Marie. Do you speak a word for him?
Sophie. No, sister. Nor have I promised
to do so. Only, dearest, I see things as they
are. You and your brother see them in a
light far too romantic. You have this ex-
perience in common with many a very good
girl, that your lover became faithless and
forsook you. And that he comes again peni-
tent, will amend his fault, revive all old hopes
that is a happiness which another would not
lightly rejedt.
Marie. My heart would break !
Sophie. I believe you. The first moment
must make a sensible impression on youand
then, my dear, I beseech you, regard not this
anxiety, this embarrassment, which seems to
overpower all your senses, as a result of hatred
and ill-will. Your heart speaks more for him
than you suppose, and even on that account
you do not trust yourself to see him, because
you so anxiously desire his return.
Marie. Spare me, dearest!
Sophie. You should be happy. Did I feel
that you despised him, that he was indifferent
to you, I would not say another word, he
should see my face no more. Yet, as it is,
my love, you will thank me that I have helped
you to overcome this painful irresolution,
which is a token of the deepest love.
Guilbert, Buenco.
Sophie. Come, Buenco! Guilbert, come!
Help me to give this darling courage, resolu-
tion, now while we may.
Buenco. Would that I dared sayRe-
ceive him again.
Sophie. Buenco!
567


Buenco. The thought makes my blood
boilthat he should still possess this angel,
whom he has so shamefully injured, whom he
has dragged to the grave. Hepossess her ?
Why? How does he repair all that he has
violated? He returns; once more it pleases
him to return and say: Now I may; now I
will, just as if this excellent soul were sus-
pecled wares, which one after all tosses to the
buyer, when he has already tormented you to
the marrow by the meanest offers, and haggling
like a Jew. No, my voice he will never ob-
tain, not even if the heart of Marie herself
should speak for him. To return; and why,
then, now?now?Must he wait till a valiant
brother come, whose vengeance he must fear,
and, like a schoolboy, come and crave pardon?
Ha! he is as cowardly as he is worthless.
Guilbert. You speak like a Spaniard, and
as if you did not know Spaniards. This mo-
ment we are in greater danger than you are
aware of.
Marie. Good Guilbert!
Guilbert. I honor our brothers bold
soul. In silence I have observed his heroic
conduCt. That all may turn out well, I wish
that Marie could resolve to give Clavigo her
hand ; for(smiling)her heart he has still.
Marie. You are cruel.
Sophie. Listen to him, I beseech you,
listen to him!
Guilbert. Your brother has wrung from
him a declaration, which will vindicate you in
the eyes of the world, and ruin us.
Buenco. How ?
Marie. O God !
Guilbert. He gave it in the hope of
touching your heart. If you remain un-
moved, then he must with might and main
destroy the paper. This he can do; this he
will do. Your brother will print and publish
it immediately after his return from Aranjuez.
I fear, if you persist, he will not return.
Sophie. My dear Guilbert!
Marie. It is killing me !
Guilbert. Clavigo cannot let the paper be
published. If you rejeCt his offer and he is a
man of honor, he goes to meet your brother,
and one of them falls; and whether your brother
perish or triumph he is lost. A stranger in
Spain! The murderer of this beloved courtier!
My sister, it is all very well to think and feel
nobly, but to ruin yourself and yours
Marie. Advise me, Sophie; help me !
Guilbert. And Buenco, contradict me, if
you can.
Buenco. He dares not; he fears for his
! life; otherwise he would not have written at
all; he would not have offered Marie his hand.
Guilbert. So much the worse. He will
get a hundred to lend him their arm; a
hundred to take away our brothers life on
the way. Ha! Buenco, are you then so
young ? Should not a courtier have assassins
in his pay?
Buenco. The king is great and good.
Guilbert. Go then, traverse the walls
which surround him, the guards, the ceremo-
nial, and all that his courtiers have put be-
tween his people and him; press through and
save us. Who comes ?
Clavigo appears.
Clavigo. I must! I must!
[Marie utters a shriek, and falls into
Sophies arms.
Sophie. Cruel man, in what a position
you place us!
[Guilbert and Buenco draw near to her.
Clavigo. Yes, it is she! it is she and I
am Clavigo Listen to me, gentle Marie, if
you will not look on me. At the time that
Guilbert received me as a friend into his
house, when I was a poor unknown youth,
and when in my heart I felt for you an over-
powering passion, was that any merit in me?
or was it not rather an inner harmony of
characters, a secret union of soul, so that you
too could not remain unmoved by me, and I
could flatter myself with the sole possession
of this heart ? And nowam I not even the
same? Are you not even the same? Why
should I not venture to hope? Why not
entreat? Would you not once more take to
your bosom a friend, a lover, whom you had
long believed lost, if after a perilous, hapless
voyage he returned unexpectedly and laid his
preserved life at your feet ? And have I not
also tossed upon a raging sea ? Are not our
passions, with which we live in perpetual strife,
more terrible and indomitable than those waves
which drive the unfortunate far from his father-
land ? Marie! Marie! How can you hate
me when I have never ceased to love you?
Amid all infatuation, and in the lap of all
the enchanting seduCtions of vanity and pride,
I have ever remembered those happy days of
liberty which I spent at your feet in sweet
retirement, as we saw lie before us a succession
of blooming prospeCts.And now, why would
you not realize with me all that we hoped?
Will you now not enjoy the happiness of life
168



because a gloomy interval has deferred our
hopes? No, my love, believe that the best
friends in the world are not quite pure ; the
highest joy is also interrupted through our
passions, through fate. Shall we complain
that it has happened to us, as to all others,
and shall we chastise ourselves in casting away
this opportunity of repairing the past, of con-
soling a ruined family, of rewarding the heroic
deed of a noble brother, and of establishing
our own happiness forever? My friends from
whom I deserve nothing; my friends, who
must be so, because they are the friends of
virtue, to which I return, unite your entreaties
with mine. Marie l (He falls on his knees.)
Marie! Do you recognize my voice no more?
Do you no more feel the pulse of my heart ?
Is it so ? Marie Marie !
Marie. O Clavigo !
Clavigo. (Leaps up and kisses her hand
with transport.) She forgives me She loves
me (He embraces Guilbert and BuencoJ
She loves me still! O Marie, my heart told
me so I might have thrown myself at your
feet, silently uttered with tears my anguish,
my penitence ; without words you would have
understood me, without words I would have
received my forgiveness. No, this intimate
union of our souls is not destroyed; no, still
they understand each other as in the olden
169
343
'J


time, in which no sound, no sign was need-
ful to impart our deepest emotions. Marie!
Marie Marie !
Beaumarchais advances.
Beaumarchais. Ha!
Clayigo. (Rushing towards him.) My
brother!
Beaumarchais. Do you forgive him ?
Marie. No more, no more! my senses
abandon me. [They lead her away.
Beaumarchais. Has she forgiven him ?
Buenco. It seems so.
Beaumarchais. You do not deserve your
happiness.
Clavigo. Believe that I feel it.
Sophie. (Returns.) She forgives him. A
stream of tears broke from her eyes. He
should withdraw, said she sobbing, till I re-
cover! I forgive him.-Ah, my sister!
she exclaimed, and fell upon my neck,
whence knows he that I love him so?
Clavigo. (Kissing her hand.) I am the ,
happiest man under the sun. My brother!
Beaumarchais. (Embraces him.) With
all my heart then. Although I must tell
you: even yet I cannot be your friend, even
yet I cannot love you. So now you are one
of us, and let all be forgotten. The paper
you gave mehere it is.
[He takes it from his portfolio, tears it, and
gives it to him.
Clavigo. I am yours, ever yours.
Sophie. I beseech you to retire, that
she may not hear your voice, that she may
rest.
Clavigo. (Embracing them in turn.) Fare-
well Farewell! A thousand kisses to the
angel. [Exit.
Beaumarchais. After all, it may be for the
best, although I should have preferred it other-
wise. (Smiling.) A girl is a good-natured
creature, I must sayand, my friends, I should
tell you, too, it was truly the thought, the wish
of our ambassador, that Marie should forgive
him, and that a happy marriage might end
this sad story.
Guilbert. I too am taking heart again.
Buenco. He is your brother-in-law, and
so, good-by! You shall see me in your
house no more.
Beaumarchais. Sir!
Guilbert. Buenco!
Buenco. I hate him now and always shall
to the day of judgment. And take care with
what kind of a man you have to do. [Exit.
Guilbert. He is a melancholy bird of ill
omen. But yet in time he will be persuaded,
when he sees that all goes well.
Beaumarchais. Yet it was hasty to return
him the paper.
Guilbert. No more! no more! no visionary
cares. - [Exit.
170




ACT IV.
SCENE I.Clavigos abode. Carlos, alone.
Carlos. It is praiseworthy to place'under
guardianship a man, who, by his dissipation
or other follies, shows that his reason is de-
ranged. If the magistrate does that, who
otherwise does not much concern himself about
us, why should not we do it for a friend?
Clavigo, you are in a bad position; but there
is still hope. And, provided that you retain a
little of your former docility, there is time yet
to keep you from a folly which, with your
lively and sensitive character, will cause the
misery of your life, and lead you to an un-
timely grave. He comes.
Clavigo. (Thoughtful.) Good-day, Car-
los.
Carlos. A very sad, dull. Good-day !
Is that the mood in which you come from your
bride?
Clavigo. She is an angel! They are ex-
cellent people!
171


Carlos. You will not so hasten with the |
wedding that we cannot get an embroidered j
dress for the occasion? j
Clavigo. Jest or earnest, at our wedding
no embroidered dresses will make a parade.
Carlos. I believe it indeed.
Clavigo. Pleasure in each others society,
friendly harmony shall constitute the splendor
of this festival.
Carlos. You will have a quiet little wed-
ding.
Clavigo. As those who feel that their hap-
piness rests entirely with themselves.
Carlos. In those circumstances it is very
proper.
Clavigo. Circumstances! What do you
mean by those circumstances?
Carlos. As the matter now stands and
remains.
Clavigo. Listen, Carlos, I cannot bear a
tone of reserve between friends. I know you
are not in favor of this marriage; notwith-
standing, if you have aught to say against it,
you may say it. Come, out with it. How then
does the matter stand ? how goes it ?
Carlos. More unexpected, strange things
happen to one in life, and it were not well if
all went quite smoothly. One would have
nothing to wonder at, nothing to whisper
in the ear, nothing to pull to pieces in so-
ciety.
Clavigo. It will make some stir.
Carlos. Clavigos wedding! that is clear
of course. How many a girl in Madrid waits
patiently for thee, hopes for thee, and if you
now play them this trick?
Clavigo. That cannot be helped now.
Carlos. Tis strange, I have known few
men who make so great and general an im-
pression on women as you. In all ranks there
are good girls who occupy their time with
plans and projects to become yours. One
relies on her beauty, another on her riches,
another on her rank, another on her wit, and
another on her connections. What compli-
ments have been paid to me on your account!
For, indeed, neither my flat nose, nor crisp
hair, nor my known contempt for women can
bring me such good luck.
Clavigo. You mock.
Carlos. As if I have not already had in
my hands declarations, offers, written with
their own white fond little fingers, as badly
spelled as an original love-letter of a girl can
only be! How many pretty duennas have
come under my thumb on this account 1
Clavigo. And you did not say a word of
all this?
Carlos. I did not wish to trouble you
with mere trifles, and I could not have advised
you to take any such matter seriously. O
Clavigo, my heart has watched over your fate
as over my own! I have no other friend but
you; all men are not to be tolerated,and you
even begin to be unbearable.
Clavigo. I entreat you, be calm.
Carlos. Burn the house of a man who has
taken ten years to build it, and then send him
a confessor to recommend Christian patience!
A man ought to look out for no one but him-
self ; people do not deserve
Clavigo. Are your misanthropic visions
returning?
Carlos. If I harp anew on that string,
who is to blame but you? I said to myself:
What would avail him at present the most
advantageous marriage? him, who for an
ordinary man has doubtless advanced far
enough? But with his genius, with his gifts,
it is not probable, it is not possible, that he
can remain stationary. I concerted my plans.
There are so few men at once so enterprising
and so supple, so highly gifted and so diligent.
He is well qualified in all departments. As
recorder, he can rapidly acquire the most im-
portant knowledge; he will make himself
necessary; and should a change take place,
he becomes minister.
Clavigo. I avow it. Often, too, were
these my dreams.
Carlos. Dreams! As surely as I should
succeed in reaching the top of a tower, if I
set off with the firm determination not to
yield till I had carried my point, so surely
would you have overcome all obstacles; and
afterwards the rest would have given me no
disquietude. You have no fortune from your
family, so much the better! You would have
become more zealous to acquire, more atten-
tive to preserve. Besides, he who sits at the
receipt of custom without enriching himself
is a great fool; and I do not see why the
country does not owe taxes to the minister as
well as to the king. The latter gives his name,
and the former the power. When I had ar-
ranged all that, I then sought out a fit match
for you. I saw many a proud family which
would have shut their eyes to your origin,
many of the richest who would have gladly
supported you in the maintenance of your
rank, to share the dignity of the second king
and now
172


Clavigo. You are unjust, you lower my
actual condition too much; and do you fancy
then that I cannot rise higher, and make still
further advances?
Carlos. My dear friend, if you lop off
the heart of a young plant, in vain will it
afterwards and incessantly put forth countless
shoots; it will form, perhaps, a large bush,
but it is all over with the kingly attempt of its
first growth. And think not that at the court
this marriage is regarded with indifference.
Have you forgotten what sort of men disap-
proved your attachment, your union with
Marie? Have you forgotten who inspired
you with the wise thought of abandoning her?
Must I count them all on my fingers?
Clavigo. This thought has already dis-
tressed me; yes, few will approve this step.
Carlos. Nobody; and will not your power-
ful friends be indignant that you, without
asking their leave, without consulting them,
should have so hastily sacrificed yourself like
a thoughtless child, who throws away his money
in the market on worm-eaten nuts?
Clavigo. That is impolite, Carlos, and
exaggerated.
Carlos. Not at all. Let one commit an
egregious error through passion, I allow it.
To marry a chambermaid because she is as
beautiful as an angel! Well, the man is
blamed, and yet people envy him.
Clavigo. People, always the people!
Carlos. You know I do not inquire very
curiously after the success of others; but it is
ever true that he who does nothing for others
does nothing for himself; and if men do not
wonder at or envy you, you too are not happy.
Clavigo. The world judges by appearances.
Oh! he who possesses Maries heart is to be
envied.
Carlos. Things appear what they are; but,
frankly, I have always thought that there were
hidden qualities that render your happiness
enviable; for what one sees with his eyes and
can comprehend with his understanding
Clavigo. You wish to make me desperate.
Carlos. How has that happened? they
will ask in the town. How has that hap-
pened? they will ask in the court. But,
good God! how has that happened ? She is
poor, without position. If Clavigo had not had
an intrigue with her one would not have known
that she was in the world; she is said to be
well bred, agreeable, witty! But who takes to
himself a wife for that ? That passes away in ;
the first years of marriage. Ah! says some j
one, she must be beautiful, charmingly, rav-
ishingly beautiful. That explains the mat-
ter, says another.
Clavigo. (Troubled, lets a decA sigh escape.)
Alas!
Carlos. Beautiful? Oh, says one lady,
very good! I have not seen her for six
years. She may well be altered, says
another. One must, however, see her; he
will soon take her out, says a third. People
ask, look, are eager, wait, and are impatient;
they recall the ever-proud Clavigo, who never
let himself be seen in public without leading
out in triumph a stately, splendid, haughty
Spanish lady, whose full breast, blooming
cheeks, impassioned eyesall, all seemed to
ask the world encircling her: Am I not
worthy of my companion? and who in her
pride lets flaunt so widely in the breeze the
train of her silken robe, to render her appear-
ance more imposing and remarkable.And
now appears the gentlemanand surprise ren-
ders the people dumbhe comes accompanied
by his tripping little Frenchwoman, whose
hollow eyes, whose whole appearance an-
nounces consumption, in spite of the red and
white with which she has daubed her death-
pale countenance. Yes, brother! I become
frantic, I run away, when people stop me now
and ask, and question, and say they cannot
understand
Clavigo. (Seizing his hand.) My friend,
my brother, I am in a frightful position. I
tell you, I avow I was horror-struck, when I
saw Marie again. How changed she is !how
pale and exhausted Oh! it is my fault, my
treacheries!
Carlos. Follies! visions! She was in con-
sumption when the romance of your love was
still unfolding. I told you a thousand times,
and But you lovers have your eyes, nay,
all your senses closed. Clavigo, it is a shame.
All, yes, all to forget thus! A sick wife, who
will plague all ycur posterity, so that all your
children and grandchildren will in a few years
be politely extinguished, like the sorry lamp of
a beggar.A man who could have been the
founder of a family, which perhaps in future
Ah I am becoming a fool, my reason fails me.
Clavigo. Carlos, what shall I say to thee?
When I saw her again, in the first transport,
my heart went out towards her; and alas!
when that was gone, compassiona deep,
heartfelt pity was breathed into me: but love
| Lo! in the warm fulness of joy, I seemed to
j feel on my neck the cold hand of death. I
344
173


strove to be cheerful; to play the part of a
happy man again, in presence of those who
surrounded me: it was all gone, all so stiff,
so painfully anxious! Had they not some-
what lost "their self-possession, they would
have remarked it.
Carlos. Hell! death and devil! and you
are going to marry her! (Clavigo remains
absorbed, without giving any answer.) It is
all over with thee; lost forever. Farewell,
brother, and let me forget all; let me, all the
rest of my solitary life, furiously curse your
fatal blindness. Ah! to sacrifice all, to render
ones self despicable in the eyes of the world,
and not even then satisfy thereby a passion, a
desire! To contract a malady voluntarily
which, while undermining your inmost strength,
will make you hideous in the eyes of men !
Clavigo. Carlos! Carlos!
Carlos. Would that you had never been
elevated, at least you would never have fallen!
With what eyes will they look on all this !
There is the brother, they will say; he
must be a lad of spirit; he has put to the last
shift Clavigo, who dared not draw the sword.
Ah! our flaunting courtesans will say,
one saw all along that he was not a gentle-
man. Ah, ah! exclaims another, while
drawing his hat over his eyes, the French-
man should have come to me And he claps
himself on the pauncha fellow, who perhaps
were not worthy of being your groom!
Clavigo. (Expresses the most acute dis-
tress, and falls into the arms of Carlos amid
a torrent of tears.) Save me! My friend!
my best friend, save me! Save me from a
double perjury! from an unutterable disgrace,
from myself. I am done for !
Carlos. Poor, hapless one I hoped that
these youthful furies, these stormy tears, this
absorbing melancholy would have been gone;
I hoped to behold you, as a man, agitated no
more, no more plunged in that overwhelming
sorrow, which in other days you so often
uttered on my breast with tears. Be a man,
Clavigo ; quit yourself like a man !
Clavigo. Let me weep! ( Throws himself
into a chair. )
Carlos. Alas for you that you have en-
tered on a career which you will not pursue
to the end With your heart, with your sen-
timents, which would make a tranquil citizen
happy, you must unite this unhappy hanker-
ing after greatness And what is greatness,
Clavigo? To raise ones self above others in
rank and consequence? Believe it not. If
your heart is not greater than that of others;
if you are not able to place yourself calmly
above the circumstances which would embar-
rass an ordinary man, then with all your rib-
bons, all your stars, even with the crown
itself, you are but an ordinary man. Take
heart, compose your mind ! (Clavigo rises,
looks on Carlos, and holds out his hand, which
Carlos eagerly seizes.) Come, come, my
friend make up your mind. Look, I will
put everything aside, and will say to you:
Here lie two proposals on equal scales; either
you marry Marie and find your happiness in a
quiet citizen-like life, in tranquil homely joys;
or you bend your steps along the path of honor
to a near goal.I will put all aside, and say:
The beam of the balance is in equilibrium;
your decision will settle which of the two scales
will carry the day! Good But decide! There
is nothing in the world so pitiable as an un-
decided man, who wavers between two feel-
ings, hoping to reconcile them, and does not
understand that nothing can unite them ex-
cept the doubt, the disquietude, which rack
him. Go, and give Marie your hand, adl as
an honorable man, who, to keep his word,
sacrifices the happiness of his life, who regards
it as a duty to repair the wrong he has com-
mitted ; but who, too, has never extended the
sphere of his passions and adlivity further
than to be in a position to repair the wrong he
has committed; and thus enjoy the happiness
of a tranquil retirement, the approval of a
peaceful conscience, and all the blessedness
belonging to those who are able to create their
own happiness and provide the joy of their
families. Decide, and then shall I sayYou
are every inch a man.
Clavigo. Carlos! Oh, for a spark of your
strengthof your courage !
Carlos. It slumbers in thee, and I will
blow till it gives vent to flames. Behold on
the one side the fortune and the greatness
which await you. I shall not set off this future
with the variegated hues of poetry; represent
it to yourself with such vivacity as it clearly
appeared before your mind, till the hot-headed
Frenchman made you lose your wits. But
there too, Clavigo, be a man thoroughly, and
take your way straight, without looking to the
right or left. May your soul expand, and
this great idea become deeply rooted there,
that extraordinary men are extraordinary pre-
cisely because their duties differ from the duties
of ordinary men; that he, whose task it is
to watch over, to govern, to preserve a great
174


whole, needs not reproach himself with having
overlooked trifling circumstances, with having
sacrificed small matters to the good of the
whole. Thus a<5ts the Creator in nature, and
the king in the state; why should not we do
the same, in order to resemble them ?
Clavigo. Carlos, I am a little man.
Carlos. We are not little when circum-
stances trouble us, only when they overpower
us. Yet another breath, and you are yourself
again. Cast away the remnant of a pitiable
passion, which in these days as little becomes
you as the little gray jacket and modest mien
with which you arrived at Madrid. What the
poor girl has done for you, you have long ago
returned; and that your first friendly recep-
tion was from her hands.Oh another, for
the pleasure of your acquaintance, would have
done as much and more, without putting forth
such pretensions. And would you take it into
your head to give your schoolmaster the half
of your fortune because he taught you the alpha-
bet thirty years ago ? What say you, Clavigo !
Clavigo. That is all very well. On the
whole you may be right, it may be so; only
how are we to get out of the embarrassment in
which we stick fast ? Advise me there, help
me there, and then lecture.
Carlos. Good Do you wish it so ?
Clavigo. Give me the power and I shall
exert it. I am not able to think; think for me.
Carlos. Thus then. First you will go and
meet this person, and then you will demand,
sword in hand, the vindication which you in-
considerately and involuntarily gave.
Clavigo. I have it already; he tore it
and returned it to me.
Carlos. Excellent! excellent! That step
taken alreadyand you have let me speak so
long?Your course is so much the shorter!
Write him quite coolly: You find it incon-
venient to marry his sister; the reason he can
learn if he will repair to-night to a certain
place, attended by a friend, and armed with
any weapons he likes. And then follows the
signature.Come, Clavigo, write that; I shall
be your secondand the devil is in it if
(Clavigo approaches the table.) Listen! A j
word If I think aright of it, it is an extrav- I
agant proposal. Who are we to risk our
lives with a mad adventurer? Besides, the
mans condudl, his standing, do not deserve
that we regard him as an equal. Listen then !
Now if I made a criminal charge against him,
that he arrived secretly at Madrid, got himself
announced under a pseudonym with an accom-
plice, at first gained your confidence with
friendly words, and thereafter fell upon you
all of a sudden, forcibly obtained a declara-
tion, and afterwards went off to spread it
abroadthat will prove his ruin: he shall learn
what that meansto invade the tranquillity of
a Spaniard under his own roof.
Clavigo. You are right.
Carlos. But till the law-suit has begun, in
which interval the gentleman might play all
sorts of tricks, if now we could meanwhile
play a dead-sure game, and seize him tight
by the head.
Clavigo. I understand, and know you are
the man to carry it out.
Carlos. Ah well! if I, who have been
at it for five-and-twenty years, and have wit-
nessed tears of anguish trickling down the
cheeks of the foremost men, if I cannot un-
ravel such childs play! So then, give me full
power; you need do nothing, write nothing.
He, who orders the imprisonment of the
brother, pantomimically intimates that he will
have nothing to do with the sister.
Clavigo. No, Carlos! Let it go as it
may, I cannot, I will not suffer that. Beau-
marchais is a worthy man, and he shall not
languish in an ignominious prison on account
of his righteous cause. Another plan, Carlos,
another!
Carlos. Bah! bah! Stuff and nonsense !
We will not devour him. He will be well
lodged and well cared for, and thereafter he
cannot hold out long: for, observe, when he
perceives that it is in earnest, all his theatrical
rage will cease; he will come to terms, return
smartly to France, and be only too thankful,
if we secure a yearly pension for his sister
perhaps the only thing he cared a straw about.
Clavigo. So be it then Only let him
be kindly dealt with.
Carlos. Leave that to me.One precau-
tion more We cannot know but that it may
be blabbed outthat the thing may get wind,
and then he gets over you, and all is lost.
Therefore, leave your house, so that your very
servant does not know where you have gone.
Take with you only absolute necessaries. I
shall despatch you a fellow who will conduct
you and bring you to a place where the holy
Hermandad herself will not find you. I have
always in readiness a few of these mouseholes.
Adieu !
Clavigo. Good-by!
Carlos. Cheer up! cheerily! When it is all
over, brother, we will enjoy ourselves. [Exit.
*75


SCENE II.Guii.berts abode.
Sophie Guilbert, Marie Beaumarchais at \
work. !
i
Marie. With such violence did Buenco
depart ? ]
Sophie. It was natural. He loves you, !
and how could he endure the sight of the :
man whom he must doubly hate ?
Marie. He is the best, most upright citi-
zen whom I have ever known. (Showing her
work to her sister.) It seems to me I must do !
it thus. I shall take in that and turn the end j
up. That will do nicely. I
Sophie. Very well. And I am going to |
176
put a straw-colored ribbon on my bonnet; it
becomes me best. Do you smile?
Marie. I am laughing at myself. We girls
are wonderful people, I must say: hardly are
our spirits but a little raised than straightway
we are busy with finery and ribbons.
Sophie. You cannot find fault with your-
self at all; from the moment Clavigo forsook
you, nothing could give you the least pleasure.
(Marie starts up and looks towards the door.)
What is the matter ?
Marie. (Anxious.) I thought some one
was coming My poor heart! Oh, it will
destroy me yet! Feel how it beats with
groundless terrors!


Sophie. You look pale. Be calm, I be-
seech you, my love !
Marie. (Pointing to her breast.) I feel
here an oppressiona sudden pain. It will
kill me.
Sophie. Be careful.
Marie. I am a foolish, hapless girl. Pain
and joy with all their force have undermined
my poor life. I tell you, tis but half a joy
that I have him again. Little shall I enjoy
the happiness that awaits me in his arms;
perhaps not at all.
Sophie. My sister, my only love! You
are wearing yourself out with these visions.
Marie. Why shall I deceive myself?
Sophie. You are young and happy, and
can hope for all.
Marie. Hope Oh, the only sweet balm
of life! How often it charms my soul!
Happy youthful dreams hover before me and
accompany the beloved form of the peerless
one, who now is mine again. O Sophie, he is
so winsome Whilst I saw him not, he has
I know not how I shall express it;all the
qualities, which in former days lay hid in him
through his diffidence, have unfolded them-
selves. He has become a man, and must with
this pure feeling of his, with which he ad-
vances, that is so entirely devoid of pride and
vanityhe must captivate all hearts.And he
shall be mine? No, my sister, I was not
worthy of himand now I am much less so !
Sophie. Take him, however, and be happy.
I hear your brother !
Beaumarchais enters.
Beaumarchais. Where is Guilbert ?
Sophie. He has been gone some time; he
cannot be much longer.
Marie. What is the matter, brother ?
(Springing tip and fallitig on his neck.) Dear
brother, what is the matter ?
Beaumarchais. Nothing! nothing at all,
my Marie!
Marie. If I am thy Marie, do tell me
what is on thy mind !
Sophie. Let him be. Men often look
vexed without having aught particular on
their mind.
Marie. No, no. I see thy face only a little
while; but already I read all thy thoughts, all
the feelings of thy pure and sincere soul are
stamped on thy brow. There is somewhat
which makes thee anxious. Speak, what is it ?
Beaumarchais. It is nothing, my love. I
hope that at bottom it is nothing. Clavigo
Marie. How?
Beaumarchais. I was at Clavigos house.
He is not at home.
Sophie. And does that perplex you?
Beaumarchais. His hall-servant says he
has gone he knows not where; no one knows
how long. If he should be hiding himself!
If he be really gone! Whither? for what
reason ?
Marie. We will wait.
Beaumarchais. Thy tongue lies. Ah! the
paleness of thy cheeks, the trembling of thy
limbs, all speak and testify that thou canst
not wait. Dear sister! (Clasps her in his
arms.) On this beating, painfully trembling
heart I vow,hear me, O God, who art
righteous! hear me, all His saints!thou
shalt be avenged, if hemy senses abandon
me at the thoughtif he fail, if he make him-
self guilty of a frightful, double perjury; if
he mock at our misery No, it is, it is not
possible, not possiblethou shalt be avenged.
Sophie. All too soon, too precipitate. Be
careful of her health, I beseech you, my bro-
ther. (Marie sits down.) What ails thee?
You are fainting.
Marie. No, no. You are so anxious.
Sophie. ( Gives her water.) Take this glass.
Marie. No, no what avails that ? Well,
for my own sake, give it me.
Beaumarchais. Where is Guilbert? Where
is Buenco? Send after them, I entreat you.
(Sophie exit.) How dost thou feel, Marie?
Marie. Well, quite well! Thinkst thou
then, brother
Beaumarchais. What, my love ?
Marie. Ah!
Beaumarchais. Is your breathing painful?
Marie. The disordered beating of my heart
oppresses me.
Beaumarchais. Have you then no remedy?
Do you use no anodyne ?
Marie. I know of only one remedy, and for
that I have prayed to God many a time and oft.
Beaumarchais. Thou shalt have it, and I
hope from my hand.
Marie. That will do well.
Sophie enters.
Sophie. A courier has just brought this
letter; he comes from Aranjuez.
Beaumarchais. That is the seal and the
hand of our ambassador.
Sophie. I bade him dismount and take
some refreshment; he would not, because he
had yet more despatches.
345
177


Marie. Will you, my love, send the ser-
vant for the physician ?
Sopi-iie. Are you ill? Holy God! what
ails thee?
Marie. You will make me so anxious that
at last I shall scarcely dare ask for a glass of
water. Sophie Brother!What is in the
letter? See, how he trembles! how all courage
leaves him !
Sophie. Brother, my brother! ('Beau-
marchais throws himself speechless into a chair
and lets the letter fall.) My brother ! (Lifts
up the letter and reads it.)
Marie. Let me see it! I must(tries to
rise.) Alas! I feel it. It is the last. O sis-
ter, spare not for mercys sake the last quick
death-stroke!He betrays us !
Beaumarchais. (Springing up.) He be-
trays us (Beating on his brow and breast.)
Here! here! All is as dumb, as dead before my
soul, as if a tlnmder-clap had disordered my
senses. Marie! Marie! thou art betrayed !
and I stand here! Whither?What?I see
nothing, nothing no way, no safety! ( Throws
himself into a seat.)
Guilbert enters.
Sophie. Guilbert! Counsel! Help! We
are lost!
Guilbert. My wife!
Sophie. Read! read! The ambassador
makes known to our brother: that Clavigo
has made a criminal complaint against him,
under the pretext that he introduced himself
into his house under a false name; and that
taking him by surprise in bed and presenting
a pistol, he compelled him to sign a disgrace-
ful vindication; and if he do not quickly
withdraw from the kingdom, they will get him
thrown into prison, from which the ambas-
sador himself perhaps will not be able to
deliver him.
Beaumarchais. (Springing up.) Indeed,
they shall do so! they shall do so! shall get
me imprisoned; but from his corpse, from the
place where I shall have glutted my vengeance
with his blood. Ah the stern, frightful thirst
after his blood fills my whole soul. Thanks to
Thee, God in heaven, that Thou vouchsafest
to man, amid burning, insupportable wrongs,
a solace, a refreshment! What a thirst for
vengeance I feel in my breast! how the glo-
rious feeling, the lust for his blood, raises me
out of my utter deje&ion, out of my sluggish
indecision; raises me above myself! Ven-
geance How I rejoice in it! how all within
me strives after him, to seize him, to destroy
him!
Sophie. Thou art terrible, brother !
Beaumarchais. So much the better.Ah !
j No sword, no weapon! with these hands will
I strangle him, that the triumph may be mine!
all my own the feeling: I have destroyed him!
Marie. My heart! my heart!
Beaumarchais. I have not been able to
save thee, so thou shalt be avenged. I pant
after his footsteps, my teeth lust after his flesh,
my gums after his blood. Have I become a
frantic wild beast! There burns in every
vein, there glows in every nerve, the desire
after him, after him !I could hate him for-
ever, who should make away with him by
poison, who should rid me of him by assassi-
nation. Oh, help me, Guilbert, to seek him
out. Where is Buenco? Help me to find
him !
Guilbert. Save yourself! save yourself!
you have lost your reason.
Marie. Flee, my brother !
Sophie. Take him away; he will cause his
sisters death.
Buenco appears.
Buenco. Up, sir! away! I saw it before.
I gave heed to all. And now they are in hot
pursuit; you are lost if you do not leave the
town this moment.
Beaumarchais. Never more! Where is
Clavigo ?
Buenco. I do not know.
Beaumarchais. Thou knowest. I entreat
you on my knees, tell me.
Sophie. For Gods sake, Buenco !
Marie. Ah! air! air! (Falls back.)
Clavigo !
Buenco. Help, she is dying !
Sophie. Forsake us not, God in heaven!
Hence my brother, away !
Beaumarchais. (Falls down before Marie,
who despite every aid does not recover.) To
forsake thee to forsake thee !
Sophie. Stay, then, and ruin us all, as you
have killed Marie. You are 'gone, then, O my
sister, through the heedlessness of your own
brother !
Beaumarchais. Stop, sister!
Sophie. (Mocking.) Saviour!Avenger!
help yourself!
Beaumarchais. Do I deserve this?
Sophie. Give her to me again And then
go to the prison, to the stake; go, pour forth
thy blood and give me her again.
17 8


Beaumarchais. Sophie!
Sophie. Ha! and she is gone, she is dead
save yourself for us (Falling on his neck.)
My brother, for us! for our father! Haste,
haste That was her fate! she has met it!
And there is a God in heaven, to Him leave
vengeance.
Buenco. Hence away! Come with me 3
I will hide you till we find means to get you
out of the kingdom.
Beaumarchais. (Falls on Marie and kisses
her.) Sister dear ! ( They tear him away, he
clasps Sophie, she disengages herself. They re-
move Marie, and Buenco and Beaumarchais
retire.)
Guilbert, a Physician.
Sophie. (Feturning from the room to which
they had taken MarieJ Too late! She is
gone she is dead !
i Guilbert. Come in, sir! See for your-
self It is not possible ! \Exit.
179


SCENE I.The street before the house of \
Guilbert. Night.
[ The house is open, and before the door stand
three men clad in black mantles, holding
torches. Clavigo enters, wrapped in a
cloak, his sword under his arm; a Ser-
vant goes before him with a toirh.
Clavigo. I told you to avoid this street.
Servant. We must have gone a great way
round, sir, and you are in such haste. It is
not far hence where Don Carlos is lodged.
Clavigo. Torches there!
Servant. A funeral. Come on, sir.
Clavigo. Maries abode! A funeral! A
death-agony shudders through all my limbs!
Go, ask whom they are going to bury.
Servant. (To the men.) Whom are you
going to bury ?
The Men. Marie de Beaumarchais.
[Clavigo sits down on a stone and covers
himself with a cloak.
Servant. ( Conies back.) They are going
to bury Marie de Beaumarchais.
Clavigo. (Springing up.) Must thou re-
peat it? Repeat that word of thunder which
strikes all the marrow out of my bones?
Servant. Peace, sir Come on, sir. Con-
sider the danger by which you are sur-
rounded.
Clavigo. To hell with thee, reptile! I re-
main.
Servant. O Carlos! Oh, that I could
find thee !Carlos !he has lost his reason.
[Exit.
SCENE II.
Clavigo. The Mutes in the distance.
Clavigo. Dead! Marie dead! Torches!
her dismal attendants it is a trick of enchant-
ment, a night vision, which terrifies me; which
holds up to me a mirror, in which I may see
foreboded the end of all my treacheries. But
there is still time. Still!I tremblemy heart
melts with horror! No! no! thou shalt not
dieI come, I come Vanish, ye spirits of
the night, who with your horrible terrors set
180




yourselves in my way. (He goes up to them.)
Vanishthey remain Ha they look round
after me Woe woe is me They are men
like myself. It is true! true! Canst thou
comprehend it ? She is dead It seizes me
amid all the horrors of midnightthe feeling
she is dead. There she lies, the flower at
your feet! and thouOh, have mercy on me,
God in heavenI have not killed her! Hide
yourselves, ye stars! look not down !ye who
have so often beheld the villain with feelings
of the most heartfelt happiness leave this
threshold ; through this very street float along
in golden dreams with music and song, and
enrapture his maiden listening at the secret
casement and lingering in transport. And now
I fill the house with wailing and sorrowand
this scene of my bliss with the funeral song
Marie! Marie! take me with thee! take me
with thee! (Mournful music breathes forth a
few sounds from within.) They are setting
out on the way to the grave. Stop! stop!
Shut not the coffin. Let me see her once
more. (He runs up to the house.) Ha! into
whose presence am I rushing ? Whom to face
in his terrible sorrow? Her friends! her
brother! whose breast is panting with raving
grief! (The music recommences.) She calls
me! she calls me! I come What anguish
is this which overwhelms me? What shudder-
ing withholds me ?
(The music begins for the third time and con-
tinues. The torches move before the door; \
three others come out to them, who range
themselves in order to inclose the funeral
procession, which now comes out of the
house. Six bearers carry the bier, upon
which lies the coffin, covered.
SCENE III.
Guilbert and Buenco (in deep mourning).
Clavigo. ( Coming forward.) Stay !
Guilbert. What voice is that ?
Clavigo. Stay ! (The bearers stop.
Buenco. Who dares to interrupt the solemn
funeral ?
Clavigo. Set it down.
Guilbert. Ha!
Buenco. Wretch! Are thy deeds of shame
not yet ended ? Is thy vidtim not safe from
thee in the coffin ?
Clavigo. No more! Make me not frantic.
The wretched are dangerous; I must see
her.
(lie tears off the pall and the lid of the coffin.
Marie is seen lying within it, clad in white,
her hands clasped before her; Clavigo steps
back and covers his face.
Buenco. Wiit thou awake her to murder
her again ?
Clavigo. Poor mocker! Marie!
(He falls doiun before the coffin.
SCENE IV.
Enter Beaumarchais. The preceding.
Beaumarchais. Buenco has left me. They
say she is not dead. I must see, spite of hell,
I must see her. Ha torches a funeral!
(He runs hastily up to it, gazes on the coffin,
andfalls down speechless. They raise him
up; he is as if deprived of sense ; Guilbert
holds him.
Clavigo. ( UHio is standing on the other side
of the coffin.) Marie Marie !
Beaumarchais. (Springing up.) That is
his voice. Who calls Marie ? At the sound
of that voice what burning rage starts into my
veins!
Clavigo. It is I. (Beaumarchais staring
wildly around and grasping his sword. Guil-
bert holds him.') I fear not thy blazing eyes,
nor the point of thy sword. Oh look here,
here, on these closed eyes these clasped
hands!
Beaumarchais. Dost thou show me that
sight ?
(He tears himself loose, runs upon Cla-
vigo, who instantly draws; they fight;
Beaumarchais pierces him through the
breast.
Clavigo. (Falling.) I thank thee, brother;
thou marriest us. (He falls upon the coffin.
Beaumarchais. (Tearing him away.) Hence
from this saint, thou fiend !
Clavigo. Alas!
[ The bearers raise up his body and support
him.
Beaumarchais. His blood! Look up,
Marie, look upon thy bridal ornaments, and
then close thine eyes forever. See how I have
consecrated thy place of rest with the blood
of thy murderer Charming Glorious !
346
181


SCENE V.
Enter Sophie. The preceding.
Sophie. My brother? Oh, my God, what
is the matter ?
Beaumarchais. Draw nearer, my love, and
see I hoped to have strewn her bridal bed
with roses; see the roses with which I adorn
her on her way to heaven !
Sophie. We are lost!
Clavigo. Save yourself, rash one! save
yourself, ere the dawn of day. May God, who
sent you for an avenger, conduct you Sophie,
forgive me. Brothers, friends, forgive me.
Beaumarchais. How the sight of his gush-
ing blood extinguishes all the glowing ven-
geance within me! how with his departing life
vanishes all my rage! ( Going up to him.) Die!
I forgive thee.
Clavigo. Your hand and yours, Sophie !
and yours ! [Buenco hesitates.
Sophie. Give it him, Buenco.
Clavigo. I thank you; you are as good as
ever; I thank you. And thou, O spirit of my
beloved, if thou still hove rest around this place,
look down, see these heavenly favors, bestow
thy blessing, and do thou too forgive me. I
come! I come Save yourself, my brother.
Tell me, did she forgive me ? How did she die ?
Sophie. Her last word was thy unhappy
name. She departed without taking leave of us.
Clavigo. I will follow her and bear your
farewells to her.
SCENE VI.
Carlos, a Servant. The preceding.
Carlos. Clavigo murderers !
Clavigo. Hear me, Carlos! Thou seest
here the victim of thy prudence; and now, I
conjure thee, for the sake of that blood, in
which my life irrevocably flows away, save my
brother.
Carlos. Oh, my friend (To the servant.)
You standing there? Fly for a surgeon.
\_Exit servant.
Clavigo. It is in vain ; save, save my un-
happy brother thy hand thereon. They have
forgiven me, and so forgive I thee. Accom-
pany him to the frontiers, andoh !
Carlos. (Stamping with his feet.) Clavigo!
Clavigo!
Clavigo. (Drawing nearer to the coffin,
upon which they lay him down.) Marie Thy
hand!
\_He unfolds her hands and grasps the right
hand.
Sophie. {To Beaumarchais.) Hence, un-
happy one, away !
Clavigo. I have her hand, her cold, dead
hand. Thou art mine. Yet this last bridal
kiss! Alas!
Sophie. He is dying! Save thyself, bro-
ther !
[Beaumarchais falls on Sophies neck. She
returns the embrace and makes a sign for
him to withdraw.
£82


CL AVI GO.
DEATH OF CLAVIGO




DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
Stella.
Cecilia. (At first under the name of Madame Sommer, j
Fernando.
Lucy.
Steward.
Landlady.
Annie.
Carl.
Servant.
184




ACT I.
At the Inn.
The sound of a Post-horn is heard.
Landlady. Carl! Carl!
[ The lad appears.
Carl. Whats you want ?
Landlady. Where in the name of all thats
holy have you been ? Out with you! The
stage is coming. Show the passengers in; lug
their bags for them! Bestir yourself! Are
you making up a face again ? ( The lad exits ;
calling after him.) Hold on Ill cure you
of your surly ways. A tavern-boy has got to
be lively, on his taps. By-and-by, when such
a rascal gets to be at the head of things, he
lets everything go to pieces. If I ever thought
of getting married again, it would be just on
this account: that its too hard for a woman
alone to keep things in running order.
Madame Sommer, Lucy (in travelling-dress),
Carl.
Lucy. ( Carrying a valise, to Carl.) Just
let it be; tisnt heavy; but take my mothers
bandbox.
Landlady. At your service, ladies! You
are in good time. The stage does not usually
get in so early.
Lucy. We had a very young, jolly, hand-
some postilion, in whose company I wouldnt
obje there were only two of us without much bag-
gage.
Landlady. If you want something to eat,
185
347



please be good enough to be patient for a bit;
dinner isnt quite ready yet.
Madame Sommer. Might I trouble you for
just a little lunch?
Lucy. I am in no hurry at all. Please
look out for my mother, however?
Landlady. Right away.
Lucy. She wants some real nice broth.
Landlady. She shall have the best Ive
got. \Exit.
Madame Sommer. Strange that you cannot
stop giving orders It seems to me that our
journey might have taught you a lesson or
two We have always paid for more than we
have eaten ; and in our circumstances !
Lucy. Weve never yet come out short.
Madame Sommer. But weve been precious
near it.
Postilion enters.
Lucy. Well, my excellent driver, how do
you feel? Youd like your fee, wouldnt
you ?
Postilion. Havent I driven like a spe-
cial post ?
Lucy. That means that you have also
earned a special fee I suppose! You should
be my private coachman, if I only kept horses.
Postilion. Even if you dont keep them,
I am at your service.
Lucy. There!
Postilion. Thank you, miss! Are you
not going further?
Lucy. We stop here for the present.
Postilion. Good-by! \Exit.
Madame Sommer. I see by his face that
you gave him too much.
Lucy. Would you have him leave us dis-
contented? He was so friendly the whole
time. You are always saying that I am self-
willed, mamma; but at all events I am not
selfish.
Madame Sommer. I beg of you, Lucy,
dont misunderstand what I say to you. I
honor your frankness as well as your good
heart and your generosity; but they are virtues
only in their proper places.
Lucy. Mamma, this place pleases me very
much. And I suppose that yonder house be-
longs to the lady whose companion I am going
to be.
Madame Sommer. I am glad if the place
of your destination is agreeable to you!
Lucy. Quiet it may be, that I can see.
Its just like Sunday in the great square. But
her ladyship has a fine garden and must be a
good woman. We shall see how we get on
together. Why are you looking about you,
mamma ?
Madame Sommer. Leave me, Lucy! For-
tunate girl, in whose heart no recolle&ions are
stirred Alas! it used to be different! There
is nothing more painful to me than to come
into an inn.
Lucy. Where dont you find something to
worry about ?
Madame Sommer. And is there ever any
lack of reasons for it ? Mv darling, how dif-
ferent it used to be when your father travelled
with me, when we enjoyed the happiest years
of our lives in the free world, the first years
of our married life Then everything had
the charm of novelty for me And with his
arm around me to hasten through so many
thousand objedls, when every trivial thing was
made interesting to me by his intelligence, his
love !
Lucy. I should like very much to travel.
Madame Sommer. And when after a hot
day, or after some series of accidents, per-
haps on account of bad roads in winter, we
arrived at much worse inns than this one, and
together felt the enjoyment of simple com-
forts, or sat together on the wooden settle,
eating our omelet and boiled potatoesah,
then it was very different!
Lucy. But now it is time to forget him.
Madame Sommer. Do you know what that
means? To forget? My dear girl, you have,
thank God, never yet lost anything that could
not be replaced. But since the moment when
I became certain that he had deserted me, all
the joy of my life was gone. Despair seized
upon me. I had no faith in myself, I did not
believe in a God. I can scarcely bear to
think of it.
Lucy. And all I know is that I sat on your
bed and cried because you cried. It was in
the green room, on the little bed. I felt worse
about the room because we had to sell the
house.
Madame Sommer. You were seven years
old and couldnt realize what you were losing.
Annie (with the lunch), the Landlady,
Carl.
Annie. Here is madames lunch.
Madame Sommer. Thank you, my love!
Is that your little daughter?
Landlady. My stepdaughter, madame;
but she is so capable that she makes me forget
that I have no children of my own.
186


Madame Sommer. You are in mourning?
Landlady. For my husband whom I lost
three months ago. We had not lived together
quite three years.
Madame Sommer. Yet you seem somewhat
comforted.
Landlady. We have just as little time to
weep as to pray. Alas! so it goes Sundays and
work-a-days. If the parson did not come
with his text once in a while, or once had a
chance to go to a funeralCarl, bring a couple
of napkins! Put em here at the end !
Lucy. Whose house is that over yonder ?
Landlady. It belongs to our gracious
baroness. A most lovely woman !
Madame Sommer. I am glad to have a
neighbor confirm the report that was given to
us at a distance. My daughter is going to
live with her and be her companion.
Landlady. I wish you the best success, miss, i
Lucy. I hope that she is going to please me. |
Landlady. You must have an extraordi-
nary taste if your intercourse with the gracious
lady does not please you.
Lucy. So much the better For if I am to
get along well with any one my heart and will ;
must be in it; else it does not succeed.
Landlady. Well! well! well talk some :
more about this by-and-by, and you shall tell .
me if I have not spoken the truth. Whoever ,
lives near our gracious ladyship is lucky, j
When my daughter gets a little bigger, then j
she is going to serve with her for a few years
at least; its a good thing for the girl all her
life long.
Annie. Ah! only wait till you see her!
She is so sweet, so sweet! You cant believe
how anxiously she has been waiting for you.
She likes me too. Will you not go right over
to her? I will go with you.
Lucy. I must set myself to rights first, and
I want something to eat too.
Annie. Then cant I run over, mamma,
and tell her ladyship that the mademoiselle
has come?
Landlady. Well then, run along!
Madame Sommer. And tell her, little one,
that we will wait upon her immediately after
dinner. \Exit Annie.
Landlady. My daughter has an extraordi-
nary fondness for her. And she is the best
soul in the world and her whole heart is with
children. She teaches them to do all sorts
of work and to sing. She likes to have the
peasant girls wait on her until they get some
skill and then she gets them good places, and
j this is the way she spends her time since her
| husband has been gone. Its incomprehen-
sible how she can be so unhappy and at the
same time so kind and so good.
Madame Sommer. Isnt she a widow?
Landlady. God knows! her husband went
away three years ago, and since then nothing
has been seen or heard of him. And she
loved him above all things. My man could
never get done when he began to tell about
them. And yet! I myself say it, there is not
such a heart as hers in the world. Every year
on the day when she saw him for the last time,
she will not admit anyone, shuts herself up in
her room, and generally when she speaks of
him it goes through your very soul!
Madame Sommer. Poor creature !
Landlady. Theres been a good deal of
talk about it, first and last.
Madame Sommer. What do you mean ?
Landlady. It is not pleasant to repeat it.
Madame Sommer. I beg you to tell me.
Landlady. If you will not abuse my con-
fidence I will tell you the story. Its about
eight years ago since they came here. They
bought the barony. No one knew them; the
people called him baron and called her my
gracious lady, and they thought that he was
an officer who had got rich in foreign wars
and now wanted to settle down in peace. At
that time she was just in the bloom of youth,
not more than sixteen years old and handsome
as an angel.
Lucy. Then she cant be more than twenty-
four now?
Landlady. But she has had trouble enough
for her years. She had one child ; it did not
live long; its grave is in the garden, with only
turf over it, and since her husband went away
she has had a hermitage built near it, and her
own grave is to be made right by it. My
blessed man was well along in years and not
easy to get stirred up; but he liked to tell
nothing better than about the happy lives of
those people as long as they lived together.
It made quite another man of him, he used to
say, only to look on and see how fond they
were of each other.
Madame Sommer. My heart is moved for
her.
Landlady. But this was the way of it:
Folk said he had curious principles; least-
wise he never went to church; and folks that
havent any religion havent any God, and
are apt to get into bad ways. All of a sudden
the report got out that the baron was off. He


had started on his travels, and since then he
has never come back.
Madame Sommer. (Aside.) The very
counterpart of my own fate !
Landlady. Then all the mouths were full ;
of it! It was just at the time that I came
here as a young bridethree years ago St.
Michaels day. And then everybody had a j
different story, and they went about whisper-
ing in their neighbors ears that theyd never
had any confidence in him. But dont you
betray me. It was said that he was a high-
born gentleman who had eloped with her,
and all sorts of things were said. Ah, yes,
if a young girl makes a false step like that she
has to repent of it all her life long.
Enter Annie.
Annie. Her ladyship begs most earnestly
that you will come right over to her; she
wants to speak with you just a moment, just
to look at you !
Lucy. It is not suitable to go in these
clothes.
Landlady. Oh, do go! I pledge you my
word that she will not care at all.
Lucy. Will you go with me, little girl ?
Annie. With all my heart.
Madame Sommer. Lucy, a word with you!
(Landlady goes away.) Dont you commit
yourself at all. Dont speak of our rank, our
fate. Meet her deferentially.
Lucy. (Softly.) Trust it all to me My
father was a merchant, went to America, is
dead and hence our circumstances. You just
trust it to me; Ive told the story often enough.
(Aloud.) Dont you want to rest a little while?
You need to. The good landlady will show
you to a room where theres a bed.
Landlady. I have indeed a pretty, quiet
chamber looking out into the garden. (To
Lucy.) I hope that the gracious lady will
please you. [Exit Lucy with Annie.
Madame Sommer. My daughter is still a
little flighty.
Landlady. That is the way of youth ; but
the proud waves get calmed down after a little.
Madame Sommer. So much the worse.
Landlady. Come with me, madame, if
you like to. \_Exeunt both.
A Post-horn is heard.
Fernando (in officer's uniform), # Servant.
Servant. Shall I have the horses harnessed
agam right away and your things packed ?
Fernando. Youre to fetch them into the
inn, I tell you. This is the end of our jour-
ney ; do you hear ?
Servant. This is ? But you said
Fernando. I tell you: have a room se-
cured and bring my bags to it.
(Exit Servant.
Fernando. (Going to the window.) And
do I see thee again ? Heavenly prospedl!
Do I see thee again? Scene of all my fe-
licity How silent is the house! Not a
window open! How empty the balcony
whereon we so often sat together! Fer-
nando, behold the cloister-like air of her
dwelling; how it flatters thy hopes! And
can it be that in her loneliness Fernando is
the objedl of her thoughts, of her occupation?
And has he deserved it of her? Oh it seems
to me as if I had awakened into life again
after a long, cold, joyless death-sleep; so
novel, so significant is everything! The trees,
the fountains, everything, everything Even
now the water runs from the pipes just as it
did when Iah how many thousand times,
gazed thoughtfully from our window and saw
all things silently reflected in the running
waters. The voice of the fountain is melody
to me, thought-transporting melody! And
she? She will be as she used to be! Yes,
Stella, thou hast not changed; my heart tells
me truly. How it beats in response to thine!
How its beating urges me toward thee But
I will not, I dare not! I must first recover,
must first persuade myself that I am adlually
here, that I am not deceived by the dream
which so often, when I slept and when I
waked, brought me hither from the farthest
regions of the earth. Stella! Stella! I am
coming! Dost thou not already feel my
presence? In thy arms all shall be forgotten !
And if thou hoverest about me, beloved shade
of my unlucky wife, forgive me, depart from
me Thou art gone; so let me forget thee,
forget everything in the arms of this angel
my fate, all my loss, my sorrows and my re-
pentance I am so near to thee and yet so
far! And in a single momentI cannot, I
cannot! I must recover myself or I shall suffo-
cate at her feet!
Enter Landlady.
Landlady. Would you like something to
eat, sir?
Fernando. Is dinner ready ?
Landlady. Oh, yes we are only waiting
for a young lady who has gone across to the
gracious ladys.
188


Fernando. And how is her ladyship?
Landlady. Do you know her?
Fernando. A few years ago I used to be
there a great deal. How is her husband ?
Landlady. Heaven only knows! He is
somewhere in the wide world !
Fernando. What! gone?
Landlady. Fa6t! He has deserted the
poor lady God forgive him !
Fernando. She will soon learn to console
herself.
Landlady. Do you think so, indeed?
Then you cant know her very well. She
lives as close as a nun ever since Ive known
her. Almost no one, nobody in the neighbor-
hood, comes to visit her. She lives with her
people, keeps all the children of the village
attached to her, and except for her secret
sorrow, is always friendly and pleasant.
Fernando. I am going to see her, however!
Landlady. I would. Oftentimes she has
invited us, that is, the bailiffs wife and the
pastors wife and me, and she likes to discuss
all sorts of questions with us. But faith, we
avoid speaking of her husband, the baron !
It happened we reminded her of him one day.
God knows how we felt when she fell to and !
began to speak of him, to praise him and to I
cry about him. My dear sir, we all wept like
children, and we could hardly get over it.
Fernando. (Aside.) Hast thou deserved
this of her! (Aloud.) Does my servant
know which my room is?
Landlady. Up one flight, number two !
Carl, show the gentleman his room.
[Exit Fernando with the lad.
Enter Lucy and Annie.
Landlady. Well, how was it ?
Lucy. She is a lovely little woman and I
shall get along with her very well. You have
not praised her too highly. She did not want
to let me go. She made me promise by all
that is holy that I would bring my mother and
my things right over after dinner.
Landlady. I thought it would turn out so.
Would you like to dine right away ? Only a
tall, handsome officer has just come; but you
need not be afraid of him.
Lucy. Not in the least! I like to have
soldiers around better than anyone else. At
least they dont set themselves up to know
how to read peoples characters at first sight.
Is my mother asleep ?
Landlady. I dont know.
Lucy. I must go and look after her. (Exit.
Landlady. Carl! there youve gone and
forgotten the saltcellar again. What kind of
work do you call that? And just look at the
glasses! Id smash one or two over your head
if they didnt cost more than you are worth.
Enter Fernando.
Landlady. The young lady has got back.
She will be down to dinner right away.
Fernando. Who is she?
Landlady. I am not acquainted with her.
| She seems to be of good birth but without
means: she is going to be ladys companion
to the baroness.
Fernando. She is young?
Landlady. Very young and pert. Her
mother is here tooup stairs.
Enter Lucy.
Lucy. Your humble servant, sir.
Fernando. I am fortunate to have such a
charming companion at dinner.
[Lucy makes a courtesy.
Landlady. Sit here, mademoiselle And
will you take this place, sir ?
Fernando. Shall we not have the honor
of your company, good mistress ?
Landlady. Ah, no; if I rest, everything
rests. (Exit.
Fernando. So we shall have a tgte-a-tete!
Lucy. With the table between us, I can
endure it.
Fernando. So you have determined to be
companion to the baroness?
Lucy. Ive got to be.
Fernando. It seems to me that you ought
to be able to be a companion to some one who
would be more entertaining than the baroness.
Lucy. I have no wav of finding such.
Fernando. But your charming face?
Lucy. I see that you are like all other men !
Fernando. That means?
Lucy. Why just this, you are all very as-
suming. You think that you are indispensable;
but I dont think so, I grew up without men.
Fernando. Then your father is dead?
Lucy. I can scarcely remember that I ever
had one. I was young when he left us to
undertake a journey to America and the news
came that his ship was wrecked.
Fernando. And you seem to care so little
about him.
Lucy. Why should I care ? He never did
much to win my love; and even if I forgave
him for deserting us, what does a man care
for except his freedom? Yet I would not


be in my mothers place, who is dying with
grief.
Fernando. And you are without resources,
without protectors?
Lucy. What is the difference? Our prop-
erty has grown smaller day after day, and all
the time I have been growing larger; and I
am not sorry to support my mother.
Fernando. Your courage astonishes me !
Lucy. Ah, sir, it comes with trial. When
you have several times been threatened with
ruin and every time been saved, it inspires
confidence.
Fernando. And cant you communicate
some of it to your dear mother ?
Lucy. Alas! it is she who has met the loss
and not I. I thank my father that I was born
into the world, for I am happy and contented;
but she !who hoped for nothing in life ex-
cept from him, and who offered up to him the
flower of her youth and was desertedsud-
denly deserted !Oh, it must be something
dreadful to feel yourself deserted!I have
never lost anything; I cannot speak about
it.You seem to be pondering.
Fernando. Yes, my dear, he who lives
may lose (standing up); but he may also win.
And so may God preserve to you your courage!
(He takes her hand.) You have astonished
me Oh, my child, how fortunate you are!
In my experience with the world oftentimes
my hopes, my joys haveyet there isand
Lucy. What do you mean ?
Fernando. Everything that is good the
best, the warmest wishes for your happiness!
(Exit.
Lucy. That is a most extraordinary man!
Still he seems to be good !


Stella and Servant.
Stella. Go right over, go just as quick as
you can Tell her I am waiting for her.
Servant. She promised to come imme-
diately.
Stella. But you see she has not come yet.
I have taken a great fancy to the young girl.
Go !and have her mother come with her.
[Exit Servant.
Stella. I can hardly wait till she conies!
How one wishes and hopes for a new face
such as hers to make its appearance Stella!
thou art a child And yet why should I not
love ? I need much, very much to satisfy this
heart of mine! Much? Poor Stella Much?
When in other days, he still loved thee,
when his head lay on thy bosom, his glances
filled thy whole soul; and O God in
heaven! thy decrees are past finding out!
When in the midst of his kisses I turned my
eyes to Thee, when my heart glowed as it was
pressed against his, and with trembling lips I
drank in his great spirit, and then looked up
with tears of joy to Thee and from a full heart
spoke to Thee, prayed to Thee, saying:
Father, let us be happy still; Thou hast
made us so happy! But it was not Thy will.
(For a moment she is lost in thought, then
quickly starts up, and presses her hands to her
heart.) No Fernando, no I did not mean
to reproach thee!
Enter Madame Sommer and Lucy.
Stella. Now I have you! Thou, dear
maiden, thou art henceforth mine! Madame,
I thank you for the confidence which you have
shown in placing in my hands such a treasure!
The little witch, the frank, open heart! I have
already begun to learn of thee, Lucy!
Madame Sommer. You appreciate what I
bring you and leave with you.
Stella. (After a pause in which she gazes
at Madame Sommer.) Forgive me! I already
know your story; I know that I am talking
with people of good family; but your pres-
ence surprises me. At the first moment I feel
confidence and respect toward you.
Madame Sommer. Gracious lady!
Stella. Dont speak of it! What my heart
recognizes, my lips willingly confess. I hear
that you are not well; tell me how you are.
Do sit down !
Madame Sommer. But, your ladyship, this
journey in the springtime, the changing scenery,
and this pure, invigorating air, which has so
often before filled me with new and blessed
energyall have worked wonders for me, so
that even the memory of departed joys became
a pleasure to me, so that I saw a reflection of
the golden days of youth and of love kindle
in my soul!
Stella. Yes, the days of love! the first
days of love !No, thou golden age, thou hast
not yet gone back to heaven! thou still fillest
every heart in those moments when the flower
of love unfolds!
Madame Sommer. (Seizing her hands.)
How grand How charming !
Stella. Your face glows like the face of
an angel, the color mantles in your cheeks!
Madame Sommer. Ah, and my heart!
how it swells! how it yearns toward you!
Stella. You have loved! Oh, thank
191


^ Stella. /
God a creature that understands me! that
can have pity upon me, and that looks with
sympathy upon my sorrows! It is no fault of
ours that we are as we are Have I not done
everything, tried every means? Yes! but
what good did it do ? It must be thisnothing
but thisand no worldand nothing else in
the world.Ah, the loved one is everywhere
and all things are for the loved one.
Madame Sommer. You have a heaven in
your soul!
Stella. Before I am aware, here is his
image again !Thus he stood up in this or
that company and looked around for me.
Thus he came galloping across yonder field,
and when he reached the garden gate threw
himself into my arms.Out of this door I
saw him depart, depart! ah and he returned
again, he returned to his watching love !If I
turn my thoughts to the bustle of the world
he is there! If I sat in the box I was sure,
wherever he might be hidden, whether I saw
him or not, that he was watching all my mo-
tions and loved me! my downsitting and my
uprising! I felt that the waving of my feather
plumes attradled him more than all the shining
eyes around him, and that all the music was
only the melody of the everlasting song of his
heart: Stella! Stella! how dear to me thou
art!
Lucy. Is it possible that people can love
each other so ?
Stella. Dost thou ask, little one? Then
I cannot answer thee!But how am I enter-
taining you?Trivialitiesimportant trivial-
ities!Truly I am nothing but a grown up
child, and yet it is so enjoyable. Just as
children hide their faces behind their aprons
and cry Peek-a-boo, so that their friends
will hunt for them!How it fills our hearts,
if we have had a quarrel and jealously resolve
to leave the object of our love, and with what
distortions of the strong soul do we come into
his presence again How our bosoms are torn
this way and that! and how at last at one
glance, at one pressure of the hand everything
is all made up again !
Madame Sommer. How happy you are !
You still live in the feeling of the freshest,
purest humanity.
Stella. A millennium of tears and sor-
rows could not counterbalance the bliss of
the first glance, the thrills, the broken words,
the presence, the abandonment, the very self
forgetfulness, the first timid, fiery kiss, and
the. first peacefully breathing embrace.Ma-
! dame! you are lost in reverie! Why so deeply
absorbed ?
Madame Sommer. O men men !
Stella. They make us happy and wretched !
With what foretaste of bliss do they not fill
i our hearts! What new, unknown feelings and
hopes swell our souls when their stormy pas-
sion communicates itself to each of our ting-
ling nerves How often have I trembled and
thrilled all over when with unrestrained tears
he filled my heart with a world of sorrows!
I besought him for Gods sake to spare him-
selfto spare mein vain Through the
inmost marrow he kindled such flames as
swept through his being! And thus the
maiden from the crown of her head to the
sole of her feet became all heart, all feeling!
And where is now the zone under heaven suit-
able for this creature to breathe the vital air
and to find nourishment?
Madame Sommer. We believe in men In
the moment of passion they deceive their own
hearts, why then should we not be deceived ?
Stella. Madame a thought occurs to me!
We will be to one another what they ought
to have been to us! We will remain together!
Your hand! From this moment I will not
let you go!
Lucy. That will not do at all.
Stella. Why not, dear Lucy?
Madame Sommer. My daughter feels that
Stella. That this proposition is not a wise
one? Oh, just consider what a benefit you
would do me if you stayed Oh, I cannot be
alone! My darling, I have done everything,
I have kept hens and cattle and dogs; I teach
the little girls to sew and to make embroidery,
just for the sake of not being alone, just for
the sake of seeing something beside my own
self, that is alive and growing. And then
again, when I am lucky enough, when the
gods seem to have relieved my soul of pain,
some bright spring morning when I wake up
full of peace, and the dear sun shines through
my gleaming trees, and amid the duties of the
day I feel industrious and joyous, then 1 spend
quite a time ordering and diredling things and
teaching my servants, and in the freedom of
my heart I speak my thanks aloud to Heaven
for such happy hours.
Madame Sommer. Ah, yes, your ladyship,
I sympathize with you! Occupation and
charity are gifts from heaven, a compensa-
tion for loving hearts that are unhappy.
Stella. Not compensation makeshift,
something instead of what has been lost, but
192


not the lost itself. Lost love l where can a
compensation for it be found? Oh, when
time and again I sink from thought to thought,
bringing up the blissful dreams of the past be-
fore my soul, yearning for a future full of hope,
and thus in the flooding moonlight wander up
and down my garden, then all of a sudden I
am seized, seized with the feeling that I am all
alone, and I stretch out my arms vainly to the
four winds, expressing the magic of love with
a force, a fervor so great that it seems to me
as if I could drag the moon from the sky
and I am alone, no voice replies to me from
the copse, and the stars look down upon ray
torments with cold, changeless glances 1 And
then with the grave of my baby at my feet
Madame Sommer. You had a baby?
Stella. Yes, dearest! O God, thou didst
allow me only to taste of this felicity in order
to prepare for me a bitter cup all my days.
When even a peasant child comes running
along barefooted on the walk and throws me
a kiss and looks at me with her great innocent
eyes, it goes to my very soul I think my
Mina was just her age. I lift her with love
and anguish and kiss her a hundred times; my
heart is torn, the tears gush from my eyes and
I hasten away.
Lucy. But you have so much the less an-
no vance.
Stella ( Smiling and patting her shoulder.)
How deeply I still feel the pain Strange that
349
193


the terrible moments did not kill me She
lay before me! the flower was gathered and
I stood with my heart turned to stonewith-
out pain, without consciousness, I stood! Then
the nurse took up the child, pressed it to her
heart and suddenly cried : It lives I fell
upon her, threw my arms around her neck,
and wept a thousand tears upon her face, at
her feet. Alas, she was deceived Dead she
lay there, and I close by in maddening, hor-
rible despair!
[She throws herself into a chair.
Madame Sommer. Turn your thoughts
from those melancholy scenes!
Stella. No, it is good indeed for me to
unburden my heart once more, to prattle away
the weight of sorrow that has oppressed me so
long Yes, if I am going to speak again of
him who used to be all in all to me !who
you must see his portrait!his portrait!Oh,
it always seems to me that the form of man is
the best text for all that can be felt and said
about him !
Lucy. I am full of curiosity !
Stella. ( Opening her cabinet and leading
them in.) Here, my friends here !
Madame Sommer. God !
Stella. Yes, yes! and yet it does not give
a thousandth part of an idea of him as he
really was. That brow, those black eyes, these
brown curls, that earnest face But alas! the
painter could not express the love and the
friendliness that he showed when his soul
overflowed Oh, my heart, thou alone canst
feel that!
Lucy. Madame, I am astonished !
Stella. He was indeed a man !
Lucy. I must tell you that this very day I
ate dinner with an officer over at the inn who
was the image of this gentleman. Oh it
must be the same person I would wager my
life that it was !
Stella. To-day? Thou art deceived!
thou art deceiving me!
Lucy. Yes, to-day! It was the same, only
older and more sunburned. Oh, it was! it was !
Stella. (Pulling the bell-cord.) Lucy!
my heart is bursting I will go right over !
Lucy. It would not be suitable !
Stella. Suitable Oh, my heart!
Enter Servant.
Stella. Henry, go right over to the inn !
Go right away There is an officer there,
who must bewho isLucy, tell himhave
him come right over !
Lucy. Did you know the baron ?
Servant. As well as my own self.
Lucy. Then go over to the inn; there is
an officer there who bears an extraordinary
resemblance to him. Find out if I have been
deceived. Id take my oath it is he!
Stella. Tell him that he must come here!
come quick! quick! Could I endure this?
If in this I haveoh, no, thou hast deceived
thyself! It is impossible!Leave me, my
friends leave me alone.
[57* Lucy. What is the matter, mother? how
pale you are!
Madame Sommer. This is the last day of
my life My heart cannot bear this All,
all at once.
Lucy. Great God !
Madame Sommer. My husbandthe por-
trait the long-expected the long-loved!
That is my husband That is your father !
Lucy. Mother dearest mother !
Madame Sommer. And he is here !will
take her into his arms in a moment or two!
And we ?Lucy, we must hurry away !
Lucy. Anywhere you wish.
Madame Sommer. Right away !
Lucy. Come into the garden I am going
back to the inn. If only the stage has not
gone yet, we can get away without the for-
mality of leavetaking. Meantime she is in-
toxicated with her good fortune.
Madame Sommer. Embracing him in all
the bliss of seeing him againhim And I
in the very moment of finding him again
forever, forever !
Fernando enters with Servant.
Servant. This way, sir! Do you not
recognize your library again? She is beside
herself! Ah to think that you are back !
[Fernando passes without seeing the ladies.
Madame Sommer. Tis he tis he!I am
lost!

i94


ACT III.
Stella joyously entering with Fernando.
Stella. (To the walls.) He is here again !
Do ye see him ? He is here again ( Coming
before the pitture of Venus.) Dost thou see
him, goddess? He is here again How many
times have I not run up and down before thee
like one mad and wept and mourned before
thee He is here again I do not trust my
senses. Goddess! I have looked upon thee
so often when he was not here! Now thou
art here and he too is here Dearest! dearest!
Thou wert long away, but thou art here now.
(Falling into his arms.) Thou art here! I
wish to leel nothing, hear nothing, know
nothing else except that thou art here again !
Fernando Stella my Stella (Holding
her close.) God in heaven, thou givest me
back the power to weep once more!
Stella. Oh, thou only one !
Fernando. Stella, let me drink in thy
sweet breath again, thy breathin comparison
with which the air of heaven is dull and un-
refreshing.
Stella. Dearest!
Fernando. Breathe new love into this
parched, storm-tossed, ruined heartnew love,
new life-enjovment from the abundance of thy
heart! [He presses a kiss upon her mouth.
Stella. Best!
Fernando. How invigorating! how in-
vigorating Here where thou breathest.
*95


everything is imbued with most satisfying
young life. Love and abiding troth would
here enchain the wasted wanderer.
Stella. Thou enthusiast!
Fernando. Thou dost not know what
heavenly dew it is to the thirsty one who
comes back to thy bosom from the barren,
desert world !
Stella. And the bliss of poor me, Fer-
nando, to press to her heart again her long-
lost, wandering, only lamb !
Fernando. (At her feet.) My Stella!
Stella. Up, my dearest! arise I cannot
bear to see thee kneel.
Fernando. Oh, let me As I bend before
thee on my knees, so my heart lies before thee,
thou infinite love and goodness!
Stella. I hold thee againI do not re-
cognize myself, I do not understand my own
heart! What has really happened ?
Fernando. It is to me as it was in the first
moments of our bliss. I have thee in my
arms, from thy lips I imbibe the reality of thy
love! I reel and am drunken with passion,
and in amaze I ask myself whether I wake or
dream.
Stella. Now, Fernando, as I can well per-
ceive, thou hast not been wise!
Fernando. God forefend !But these
moments of bliss in thy arms restore me again
to goodness, to virtue. I can pray, Stella,
for I am happy!
Stella. God forgive you that you are such
an unsettled and yet such a good man May
the God who made thee forgive theethat
thou art so inconstant and so true !When I
hear the accents of thy voice, then it seems
to me that it must be the same Fernando
who cared for nothing in all the world but
me!
Fernando. And when I gaze into thy
sweet blue eyes and lose myself in their
depths, it seems to me as if during all the
time of my absence no other image had dwelt
there but mine.
Stella. Thou art not mistaken.
Fernando. Can it be?
Stella. I would confess to you! Did I
not in the first days of my full love for you
make thee my confessor for all the petty griefs
that touched my heart? And didst thou not
love me all the more for it ?
Fernando. Thou angel!
Stella. Why dost thou look at me so ? I
have grown older, have I not? Sorrow has
faded the bloom of my cheeks, has it not ?
Fernando. Thou rose! my sweet flower'.
Stella! Why dost thou shake thy head?
Stella. How is it that one can love you
so?Why can we not reckon up the pains
that you cause our hearts?
Fernando. (Stroking her curls.) Let us
see if we can find a single gray hair!It is
thy fortune that thou art so blonde without
turning gray. And, indeed, it seems to be
just as thick as ever. (He pulls out the comb
and the lochs fall in voluminous waves.)
Stella. Mischievous!
Fernando. (Twining his arms in them.)
Rinaldo again in his ancient chains!
Enter Servant.
Servant. Your ladyship!
Stella. What is the matter? Your face
looks cross and stern! You know that such
expressions are the death of me when I am
happy!
Servant. But excuse me, your ladyship!
The two strangers are preparing to go.
Stella. Togo? Alas!
Servant. Tis as I told you! I saw the
daughter going over to the inn, and then she
came back and spoke to her mother. And
then 1 asked about it over there and they told
me that an extra stage had been ordered be-
cause the stage had already gone. I then had
a talk with them; the mother with tears in her
eyes begged me to send their things over to
them as secretly as possible and that I should
express their best wishes for the gracious lady;
they could not remain longer !
P'ernando. Is it the lady who with her
daughter came to-day?
Stella. I was going to take the daughter
into my service and keep the mother too !
Oh, why should they cause all this worry just
at this time, Fernando?
Fernando. What is the matter with them?
Stella. Heaven only knows! I dont
know anything about it. I dont want to lose

them!Yet I have thee, Fernando! If I
had not, I should perish at this dilemma!
Speak with them, Fernando; dont wait a
minute !Persuade the mother .to come back,
Henry (Exit Servant.)Speak with her !
She shall have every liberty.Fernando, I
will go into the arboreum! Follow me!
follow me! Ye nightingales, ye shall now
welcome him !
Fernando. Loveliest love !
Stella. (Clinging to him.) And wilt
thou come soon ?


Fernando. Immediately! Immediately!
[Exit Stella.
Fernando. (Alone.) Angel of heaven!
How joyous in her presence everything be-
comes, how free !Fernando, dost thou know
thyself? All that oppressed this heart is gone;
every care, every painful recollection of what
has been and what might have been !Will
ye return again ?And yet when I see thee,
when I hold thy hand, Stella! all vanishes,
every other image in my heart is blotted out.
Enter Steward.
Steward. (Kissing Fernandos hand.)
And have you come back again ?
Fernando. (Withdrawing his hand.) You
see me!
Steward. Let me let me O gracious
master!
Fernando. Has all gone well with thee ?
Steward. My wife is still alive, I have two
childrenand you are home again !
Fernando. And how hast thou managed
the estate?
Steward. So that I am ready to lay down
my reckoning. You will be surprised to see
how we have improved the property.But may
I inquire how it has gone with you?
Fernando. Silence !But ought I not to
tell thee all? Thou art worthy of my confi-
dence, old comrade in my youthful follies.
Steward. Thank God that you were not
a pirate chieftain; at a word from you I would
have applied the torch and set the flames!
Fernando. Thou shalt hear !
Steward. Your wife? your daughter?
Fernando. I have failed to find them. I
did not dare to go to the city; but from abso-
lutely reliable sources I learn that she placed
confidence in a merchant who proved to be a
false friend and enticed from her, under the
promise of heavier interest, the money which
I left her! He deceived her. Making the
pretext of going into the country she left the
neighborhood and disappeared, and apparently
is gaining a precarious livelihood by the labor
of her hands and her daughters. You know
she had courage and character enough to em-
bark in any such enterprise.
Steward. And you are back again. How
can we forgive you for being gone so long!
Fernando. I have made a long journey
of it.
Steward. If I had not been so happy at
home with my wife and children, I should
envy you the way that you have travelled
about the world. Shall you remain with us
now?
Fernando. God willing!
Steward. There is after all nothing so
satisfactory and nothing so good.
Fernando. Yes, who could forget the good
old times?
Steward. And yet amid all our pleasure
they brought much trouble. I remember per-
fectly well how lovely we found Cecilia, how
we urged our suit upon her, and could not be
hasty enough in making way with our youthful
freedom!
Fernando. Yet it was a happy, fortunate
epoch in my life !
Steward. How she brought us a gay,
lively little daughter, but at the same time she
lost much of her sprightliness and much of
her charm.
Fernando. Pray spare me this biography!
Steward. How we looked around us
here and there and everywhere, and how we
at last found this angel, and how there was not
any more said about coming and going, but
how we had to decide which of the two we
would make wretched; and how at last, when
it seemed convenient, and the chance offered
itself to sell the estates, and how when we got
out of it with much loss, we abduCted the
angel and banished to this spot the beautiful
child who did not know herself or the world.
Fernando. It seems to me that thou art
as full of prattle and inclined to preach as
thou wert of yore!
Steward. Have I not had the chance to
learn ? Have I not been the confidant of your
conscience? When you wanted to get away
from hereI dont know whether it was from
pure desire to find your wife and daughter
again, or because of some mental unresthow I
had to be your assistant in more ways than one.
Fernando. This time I forgive thee !
Steward. Only stay with us and all will
be well! [Exit.
Enter Servant.
Servant. Madame Sommer !
Fernando. Show her in [Exit Servant.
Fernando. (Alone.) This woman makes
me melancholy. How true it is that there is
nothing whole, nothing pure in the world!
This woman Her daughters courage has dis-
turbed me; what effeCt will her sorrow have?
Enter Madame Sommer.
Fernando. (Aside.) O God! and even
350
197


her figure also must recall my past! O heart!
my heart! Oh, when it lies within thee so to
feel and so to act, why hast thou not strength
also to pardon what has been done to thee?
A shade of the image of my wife !Oh, where
do I not see thee! (Aloud.) Madame !
Madame Sommer. What is your command,
sir?
Fernando. I should like to engage your
services as companion to my Stella and to me.
Pray take a seat!
Madame Sommer. The presence of the
sorrowful is burdensome to those who are
happy, and alas! still more so is the happy to
the sorrowful!
Fernando. I do not understand you. Can
you have misjudged Stella? she who is all love,
all divine !
Madame Sommer. Sir, I wish to go away
in secrecy! Permit me I must go Be per-
suaded that I have reasons! But I beg of you
to let me go !
Fernando. (Aside.) What voice is that!
What form (To Cecilia.) Madame! (He
turns away.) God it is my wife! (Aloud.)
Pardon me! (Exit in haste.
Madame Sommer. (Alone.) He knew me!
I thank thee, 0 God, that thou hast given my
heart so much strength at this moment! Is it
I, the torn and crushed, who at this critical
hour am so full of peace and courage ? O Thou
kind and infinite Protector, Thou dost take
from our hearts nothing except to give it back
again at the hour when it is most needed !
Re-enter Fernando.
Fernando. (Aside.) Can she have re-
cognized me? (Aloud.) I beg you, madame,
I implore you to open your heart to me!
Madame Sommer. You would like me to
tell you my story, and how is it possible that
you should be disposed to listen to sorrow and
lamentation on a day when all the joys of life
are given to you again, when you have once
again given all the joys of life to the best of
women? No, sir, let me go !
Fernando. I beseech you !
Madame Sommer. How gladly would I
spare yourself and me! The memory of the
first happy days of my life gives me deathly pain.
Fernando. You have not always been un-
happy ?
Madame Sommer. No ; for then I should j
not be so unhappy as I am now. (After a !
pause, with calmness.) My youthful days
were bright and joyous. I know not what
igS
there was in me that attracted men; a numer-
ous throng wanted to ingratiate themselves
with me. For a few I felt friendship, affec-
tion ; yet was there none with whom I could
have brought myself to unite my life. And
thus passed the fortunate days of rosy-colored
diversionsdays of happiness that were
seemingly endless. And yet there was some-
thing wanting. When I looked deeper into
my life, and anticipated the joys and sorrows
that must come to men, then I longed for a
husband whose hand should lead me through
the world, who in return for the love which
my young heart could offer him would be in
old age my friend, my protestor, and take the
place of my parents whom for his sake I left.
Fernando. And now?
Madame Sommer. Alas! I saw the man!
I saw him, on whom in the early days of our
acquaintance I concentrated all my hopes. The
vivacity of his mind seemed united with such
sincerity of heart that my heart quickly dis-
closed itself to him, that I gave him my friend-
ship, and alas! how quickly followed it with
my love. God in heaven, when his head
rested on my breast, how did he not seem to
thank Thee for the place that Thou hadst pre-
pared for him in my arms! How eagerly he
hastened from the tumult of care back to me
again, and how in sad hours did I not find
consolation on his heart!
Fernando. What could have destroyed
this lovely bond ?
Madame Sommer. Nothing is steadfast!
Alas! he loved, loved me as certainly as I
loved him. There was a time when he thought
of nothing, dreamed of nothing but to see me
happy, to make me happy. That was, alas!
the brightest period of my life, the first years
of a relationship, when a slight ill-humor, a
trifling ennui caused us more sorrow than
if they had been real evils. Alas! he led
me along the painful path in order to leave
me solitary in an empty, fearful wilderness.
Fernando. (More and more confused.)
And how? His feelings, his heart?
. Madame Sommer. Can we know what
goes on in the heart of man ? I did not
notice that little by little everything was
growinghow shall I call it ?not more in-
different; that I cannot say. He still loved
me, loved me But he wanted more than my
j love. I had to share in his wishes, perhaps
with a rival. I did not spare him my re-
proaches, and at last
Fernando. Was it possible that he


Madame Sommer. He left me. There is
no name that befits the grief that I felt! All
my hopes annihilated in one moment! in the
moment when I was expecting to harvest the
fruits of the flowers that I had offeredde-
serted !deserted All the stays of the human
heart: love, trust, honor, position, daily in-
creasing property, the charge of a numerous,
well cared-for posterity, everything at once
fell before me in ruin, and Iand the unfor-
tunate pledge of our love which was left me
a deathlike sorrow followed close upon the
raging pain, and the heart which had ceased
to weep, given over to despair, sank into
apathy. The succession of blows which re-
duced the estate of a poor deserted creature,
I did not perceive, I did not feel, until at
last I
Fernando. The guilty man !
Madame Sommer. ( With restrained melan-
choly.) No, he is not!I commiserate the
man who is attached to a maiden.
Fernando. Madame!
Madame Sommer. ( With mild banter to hide
her emotion.) Certainly not! I look upon
him as a captive. They always say that it is
so. He is removed from his world into ours
with which he has nothing in common. He
deceives himself for a time, and woe to us if
his eyes are opened After all I could be in
his eyes only a blameless housewife who clung
to him with the most strenuous endeavor, who
tried to be agreeable to him, to be careful for
him, who dedicated all her days to the advan-
tage of her house, of her child, and indeed
had to devote herself to such petty duties, that
her heart and head often grew wild that she
could be no entertaining companion, that he
with the liveliness of his disposition could not
help finding her society stupid. He is not to
blame!
Fernando. (At her feet.) I am he !
Madame Sommer. ( With a torrent of tears,
on his neck.) My!
Fernando. Cecilia!My wife !
Cecilia. (Turning from him.) Not mine!
You would leave me, my heart. (Again on
his neck.) Fernando !Whoever thou art
let these tears of one who sorrows flow on thy
bosom Hold me for this moment and then
leave me forever !It is not thy wife !Re-
pulse me not!
Fernando. God!Cecilia, thy tears on
my cheeksthe trembling of thy heart on
mine !Spare me spare me !
Cecilia. I ask nothing, Fernando !Only
this moment!Grant my heart this relief! it
will be calm, strong! Thou shalt be free from
me
Fernando. My life shall be dissevered
ere I leave thee!
Cecilia. I shall see thee again, but not upon
this earth! Thou belongest to another from
whom I cannot tear thee !Open, open heaven
for me! One glance into that holy distance,
into that everlasting abiding place! There
alone is consolation at this terrible moment.
Fernando. (Seizing her by the hand, gazing
into her eyes, embracing her.) Nothing, noth-
ing in the world shall separate me from thee.
I have found thee again.
Cecilia. Found what thou didst not seek.
Fernando. Spare me! spare me!Yes, I
have sought thee; thee, my poor deserted one,
my faithful heart! I found even in the arms
of this angel here no rest, no joy; everything
reminded me of thee, of thy daughter, of my
Lucy. Merciful heavens! What joy! Can
it be that this lovely creature is my daughter?
I have sought thee everywhere. Three years
I wandered from place to place. On the spot
where we had lived I found, alas! our dwelling
changed, in the hands of strangers, and I
learned the sad story of the loss of thy prop-
erty. Thy disappearance tore my heart; I
could find no trace of thee, and weary of my-
self, of life, I disguised myself in these clothes,
took foreign service, helped suppress the dying
freedom of the noble Corsicans, and now thou
seest me here, after long and wonderful wan-
derings, on thy heart, my dearest, my best
wife.
Enter Lucy.
Fernando. Oh, my daughter!
Lucy. Dearest, best father. If you are my
father indeed !
Fernando. Always and ever!
Cecilia. And Stella?
Fernando. Herein we must act quickly.
The unfortunate soul! Why, Lucy, could
we not have recognized each other this
morning?My heart beat fast; thou knowest
how moved I was when I left thee. Why was
it ? why was it ?Stella! we might have spared
her all these pangs!Yet we will away! I
will tell her that thou insisted on going away,
that thou wouldst not pain her with a farewell,
and would take thy departure. And thou,
Lucy, hasten over! Have a post-chaise for
three persons put in readiness. My servant
shall pack up my things with thine. Thou
199


shalt stay over here, dearest, most precious
wife! And thou, my daughter, when all is
arranged, come back and wait in the large
room of the summer-housewait for me I
will free myself from her, tell her that I am
going to escort thee over, provide for thy de-
departure and pay the bill for thee.Poor
soul, how could I deceive thee with thy good-
ness !We will away !
Cecilia. Away?Just one word of reason !
Fernando. Away! let it be so! Yes, my
dear ones, we will away !
[Exit Cecilia and Lucy.
Fernando. (Atone.) Away?'Whither?
whither?A dagger stroke would clear the
way for all these pains and hurl me into that
dull insensibility for which now I would give
everything. Art thou here, thou miserable
man ? Remember the happy days when thou
didst stand in strong sufficiency against the
wretch who would throw away lifes burden !
How didst thou feel in those fortunate days
and now?Yes, the fortunate, the fortunate!
Had this discovery come an hour earlier
I should have been saved! I should never
have seen her again, nor she me; I could have
persuaded myself: She has forgotten thee in
these four years, has conquered her sorrow.
But now! How shall I appear before her?
what can I tell her? Oh, my sin, my sin
weighs heavy upon me at this moment! Both
these dear ones deserted And I, at the mo-
ment when I find them again, deserted by
myself! wretched Oh, my heart!
200


ARTIST : R. SCHICK.
STELLA.
MADAME SOMMER AND FERNANDO
7//T4


ACT IV.
Hermitage in Stellas Garden.
Stella. (Alone.) Beautiful thou bloomest,
more beautiful than of yore, dear, dear spot
of everlasting rest so oft desired! But thou
dost no longer entice me. I tremble before
theecool, loose earth, I tremble before thee !
Ah how often in hours of fancy would I
have wrapped my head and breast resolutely in
the mantle of death, and stood calmly on the
edge and stepped into thy depths and buried
my aching heart under thy living covering.
Then shouldst thou, Corruption, like a dear
child, suckle this overflowing, oppressed bosom,
and release my whole being in a kindly dream.
And now, sun of the heaven, thou shinest
upon me !It is so light, so open around me,
and I rejoice at it!He is here again !and
in an instant Nature stands full of love around
meand I am all lifeand new, warmer, more
glowing life will I drink from his lips!To
himby himwith him to dwell in lasting
strength Fernando !He comes! Hark !
No, not yet!Here shall he find me, here at
my altar of roses, under my rose arbor. These
buds will I pluck for him.Here! here And
then will I lead him into this bower. Well,
well was it that I had it constructed for two,
narrow though it be. Here my book was wont
to lie, my writing materials to stand !Get
ye gone, book and writing!Would that he
were here.Again deserted !Have I him
again? Is he here?
Enter Fernando.
Stella. Where didst thou remain, thou best
of men? Where wast thou? I was long, long
alone ! (Troubled.) What was the matter?
Fernando. Those women have put me out
of humor.The elder is an excellent woman;
but she will not stay, will give no reason, but
insists upon hastening away. Let her go, Stella!
Stella. If she is not to be moved, I do
not want to keep her against her will. And,
Fernando, I needed companionshipbut now
(on his neck), now, Fernando, I have thee!
351
201


Fernando. Calm thyself! |
Stella. Let me weep I would that the j
day were past. Even now all my limbs are ,
in a tremble !Jov !All unexpected, sud-
denly !Thee, Fernando!It is almost too
much, too much I shall die amid it all!
Fernando. (Aside.) Wretched man that I
am Desert her! (Aloud.) Leave me, Stella!
Stella. It is thy voice, thy loving voice !
Stella, Stella! Thou knowest how gladly I
hear thee say that name Stella! No one ;
else speaks it as thou dost. The whole soul
of love is in the sound How vivid in me is
the remembrance of the day when first I heard
thee utter it, when all my happiness in thee
began !
Fernando. Happiness ?
Stella. I believe that thou art beginning
to count up and regretfully dwell upon the sad
hours that I have spent on account of thee.
Let them go, Fernando, let them go! Oh,
from the moment when I saw thee for the first
time, how everything in my soul was changed !
Dost thou remember that afternoon in my
uncles garden when thou earnest to us? We
were sitting under the great castania tree be-
hind the summer-house.
Fernando. (Aside.) She will rend my
heart! (Aloud.) I see it yet, my Stella!
Stella. Flow thou earnest to us? I know
not whether thou didst notice that at the very
first moment thou didst attradl my gaze? I
at least soon observed that thine eyes sought
me Ah Fernando, when my uncle brought
the music thou didst take thy violin, and as
thou didst play, my eyes rested carelessly on
thee; I spied into every feature of thy counte-
nance, and, at an unexpected moment thou
didst lift up thine eyes and lookat me!
Thine eyes met mine How I blushed, how
I looked away. Thou hadst noticed it, Fer-
nando for from that time I felt that thou
didst often look away from thy notes, didst
often get out of the measure, so that my uncle
was vexed. Every mistake, Fernando, went
through my heart! It was the sweetest con-
fusion that I ever felt in my life For all the
gold of Golconda I could not have looked
thee in the face. I made my escape and went
away.
Fernando. Even to the slightest circum-
stance (Aside.) Unfortunate remembrance!
Stella. I am often astonished at myself
how I love thee, how at every moment in thy
presence I forget myself entirely; yet to have
everything as vividly before me as though it
were but to-day Yes, how often have I told
it over to myself, Fernando How thou didst
seek me! how thou, hand in hand with a
friend whom thou didst learn to know before
me, earnest sweeping through the bosky dale,
and she cried Stella! and thou didst cry
Stella! Stella I had scarcely heard thee
speak and yet I knew thy voice. And when
thou overtookst me and didst take my hand,
who was the more confused, thou or I? One
thing helped the other, and from that moment
onmy good Sara told me that very same
eveningit all took place! And what bliss
in thy arms! If my Sara could have seen my
joy She was a good creature. She wept
much for me when I was so ill, so love-sick!
I would gladly have taken her with me when
for thy sake I left everything.
Fernando. Left everything!
Stella. Does that offend thee ? Is it not
true ? Left everything! Or canst thou in-
terpret the words on Stellas lips as a reproach?
Long is it since I have had a chance to do
enough for thee.
Fernando. Truly! Thy uncle who loved
thee like a father, who treated thee with affec-
tion, whose will was thy will, was not that
much ? The estate, the property, all of which
were thine, would have been thine; was that
nothing? The spot where thou from early youth
hadst lived and enjoyed lifethy sports
Stella. And all that, Fernando, without
thee ? What was all that compared with thy
love ? When thy love first arose in my soul
then did I begin to live Yet I must assure
thee that many times I thought in the lonely
hours: Why could I not enjoy all that and
have his love besides? Why must we fly?
Why not remain in possession of all this?
Could my uncle have denied him my hand?
No !Then why fly? Oh, I have found ex-
cuses enough for thee! for thee! they never
failed to suggest themselves to me Even if it
were a caprice, I saidas you then had number-
less capricesif it were a caprice to keep the
maiden for yourself secretly as pillage! And if
it were pride, to have the maiden so entirely
alone without anything as dowry! Thou canst
imagine that my pride was in no small degree
interested to make out the best case possible !
and thus thou didst accomplish thy plan.
Fernando. I cannot endure it!
Enter Annie.
Annie. Excuse me, gracious lady. Where
are you, captain? Everything is packed and
202


now you only are missing The young lady
has caused so much running and trouble to-
day that it was unendurable; and now you
are missing !
Stella. Go, Fernando, bring them over.
Pay their bill for them, but come right back
again.
Annie. Are you not going with them ?
The young lady has ordered a post-chaise for
three; your servant has certainly packed up
your things!
Stella. Fernando, this is a mistake What
does the girl know ?
Annie. What do I know? Truly it looks
strange that the captain is going off with the
young lady away from your ladyship, since she
made his acquaintance at table That was a
touching parting, when you pressed her hand
and wished a blessing on her!
Stella. (Constrained.) Fernando !
Fernando. This is a mere child !
Annie. Dont you believe him, gracious
lady; everything is all packed up! The gentle-
man is going with them !
Fernando. Whither? whither?
Stella. Leave us, Annie (Exit Annie.)
Save me from this horrible uncertainty. I fear
nothing, and yet this childs chatter troubles
me. Thou art moved, Fernando I am thy
Stella!
Fernando. ( Turning about and seizing her
hand.) Thou art my Stella !
Stella. Thou frightenest me, Fernando !
Thy face is wild !
Fernando. Stella, I am a scoundrel and
a coward and can hide nothing from thee!
Flee! I have not the heart to thrust the
dagger into thy breast and would secretly
poison thee, murder thee Stella!
Stella. For Gods sake !
Fernando. (Trembling with rage.) I can-
not stand thy grief nor hear thy despair! Fly!
Stella. I cannot endure it!
[She almost sinks but clings to him.
Fernando. Stella, whom I hold in my
arms Stella, thou who art all to me Stella!
(Coldly.) I leave thee !
Stella. (Laughing wildly.) Me?
Fernando. ( Gnashing his teeth.) Thee
with the woman whom thou hast seen with
the maiden !
Stella. It is growing dark !
Fernando. And that woman is my wife !
('Stella looks at him without comprehending
and lets her arms fall.) And the maiden is
my daughter Stella ! (He notices for the
first time that she has fallen fainting.) Stella !
(ILe lifts her to a sitting posture.) Stella!
Help help!
Enter Cecilia and Lucy.
Fernando. Behold behold the angel!
she has fled behold !help !
[ They bestir themselves in her behalf.
Lucy. She is coming to !
Fernando. (Looking at her in silence.)
Through thee through thee ! \_Exit.
Stella. Who? who? (Standing up.)
Where is he ? (She sinks back, looking at
those who are assisting her.) Thank you!
thank you !Who are you ?
Cecilia. Calm yourself! It is we !
Stella. You?You are not gone? You
are God! who told me?Who art thou?
Art thou (Seizing Cecilia by the hands.)
No, I cannot endure it !
Cecilia. Best! dearest! I press thee, my
angel, to my heart!
Stella. Tell meit lies deep in my soul
tell meart thou
Cecilia. I amI am his wife !
Stella. (Leaping to her feet, closing her
eyes.) And I?
[She walks bewildered up and down.
Cecilia. Come to your room !
Stella. Why dost thou remind me of it ?
What is mine? Horrible! horrible!Are
these my trees, which I planted, which I
watered ? Why in an instant has everything be-
come so strange?Thrust out!Lost!Lost
forever Fernando Fernando!
Cecilia. Go, Lucy, find thy father !
Stella. For Gods sake! stop! Away!
Let him not come Away with you !Father!
Spouse !
Cecilia. Sweet love!
Stella. Thou lovest me? Thou pressest
me to thy heart?No, no!Leave methrust
me away! ( On her neck.) Yet one moment
more It will be all over so far as I am con-
cerned My heart! my heart!
Lucy. Thou must rest!
Stella. I cannot endure to see you I
have poisoned your life! I have robbed you
of everything! You in misery and Iwhat
bliss in his arms! (She throws herself on her
knees.) Can ye forgive me ?
Cecilia. Dont! dont!
[ They try to lift her up.
Stella. Here will I lie, beg, mourn, be-
fore God and you: Pardon! pardon!
(She springs up.) Pardon?Ye give me con-
203


isolation I am not to blame !Thou gavest
him to me, holy God in heaven! I held him
fast as the dearest gift from Thy handleave
me My heart is breaking !
Cecilia. Thou art innocent! Dear one!
Stella. (On her neck.) I read in thy
eyes, on thy lips heavenly words! Hold me!
Bear me up! I am undone! She forgives me!
She feels for my misery!
Cecilia. Sister! my sister! Calm thyself!
Have faith that He who put these feelings in
our bosoms, these feelings that so often make
us wretched, can also prepare consolation and
help for them.
Stella. Let me die in thy arms!
Cecilia. Come!
Stella. (After a pause, starting tip wildly.')
Leave meall of you! See! a whole world
of perplexities and pain overwhelms my soul
and fills it with unspeakable torments !It is
impossibleimpossible !It is so sudden It
is not to be grasped, not to be borne!
[She stands for a time silently looking down,
in deep reflection, then looks up, gazes at
both of the women, starts back with a
shriek and runs away.
Cecilia. Follow her, Lucy Watch her !
(Exit Lucy. ) Look down upon Thy children
and their perplexities, their griefs!In sor-
sow, I have learned much! Strengthen me !
And if the tangle can be unsolved, holy God
in heaven, let not violence be done!
204


ACT V.
Stellas Library.
In Moonlight.
Stella. (She has Fernandos portrait and
is about to pluck it from the frame.) Fulness
of the night, surround me! possess me! lead
me! I know not whither I am going !I
must! I will away into the wide world!
Whither? Alas! whither? Banished from Thy
creation! Where thou, holy moon, shinest
on the tops of my trees, where thou with thy
terrible dear shadow surroundest my darling
Minas grave, shall I no longer wander? Must
I go from the spot where all the treasures of
my life, all my sacred associations are gath-
ered?And thou, place of my tomb, where-
upon I have rested so often in reverence and
tears, which I consecrated to myself, around
which all the melancholy, all the joy of my
life was dreamed over, where I hoped even
after I should be no more to hover and to find
enjoyment while yearning for the past, must
I be banished from thee?Be banished!
Thou art dazed, thank God! Thy brain is
seared thou canst not grasp itthe thought
of banishment! Thou wouldst lose thy senses!
Well!Oh, I am dizzy!Farewell!Fare-
well!Shall I never see thee again?There
is a death-glance in the feeling! Not see thee
again?Away! Stella! (She seizes the por-
trait.) And must I leave thee behind? (She
takes a knife and begins to pry out the nails.)
Oh, would that I could be free from thought!
Would that I might breathe out my life in
heavy sleep, in rapturous tears! The truth is
and must be that thou art wretched !( Turn-
ing the painting into the moonlight.) Ah Fer-
nando when thou earnest to me, and my
heart sprang to meet thee, didst thou not
place reliance on thy faith, thy goodness!
Didst thou not feel what a sanctuary was ready
for thee, when my heart opened to receive
thee ?And thou didst not shrink back at my
presence ? Thou didst not sink! thou didst
not escape?Thou wast able to pluck my in-
nocence, my happiness, my life, like a flower,
for mere pastime, and cast it aside thought-
lessly upon the way?Noble? ha! noble!
My youthmy golden days!And thou car-
riedst this deep treachery in thy heart!Thy
wife! thy daughter!And my soul was free,
pure as a spring morning !All, all, a hope !
Where art thou, Stella ?( Gazing at the por-
trait.) So great! so flattering!It was this
expression that brought me to ruin !I hate
thee!Away! turn away! So dreamy! so
dear! No, no Spoiler! Me?Me?
Thou ?Me ?(She thrusts the dagger at the
painting.) Fernando! (She turns away,
drops the knife, and with a torrent of tears
kneels before the chair.) Dearest! dearest!
Tis vain, tis vain !
Enter Servant.
Servant. Your ladyship! According to
your command the horses are at the back
garden gate. Your linen is packed Dont
forget to take money.
35 2
205


Stella. The painting! fServant picks tip
the knife and cuts the painting fro?n the frame
and rolls it.) Here is money.
Servant. But why?
Stella. (Standing motionless a moment,
looking up and around.) Come ! [Exit.
Hall.
Fernando. (Alone.) Leave me! leave
me Lo! now it seizes me again with all its
horrible confusion!So chill, so fearful lies
all before meas though the world were
naughtas though I had committed no wrong
therein.And the world Ha I am no
more wretched than you. What have ye to de-
mand of me ?What is the end of the thought ?
Here! and here! From one end to the
other! Everything thought of! and thought
of again and again and evermore terrifying,
more horrible! (Holding his forehead.) It
comes to this at last! Nothing before, noth-
ing back of me! Nowhere help, nowhere
counsel !And these two, these three noblest
and best of women on the earthwretched
through me!wretched without thee!Alas !
still more wretched with meIf I could mourn,
could doubt, could beg for forgivenesscould in
dull hope spend but one hourcould lie at their
feet and enjoy the bliss of wretchedness in sym-
pathy! And where are they? Stella! thouliest
prone, thou gazest up to heaven and criest in de-
spair : What crime have I, poor blossom, done,
that Thy wrath so crushes me ? What was my
sin that Thou shouldst lead this villain to me ?
Cecilia! my wife! oh, my wife!Misery!
misery! deep misery!What beatitudes united
to make me wretched Husband! Father!
Lover!The noblest and best of women !
Thine thine!Canst thou comprehend this,
this threefold, unspeakable delight?And
now it is this that affedts thee so, that tears
thee in pieces!Each demands me absolutely!
And I ?Here it is over !Deep, unfathom-
able !She will be wretched!Stella! thou art
wretched!Of what have I robbed thee?
The consciousness of thyself, thy young life!
Stella!And I am so cold? (He takes a
pistol from the table.) Yet whatever may
come !(He loads.)
Enter Cecilia.
Cecilia. My best beloved! How is it
with us? (She looks at the pistol.) That
looks as if thou wert ready for a journey! (Fer-
nando lays it down.) My friend, thou seemest
to me serene. Can I speak one word with thee ? J
206
Fernando. What willst thou, Cecilia?
What willst thou, my wife?
Cecilia. Call me not so until I have
finished speaking. We are now indeed very
much perplexed! Cannot this be regulated ?
I have suffered much, and hence want no
violent resolutions! Dost thou understand
me, Fernando?
Fernando. I hear.
Cecilia. Take it to heart! I am only a
woman, a sorrowful, mourning woman; but
my soul is full of resolution !Fernando !I
have resolved !I leave thee !
Fernando. (Derisively.) Dost thou mean
it?
Cecilia. Dost thou think that one must
go away secretly in order to take leave of what
one loves?
Fernando. Cecilia!
Cecilia. I am not reproaching thee and
I do not believe that I am sacrificing thee so
very much Till now I mourned the loss of
thee; I grieved over what I could not change.
Now I find thee again; thy presence gives me
new life, new power Fernando I feel that
my love for thee is not selfish! is not the pas-
sion of a mistress who would give everything
to get possession of the entreated objedl.
Fernando my heart is warm and full for
thee! It is the feeling that a wife has who
from love itself can offer up her love !
Fernando. Never never !
Cecilia. Thou art angry?
Fernando. Thou torturest me!
Cecilia. Thou shalt yet be happy! I have
my daughterand a friend in thee! We will
part, without a separation. I will live at a
distance from thee, and remain a witness of thy
happiness. Thy confidante will I be; thou
shalt pour thy joy and sadness into my bosom.
Thy letters shall be my only life; and mine
to thee shall come as a precious visit. And
thus thou wilt remain mine, thou wilt not be
banished with Stella to a distant corner of the
earth; we will love each other, share in each
others lot! And thus, Fernando, give me
thy hand on it!
Fernando. As a jest this would be too
horrible; as meant in earnest, it is incompre-
hensible Let it turn as it will, my dearest!
Cold reason will not untie this knot. What
thou sayest sounds beautiful, tastes sweet.
Who would not feel that far more is hidden
under what thou sayest than thou dreamest of,
that thou deceivest thyself, while thou allayest
thy tormenting feelings with a deceptive,


chimerical consolation. No, Cecilia! my wife,
no thou art mineI remain thine !What
effect have words? Why should I lay before
thee the whys and wherefores? The reasons
are so many lies. I remain thine, or
Cecilia. Well, then !And Stella? (Fer-
nando starts up and walks wildly up and down.)
Who deceives himself deafens his torments
through a cold, unfeeling, thoughtless, transi-
tory consolation! Yes, you men know your-
selves !
Fernando. Do not boast of thy equanim-
ity.Stella! she is unhappy! She will weep
out her days far from thee and me Let her!
Let me!
Cecilia. Loneliness, I believe, would do
her heart good; the knowledge that we were
united would be good for her tender affection.
Now she is covering herself with bitter re-
proaches. She would think if I left thee now
that I was more unhappy than I really am;
for she judges me by herself! She would not
live in peace, she would not be able to love
me, angel that she is, if she felt that her hap-
piness was stolen. It is better for her
Fernando. Let her go away! let her go
into a nunnery !
Cecilia. Yes; but when that thought comes
into my mind, I say: Why should she then be
placed within the cloister walls ? What is her
sin, that she must sacrifice her most blooming
years, the years of abundance, of ripening
hopes, that she must weep in despair on the
edge of the precipice ? that she must be sepa-
rated from her beloved world so dear to her
from him whom she loves so warmly? from
him whofor you do love her, do you not,
Fernando ?
Fernando. Ha! what dost thou mean ? Art
thou an evil spirit in the shape of my wife ?
Why dost thou torment my heart ? Why dost
thou torture the lacerated? Am I not suffi-
ciently shaken, torn, tossed ? God have pity
upon thee!
(He throws himself into an arm-chair.
Cecilia. ( Goes to him and takes his hand.)
There was once upon a time a count(Fer-
nando attempts to spring up; Cecilia restrains
him)a German count. Him a feeling of
duty drove from his spouse, from his estate to
the holy land
Fernando. Ha!
Cecilia. He was a gentleman; he loved
his wife, he bade her farewell, intrusted to
her care the management of his affairs, em-
braced her and departed. He journeyed
through many lands, fought, and was cap-
tured. The daughter of his master had com-
passion on his slavery; she loosed his bonds,
they fled. She was his companion through all
the risks of the war, his beloved armor-bearer.
Crowned with victory, the time came to re-
turnto his noble wife And his maiden ?
He felt the impulse of humanityhe believed
in humanityand took her with him.Behold,
the glorious lady of his home hastens out to
meet him, sees all her faithfulness, all her
honor rewarded; she holds him in her arms
again. And then side by side with him, hi?
knights, with pride and proud respeCt dis-
mount from their steeds upon the ancestral
soil; his servants unpack the booty and
lay it at her feet; and she stores it away
in all her treasuries, decorates her castle with
it, shares it with her friends. Dear, noble
wife, the greatest treasure is yet to come !
Who is it that all veiled steps with the throng
anigh ? Lightly she dismounts from her palfrey!
Here! cries the count, taking her by the
hand and leading her to his wife, here see
the wholeand take it from her hands again,
take it from her hands again She hath un-
loosed the chains from my neck, she hath
commanded the winds, she hath gained me,
saved me, waited upon me! What is my
indebtedness to her? Here she is in your
power! Give her her reward! (Fernando
with his arms spread out on the table sobs
bitterly.) On her neck the faithful wife cried,
amid a thousand tears she cried: Take all
that I can give thee Take half of him who
is wholly thine! Take him absolutely! Leave
him absolutely to me! Each of us shall possess
him without robbing the other! And,
she cried on his neck, at his feet, we are
thine! They grasped his hands, clung to
himand God in heaven rejoiced in their love
and his holy vicar gave his blessing thereunto!
And their happiness and their love sanctified
one dwelling, one bed and one tomb.
Fernando. God in heaven what a ray
of hope here is kindled !
Cecilia. She is here! she is ours! (At
the library door.) Stella !
Fernando. Let her be let me be !
(About to go away.
Cecilia. Wait! Listen to me !
Fernando. We have had enough of words.
What can be, will be. Leave me! At this
moment I am not yet ready to stand before
you both! (Exit.
Cecilia. Unhappy man! Always so taciturn,
207


always opposed to the friendly word that would
set everything to rights, and she is just the
same! Yet I must succeed (At the door.)
Stella Hear me Stella !
Enter Lucy.
Lucy. Call her not! She is resting; after
her heavy sorrows she is resting a moment.
She suffers terribly: I fear, my mother, lest it
be from purpose, I fear that she is dying.
Cecilia. What dost thou say ?
Lucy. It was not medicament that she
swallowed, I am afeared !
Cecilia. And can I have hoped in vain ?
Oh, that thou mayest be in error !Terrible
terrible !
Stella. (At the door.) Who calls me?
Why do ye wake me? What oclock ist?
Why so early?
Lucy. It is not early ; it is evening !
Stella. Tis right, tisgood; evening for
me!
Cecilia. And dost thou deceive us?
Stella. Who deceived thee? Thyself!
Cecilia. I brought thee back, I hoped !
Stella. For me there is no abiding.
Cecilia. Alas, I would have sent for thee,
would have journeyed, would have hastened to
the end of the world !
Stella. I am at the end !
Cecilia. ( To Lucy, who has meantime been
in anguish, hurrying this way and that.) Why
dost thou delay ? Hasten, call aid !
Stella. (Holding Lucy back.) Nay! re-
main ! (She leans on both and they come to the
front.) On your arm I thought to go through
life; thus lead me to the grave !
[ They lead her slowly to the foreground and
place her in a chair at the right.
Cecilia. Away, Lucy, away! Help! help!
[Exit Lucy.
Stella. My help has come !
Cecilia. How different it is from what I
expedted, from what I hoped !
Stella. Thou kind friend, full of patience,
full of hope !
Cecilia. What a horrible fate !
Stella. Deep wounds are made by the
fates, but often they can be healed. Wounds
that the heart makes on the heart, that the
heart makes on itself are incurable, and so
let me die!
Enter Fernando.
Fernando. Was Lucy too hasty, or is the
tidings true? Oh, let it not be true, or I shall
curse thy courage, Cecilia, thy forbearance !
Cecilia. My heart makes me no reproaches.
Good will is higher than all consequences.
Hasten for aid She still lives, is still ours!
208


J


%
Stella. (Who looks up and seizes Fer-
nandos hand.) Welcome! Give me thy
hand (To Cecilia.) And also thine All
for loves sake was the fate of my life. All
for loves sake, and so now my death In
the most sacred moments we are silent and
understand each other. (She tries to put the
hands of the husband and wife together. ) And
now let me hold my peace and rest.
[She falls on her left arm which is resting on
the table.
Fernando. Yes, we will keep silence,
Stella, and rest!
(He goes slowly towards the door at the left.
Cecilia. (In impatient excitement.) Lucy
does not come No one comes! Can the
house, can the neighborhood be a wilderness?
Control thyself, Fernando. She still lives!
Hundreds have arisen from the bed of death,
have even arisen from the grave Fernando !
She still lives. And even if every earthly
means fail us and there is no leech, no
medicament here, yet there is One in heaven
who hears us. (On her knees, near Stella.)
Hear me, oh, hear me, God! Preserve her to
us! let her not die (Fernando has taken a
pistol with his left hand and is going slowly
away. (Cecilia, as before, holding Stellas
left hand.) Yes, she lives; her hand, her dear
hand is still warm. I will not let thee go, I
cling to thee with the whole force of faith and
love. No, it is no delusion. Instant prayer
is stronger than human means ! (Standing tip
and looking around her.) He is gone, the
silent man, the hopeless! Whither? Oh,
may it be that he has not attempted the step
to which his whole stormy life ever pointed !
Let me follow him ! (She is about to hasten
out, but stops and looks back at Stella.) And
must she lie helpless here? Great God! And
thus at this horrible moment between these two
whom I cannot separate and cannot unite !
\_A shot is heard in the distance.
Cecilia. God!
(She wants to go in the direction of the shot.
Stella. (Painfully lifting herself up.) What
was that? Cecilia, thou art standing so far
from me! come nearer, do not leave me! I
am so timid Oh, my agony! I see a stream
of blood! Is it my blood? It is not my
blood I am not wounded but I am sick unto
death !It is my blood !
Enter Lucy.
Lucy. Help, mother, help! I am going
for help, for the physician; am hurrying mes-
sengers away! But alas! quite different aid
is needed My father falls by his own hand !
He is lying in his blood (Cecilia tries to go,
Lucy holds her back.) Not there, my mother!
What is done is beyond help, and arouses
despair!
Stella. ( Who partially standing has been
listening attentively, seizes Cecilias hand.)
And can it be so ? (Standing up and leaning
on Cecilia and Lucy.J Come I feel strong
again; let us go to him There let me die!
Cecilia. Thou totterest, thy knees do not
hold thee. From my limbs also the strength
has fled.
Stella. (Sinks down upon the chair again.)
To the purpose then Go thou then to him,
to whom thou belongest! Catch his last sigh,
his last death-rattle He is thy spouse! Dost
353
209


thou hesitate ? I beg, I implore thee! Thy
delay makes me restless! ( With emotion, but
weak.) Remember he is alone, and go!
[Exit Cecilia, hastily.
Lucy. I will not leave thee, I will remain
with thee!
Stella. No, Lucy, if thou desirest my hap-
piness then hasten! Away! away! let me
rest! The wings of love are palsied! they
cannot bear me to him. Thou art fresh and
young! Let duty be adtive where love is
dumb Away to him to whom thou belong-
est! He is thy father Dost thou know what
that means? Away, if thou lovest me, if thou
wilt calm me !
[Lucy slowly turns away, and exit.
Stella. (Sinking.) And I die alone !

210


211


212


//// / //////


William. (Seated at a desk with account
books and papers.) Two new customers again
this week! If one lifts his hand, there is
always something happens; even if its little
it counts up in the long run, and a small game
gives its own pleasure, though the gains small,
and little losses can be borne with equanimity.
(Enter Postman. ) What is it ?
Postman. A registered letter for twenty
ducats, half paid.
William. Good! Very good! Put it
down on my account. (Exit Postman.)
I didnt want to keep saying all day long
that I was expelling this. (Contemplating
the letter.) Now I can pay Fabricius right
off, and not abuse his kindness any longer.
Yesterday he said to me: I am coming
round to see you to-morrow. I was sorry
to hear it. I knew that he wouldnt dun
me, and for that very reason his presence is a
kind of double dun. (He opens the packet
and counts.) In the good old times when I
kept up a rather gayer establishment than this
I couldnt bear these silent creditors at all.
Anyone who importunes me, who bores me,
deserves nothing but the cold shoulder and all
that that implies; while he who holds his peace
touches my heart, and appeals to me in the
most importunate way, since he puts it upon me
to make his demand for him. (He piles money
upon the table.) Good God how I thank Thee
that I am out of my trouble and on my feet
again. (He takes up a book.) Thy blessing
at retail on me who have wasted Thy gifts
wholesale.And socan I express it?Yet
tis not for me that Thou art doing any more
than I am doing for myself. If it were not
for that dear good creature, should I be sitting
here settling up losses? O Marian! If you
only knew that he whom you call your brother
is working for you with a very different heart,
with very different hopes.Maybe! ah!
but it is cruel!She loves mecertainlybut
as a brother.No! how absurd This is un-
belief, and that has never yet bred any good.
Marian! I will be happy; and so shalt thou,
Marian !
Enter Marian.
Marian. What do you want, brother?
You called me.
William. No, I did not, Marian.
Marian. Did something vex you that you
conjured me out of the kitchen?
William. It was spirits that you heard.
Marian. Very well, William! Only I
know your voice quite too well.
William. Come, now, what are you doing
out there?
354
213


Marian. Ive only been plucking a couple
of pigeons, because Fabricius is going to take
supper with us this evening.
William. Perhaps he will.
Marian. Theyll be done soon; you must
not say anything about it till afterwards. I
want him to teach me his new song.
William. Do you like to study with
him?
Marian. He can sing lovely songs. And
when afterwards you sit at table and your head
nods, then 1 will "begin. For I know that you
laugh at me when I sing any of your favorite
songs.
William. Have you noticed that in me?
Marian. Certainly; whoever failed to
notice what you men folks do? But if you
dont want me for anything, Im off again;
for I have still all sorts of things to do. Good-
by.Now give me just one kiss.
William. If the pigeons are well roasted
I will give you a kiss for dessert.
Marian. Its detestable that brothers should
be so cross. If Fabricius or any other nice
young man dared to steal a kiss they would
jump over high walls for the chance, and that
man there scorns the one that I want to give
him.Now Im going to burn up the pigeons.
\_Exit.
William. The angel, the dear angel! How
can I restrain myself from taking her into my
arms and telling her everything?Dost thou
look down upon us from heaven, O lady, who
didst give this treasure into my keeping?Yes,
those above know about us here, they know
about us!Charlotte, thou couldst not re-
ward my love to thee more glc.iously, more
sacredly than by leaving thy daughter in my
care. Thou gavest me all that I lacked, thou
madest life dear to me. I loved her as thy
childand now! Yet it is as though I were
deceived. Methinks I see thee again, me-
thinks Fate has given thee back to me again
with youth renewed, so that I now may remain
and dwell with thee in union as in that first
dream of life I was not allowed to do and had
no right to do. O joy! joy! Give the whole
measure of thy blessing, Father in heaven !
Enter Fabricius.
Fabricius. Good-evening.
William. I am very happy, my dear Fa-
bricius; everything good has come to me this
evening. However, let us not speak of busi-
ness now. There lie your three hundred dol-
lars. Pocket em quick. My I. O. U. you
can return to me at your convenience. And
now let us have a little talk.
Fabricius. If you need the money longer
William. If I need it again, well and
good; Im always deeply indebted to you.
But now take it.Listen The memory of
Charlotte came back to me again this evening
with eternal freshness and life.
Fabricius. That is a frequent occur-
rence.
William. You ought to have known her.
I tell you she was one of the most magnificent
of creatures.
Fabricius. She was a widow; how did
you come to know her?
William. So pure and stately. Yesterday
I was reading over one of her letters. You
are the only man who has ever known any-
thing about it. [Goes to the portfolio.
Fabricius. (Aside.) If he would only
spare me this time I have heard the story so
many, many times before. As a general thing
I like to hear him tell it, for it always comes
from his heart; but to-day I have quite dif-
ferent things on my mind, and yet I want to
keep him in good humor.
William. It was during the early days of
our acquaintance. The world will become
dear to me again, she wrote; I had cut my-
self loose from it, but it will be dear to me
again through you. My heart reproaches me;
I feel that I am going to be a cause of sorrow
to you and myself. Six months ago I was
ready to die, and now I feel so no longer.
Fabricius. A lovely soul.
William. The earth was not worthy of
her. Fabricius, Ive told you many times
before that through her I became quite a dif-
ferent man. I cannot describe the pain that
I felt when I looked back and saw how I had
squandered my paternal inheritance. I could
not offer her my hand, could not make her lot
more endurable. I felt then for the first time
the necessity to earn a suitable support; to
extricate myself from the slothfulness in which
I was drifting along day after day. I went to
workbut what did that amount to ?I kept
at work, and thus a wearisome year passed
away; at last came a ray of hope; my pittance
increased visiblythen she died.I could not
stay. You have no idea how I suffered. No
longer could I behold the region where I had
lived with her, or leave the sacred soil where
she rested. She wrote me just before she
died. [Taking a letter from the forfolio.
Fabricius. It is a splendid letter; you read
214


it to me only a short time ago. Hark, Wil- who shortly afterwards followed her mother.
liam , If she had only lived, you would have had at
William. I know it by heart, and yet I least something of hers, you would have had
read it again and again. When I see her some interest through which your cares and
writing, the sheet on which her hand rested, your grief might have been appeased.
it seems to me as if she were here again. She William. (Turning eagerly to him.) Her
is still here. (The voice of a child crying is daughter? It was an exquisite flower that she
heard.) I wonder why Marian cant be sen- j intrusted to me. What fate has done for me
sible There, shes got our neighbors young- I is beyond words to express. Fabriciusif I
ster again ; every day she comes romping / could only tell you all
round with him and disturbs me just at the / Fabricius. If there is anything on thy
wrong moment. (At the door.) Marian, be / heart
still with the child, or send him home if hes I William. Why should I not?
naughty. We want to talk. / Marian. (Coming in with a little hoy.) He
[He stands,full of emotion. / wants to say good-night, brother. You must
Fabricius. You ought not to bring up not scowl at him, nor at me either. You
these recolledlions so frequently. always say that you would like to be married
William. These are the very lines; these and have lots of children. One couldnt hold
were the last that she wrote. The farewell j them in such a way that they would never cry
sigh of the departing angel. (He fids the j and never disturb you.
letter again.) You are right, it is sinful. / William. But they would be my own
How seldom are we worthy of recalling the I children.
bitter-sweet moments of our past lives! I Marian. Maybe there would be a dif~
Fabricius. Your story always goes to my I ference in that.
heart. You told me that she left a daughter, | Fabricius. Do you think so, Marian ?


Marian. It would be too lovely for any-
thing. (She kneels before the child and kisses ,
him.) I love little Christopher so dearly! |
If he were only my own !He already knows :
his letters; I have been teaching him. . !
William. And so you think that a child of I
your own at his age would know how to read?
Marian. Why certainly for all day long
I wouldnt do anything else but take him out j
to walk and teach him and feed him and dress j
him and everything else.
Fabricius. And your husband ? ;
Marian. He would have to help; his love
for him would be as great as mine. But Chris-
topher has got to go home and wants to say ;
good-night. (She leads him to William.) j
Here give your hand like a good little boy ;
thats a nice boy !
Fabricius. (Aside.) She is the loveliest
creature ; I must tell her my hopes !
Marian. (Leading the child to Fabricius.)
Here shake hands with this gentleman too !
William. (Aside.) She shall be mine I
willnc I do not deserve it! (To Marian.)
Marian, take the child away and entertain
Fabricius till supper-time. I am going out i
for a little run; Ive been sitting all day long.
(Exit Marian.) Just one good full breath of I
the fresh air this lovely star-light night!My J
heart is so full!I shall be back direCtly.
[Exit.
Fabricius. Make an end to thy suspense,
Master Fabricius! If thou bearest it any
longer, the matter wont be any nearer con-
clusion. Thou hast made up thy mind.
Good! Admirable! Thou wilt still help
her brother; and sheshe does not love me
as I love her, thats certain. But it isnt in
her to love passionately; she isnt that kind
of a woman. Dear girl! She hasnt the
slightest idea that I feel anything else but i
friendship for her! O Marian, we shall get !
along famously! This opportunity is just (
what I should have wished it to be! I must \
explain to her my intentions! And if her
heart does not scorn meanyway, I am sure
of her brother!
Enter Marian. j
Fabricius. Have you sent the little fellow !
home ?
Marian. I should love to have kept him
here; but I know that my brother does not
like him, and so I let him go. Many and
many a time the little rascal has begged me to ,
let him sleep here all night. j
Fabricius. But dont you ever get tired
of him ?
Marian. Oh, no, indeed He is as wild
as he can be the whole day, but when I go to
put him to bed he is as good as a kitten !
Hes a little flatterer, and he loves to kiss me;
sometimes I cant get him to sleep at all.
Fabricius. (Half aside.) What a sweet
nature !
Marian. He loves me even better than
his own mother.
Fabricius. You are also a mother to him.
(Marian stands lost in thought; Fabricius
gazes at her for some moments.') Does the
name of mother make you sad ?
Marian. Not exadtly sad ; but I was think-
ing.
Fabricius. What were you thinking about,
sweet Marian ?
Marian. I was thinking oh, nothing,
nothing. Sometimes it seems very strange
to me.
Fabricius. Havent you ever had any
longings to
Marian. What were you going to ask ?
Fabricius. Can Fabricius presume so far ?
Marian. No, I have never had any long-
ings, Fabricius. And if ever any such thought
flashed through my head, it was gone in an
instant. To leave my brother would be un-
endurableimpossible for meno matter how
attractive any other prospeCt might be.
Fabricius. Now that is strange! If you
lived near him in the same city, you wouldnt
call that leaving him, would you ?
Marian. Oh, never, never speak of such
a thing! Who would keep house for him ?
Who would take care of him ? Let a servant
take my place? Or let him get married? No,
indeed, that couldnt be!
Fabricius. Couldnt he go and live with
you? Mightnt your husband be his friend?
Couldnt you three live together just as happily
as now, even happier? Couldnt your brother
be in this way assisted in his perplexing busi-
ness cares? Think what such a life might be !
Marian. It can easily be imagined. And
when I think about it, it is quite possible. But
then again, it seems to me as though it would
never come about.
Fabricius. I dont understand you.
Marian. It is just so now. When I wake
in the morning I listen to hear if my brother is
up before me: if no one is stirring, quick as a
flash I get out of bed and run to the kitchen
and build a fire, so that the water is thoroughly


heated, and then the maid comes down, and
my brother has his coffee as soon as he opens
his eyes!
Fabricius. What an admirable housewife !
Marian. And then I sit down and knit
stockings for him, and keep very happy, and
measure a dozen times to see if they are long
enough yet and if they set well round the calf,
and if the feet are not too short, until he some-
times actually gets vexed. It isnt that I
always want to be trying them on, but it
seems to me that I must have something to do
near him, as though he ought to see me at
least once when he has been writing a couple
of hours; he cant be gloomy with me, for
it always brightens him up to see me. I can
read it by his eyes if he will not let me know
any other way. Often I laugh in my sleeve,
because he adts as though he were solemn or
angry. He is wise, for if he didnt I should
plague him all day long.
Fabricius. He is a lucky man.
Marian. No, I am the lucky one. If I
hadnt him I shouldnt know what to do in
this world. I do everything for myself, how-
ever, and it seems to me as if I did everything
for him, because even when I am working for
myself I am always thinking of him.
Fabricius. And now if you did everything
for a husband, how absolutely happy he would
be! How grateful he would be, and what a
contented life you would lead !
Marian. Many times I imagine it to my-
self, and tell myself a long story, as I sit and
knit, or sew, how everything might be and
would be! But when I come back to the
reality, then I know that it will never come
to pass.
Fabricius. Why not ?
Marian. Where should I find a spouse
who would like it if I said I will love you!
but had to add to it You cannot be dearer
to me than my brother; I must take care of
him just as I always have done. Ah you
see it is impossible.
Fabricius. You would after a while help
your husband in the same way; you would
transfer your love to him.
Marian. Ah there lies the trouble. Cer-
tainly, if love could be taken and exchanged
like money, or if you could go to a different
lord and master every quarter as servants do,
it would be a different thing. But with a hus-
band everything would have to become exadlly
as it already is here, and that could never be.
Fabricius. That is a stumbling-block.
Marian. I dont know why it is; but
when he sits at table and leans his head on
his hand and looks down and seems full of
anxiety, I could sit for hours and gaze at him.
He is not handsome, I say to myself often-
times, and yet I love to look at him. Of
course I feel that it is on my account that he
is anxious; the first glance that he gives me
when he looks up tells me so, and that is a
good deal.
Fabricius. Its everything, Marian. And
a husband who would care for you
Marian. There is one thing more, and
thats moods. William also has his moods;
but when he has them they do not trouble me;
but in anybody else they would be unendurable.
He easily loses his temper; oftentimes it pains
me. If in such unhappy moments he repulses
a kind, sympathetic, loving effort to cheer him,
I confess it touches me, but only for an instant,
and if I reprove him it is rather because
he does not appreciate my love for him than
because I love him the less.
Fabricius. But suppose there were some
one who, in spite of all that, were bold enough
to offer you his hand.
Marian. But there isnt any such person !
And even then the question would arise whether
I should be equally daring.
Fabricius. Why should you not ?
Marian. But theres no such person.
Fabricius. Marian, there is.
Marian. Fabricius!
Fabricius. You see him before you. Need
I make a long defence ? Shall I pour out be-
fore you what my heart has so long treasured?
I love you. You have known it long. I offer
you my hand: that you did not expedt. Never
did I see a maiden who so little as you realized
the fadt that she moved the hearts of those
who see her. Marian, it is not a fiery, im-
pulsive suitor who talks with you; I know you
well; I have chosen you deliberately; my house
is all in order: will you be mine? I have had
many experiences in love, and more than once
I have vowed to end my days as an old bache-
lor. But you have conquered me Do not
stand aloof from me You know me. I am
a friend of your brother; you cannot con-
ceive of a purer union. Open your heart to
me Only one word, Marian !
Marian. Dear Fabricius, only allow me a
little time. I like you.
Fabricius. Tell me that you love me. I
will give your brother his own place; I will
be a brother to him; together we will care for
355
217


him. My property added to his will help
him over many an anxious hour; he will gain
fresh courage, he willMarian, dont let me
have to persuade you [He seizes her hand.
Marian. Fabricius, I never thought of
such a thing. What an embarrassing dilemma
you have brought me into.
Fabricius. Just one word may I hope?
Marian. Speak with my brother !
Fabricius. (Kneeling.) Angel! darling!
Marian. (Silent for a moment.) Great
heavens What have I done ! [Exit.
Fabricius. She is thine!I can well afford
to let the dear little thing caress her brother;
that will soon cure itself when we come to get
better acquainted, and he wont lose anything
by it. Ah, it does me good to be so in love
again and to be loved again so luckily. It is
a thing, however, for which one never really
loses the taste. We will live together. If it
had not been for that, long ago I should have
enlarged somewhat the good mans scrupulous
economy. When I am his brother-in-law
things will run smoother. He is becoming
a regular hypochondriac with his everlasting
reminiscences, doubts, business anxieties and
mysteries. Everything will be lovely He
shall breathe freely again ; the girl will get a
husbandthats no trifleand II shall get a
wife honorablyand thats worth something.
Enter William.
Fabricius. Did you have a good walk?
William. I went up along the market and
Church Street and back again by the Bourse.
It always gives me a wonderful sensation to
walk through the city at night. After the toil
of the day most men are at rest, but others are
hurrying to their night-work, and thus the
little wheels of trade are constantly revolving.
I took special pleasure in an old cheesemonger
who, with her spedtacles on her nose, was
laying one piece after another on the scales,
by the light of a candle end, and trimming off
the edges until the purchaser got the quantity
she wanted.
Fabricius. Every one has his own powers
of observation. I think that there are few
people on the street who would have stopped
to gaze at an old cheese-woman and her
glasses.
William. In every ones business gain
is precious, and a small retail trade seems to
me respectable since I know how costly a
dollar is when it has to be earned a penny at
a time. (He stands a few moments lost in
thought.) I have had quite a wonderful ex-
perience since I have been out. So many
things have come into my mind all at once
and all in confusionand that which troubled
my heart to its deepest foundations.
[He stops in a brown study.
Fabricius. (Aside.) I act like a fool.
Just as soon as he comes in, the courage leaks
out of my fingers ends to confess that I love
Marian. Yet I must tell him what has hap-
pened. (To William.J William, tell me,
do you want to move from here? You have
too little room and the rent is high. Do you
know of any other rooms?
William. (Absently.) No!
Fabricius. I thought perhaps we might
both help each other. I have my fathers
house and occupy only the upper floors; you
might take possession of the lower rooms.
You are not likely to get married yet awhile.
You can use the court and the warerooms for
your business and give me a nominal rent,
and so it would help both of us.
William. You are very kind. Truly, I
have often thought of this plan after I have
been to visit you and seen so much waste
room, when I have to put up with such narrow
quarters. But there are reasonswe must
let it go; it is impossible.
Fabricius. Why so ?
William. Supposing I were to marry im-
mediately.
Fabricius. That could be managed. You
have plenty of room with your sister, and if
you had a wife there would be no trouble.
William. (Smiling.) And my sister?
Fabricius. I would take her home with me,
in that case. ('William is silent.) And even
if you didnt. Let me speak franklyI love
Marian ; let her be my wife !
William. What?
Fabricius. Why not? Say yes. Listen
to me, brother. I love Marian. I have thought
it over this long time. She only, you only
can make me as happy as I can possibly be in
this world. Give her to me! Give her to
me!
William. (In confusion.) You do not
know what you are asking.
Fabricius. Ah! How could I know ? Must
I tell you all my wants and what I should have
if she became my wife and you my brother-in-
law?
William. (Losing his self-possession.)
Never! never!
Fabricius. What is the reason? I am
218


ARTIST : MAX VCIKHART.
BROTHER AND SISTER.
WII.HKLM AND FABRICIUS.


sorry.Your aversion !If you are ever going
to have a brother-in-law, as must come sooner
or later, why not me?Me whom you know,
whom you love? At least I thought
William. Leave me !I cannot under-
stand it.
Fabricius. I must tell you all. On you
alone depends my fate. Her heart is inclined
towards me. You must have seen that. She
loves you better than she loves me, but I am
content. She will come to love her husband
better than her brother; I shall then stand in
your place, you in mine, and we shall all be
satisfied. I never in my life knew of a
union which seemed to promise a more beau-
tiful human relationship. ('William speech-
less.) To seal the holy compadt, best friend,
give me thy consent, thy sanction. Tell
her that it rejoices you, that it makes you
happy. I have her promise.
William. Her promise !
Fabricius. She gave it in a parting glance
which said more than if she had stayed to
speak it. Her embarrassment and her love,
her willingness and her hesitation,it was
lovely!
William. No! no!
Fabricius. I do not understand you. I
am sure that you have no prejudice against me,
and yet why are you so opposed to me ? Do
not be! Do not set yourself against her hap-
piness, against mine.And I keep thinking
that you will be happy with us. Do not re-
fuse thy acquiescence, thy friendly acqui-
escence in my wishes ('William still speech-
less, with contending emotions.) I cannot com-
prehend you
William. Marian? you want to marry her?
Fabricius. What do you mean ?
William. And she wants you ?
Fabricius. She answered as becomes a
modest maiden.
William. Go go!Marian !I suspe<5ted
it, I foresaw it!
Fabricius. Only tell me
William. What shall I tell you? It was
this that lay on my mind this evening, like a
thunder-cloud. The lightning flashed, it
struck!Take her!take her!My only
treasuremy all! ('Fabricius looks at him
with astonishment.) Take her! And that you
may know what you have taken from me
(Pause. He collects himself.) I have told
you of Charlotte, the angel, who was snatched
from my arms and who left me her image, her
daughter.And this daughterI have de-
ceived youshe is not dead; this daughter is
Marian !Marian is not my sister!
Fabricius. I was not prepared for this
revelation.
William. This blow I ought to have ex-
pected from you!Why did I not follow the
dictates of my heart and shut my house to
you as to every one else, in the first days when
I came here? To you alone I granted en-
trance into this sanctuary, and you succeeded
in lulling my suspicions by your kindness,
your friendliness, your encouragement, your
apparent coldness towards women. Just as I
was, according to all appearances, her brother,
so I considered your feeling for her a genuine
brotherly one. And even if sometimes a
suspicion arose in my mind, I put it away as
ignoble, ascribed her affection for you to her
angelic heart, which looks upon all the world
with friendly glances. And you !And she!
Fabricius. It is not right for me to listen
longer and I have nothing to say. So good-
by ! [Exit.
William. Yes, go!You take all my hap-
piness away with you! So undermined, so
hopelessly destroyed are all my prospectsmy
nearest hopessuddenly! All precipitated into
the abyssand with them the magic golden
bridge that was to bear me over to the bliss
of paradise!and through him, the traitor
who has so abused my frankness, my con-
fidence! O William, William! Hast thou
gone so far as to be unjust to thy good friend?
What sin has he committed? O Fate, thy
retribution weighs heavy upon me, and thou
art just.Why am I standing here? Why?
Just at this moment? Forgive me! Have I
not been punished for it? Forgive me! It
is long I have suffered infinitely. I seemed to
love you; I believed that I loved you; with
inconsiderate amiability, courtesies, I shut fast
your heart and brought you pain. Forgive
me and let me go! Must I be so punished ?
Must I lose Marian? the last hope of my life,
the epitome of my solicitude. It cannot be !
it cannot be ! [He is silent.
Marian. (Approaching with embarrass-
ment.) Brother.
William. Ah!
Marian. Dear brother, you must forgive
me, I bother you about everything. You are
vexed; I might have known it. I have done
a piece of stupidity.It is a most extraordi-
nary thing to me.
William. (Collecting his thoughts.) What
is the matter, my girl ?
219


Marian. I wish that I could tell it to you.
Everything is whirling about so in my head.
Fabricius wants to marry me and I
William. (Half bitterly.) Speak it out,
you gave him your promise.
Marian. No, not for the world! Never
will I marry him; I cannot marry him.
William. Flow strange that sounds !
Marian. Strange enough. You are very
unkind, my brother; I should be glad to go
away and wait a good long hour did not my
heart oblige me to say first and last: I cannot
marry Fabricius.
William. (Standing up and taking Marian
by the hand.) How so, Marian ?
Marian. He was here and he brought up
so many reasons that I imagined that it would
be possible. He was so importunate that
without due consideration I told him to
speak with you. He took this for yes, and in
that very instant I felt that it could never
be.
William. Fie has spoken to me.
Marian. I beg of you, with all my heart
and soul, by all the love which I have for you,
by all the love which you feel for me, set it
right again, tell him !
William. (Aside.) Merciful heavens!
Marian. Do not be angry! He will not
be angry either. We will live just as we have
always lived. For I could not live with any
one besides you. It has always been deep in
my soul, and this accident has brought it out,
brought it out with emphasis that I love no
one besides you !
William. Marian!
Marian. Kindest brother, I cannot tell
you what has passed through my heart during
these last moments. It seemed to me very
much as it did lately, when there was a fire in
the market, and first there was smoke and
steam over everything, until all at once the fire
caught the roof and then at last the whole
house was one flame. Do not let me go! Do
not force me away from thee, my brother!
William. But it cannot always remain as
it is!
Marian. That is the very thing that
troubles me so! I will gladly promise you
not to get married; I will always take care of
you, always and always. A little distance up
the street just such a brother and sister live
together; I have often thought of it in fun:
If I should get as old and wrinkledpro-
vided only we still lived together.
William. (Mastering his heart, half aside.)
| If I can withstand this, I will never again get
into such a tight place.
Marian. I know that you do not like it;
of course you will marry in time, and I should
always be sorry if I could not love her as well
as I love you.No one loves you as well as I;
no one could love you so. ("William essays
to speak.) You are always so reserved; I
always have it on my tongues end to tell you
just how I feel and I do not dare. Thank
God, this accident has unlocked my lips!
William. Marian, say no more !
Marian. You must not forbid me! Let
me tell you all! Then I will go back to the
kitchen and sit for days at a time at my work,
seeing you only once in a while, as if to say:
Thou knowest my secret. (William is
speechless in the excess of his joy.) You might
have known it long ago, you know how long,
ever since our mothers death, as I grew up out
of childhood and was always with you. See!
I feel more contented to be near you than
gratified by your more than fraternal watch-
fulness. And gradually you so completely
occupied my whole heart, my whole intellect,
that now anything else would find it hard to
get a resting-place. I know well that you
have often laughed at me when I was reading
novels: it happened once that I was reading
Julia Mandeville and I asked if Henry, or
whatever his name was, did not look like you.
You laughed and I didnt like it. So the next
time I kept quiet. But I was perfectly in
earnest about it; for whoever seemed to be
the dearest, best men, they all looked to me
like you. I saw you walking in the great gar-
dens, and riding and travelling and fighting
duels. [She laughs at the remembrance.
William. What pleases you ?
Marian. Because I must also confess that
if a lady were very beautiful and very good and
very much lovedand very much in loveit
always seemed to be myself, except at the end
when the disentanglement came and they got
married after all the hindrances; but I am cer-
tainly a very impulsive, fond, talkative creature!
William. Go on (Aside.) I must drink
the cup of joy to the dregs! God in heaven,
keep me in my senses!
Marian. Least of all could I endure it
when I read of a couple of people loving each
other, and finally finding out that they were
relations, or were brother and sister. That
Miss Fanny I could have burned alive! I
cried so over it! It is such a pathetic story.
turns away and weeps bitterly.
220


William. ( Taking her to his heart with a
flood of tears.) Marian! my Marian !
Marian. William no no never will I
let thee go from me! Thou art mine! I will
hold thee fast! I will not let thee go!
Enter Fabricius.
Marian. Ah, Fabricius, you come at the
right time My heart is full and strong, so
that I can tell you all. I did not give any
promise. Be our friend; but I can never
marry you !
Fabricius. (Cold and bitter.) I foresaw
it, William If you put all your weight on the
scale, of course I should be found too light.
I come back to put out of my heart what has
no right there. I renounce all claims and
perceive that things have already accommo-
dated themselves! At least I am glad that I
am the innocent cause of it.
William. Be not petulant at this mo- j
ment, and still more do not lose a sensation
for which you would vainly seek in a pilgrim-
age around the world Look at this creature
she is entirely mineand yet she has not the
slightest idea
Fabricius. (Half scornfully.) She does
not know
Marian. What dont I know?
William. Could one tell a falsehood thus,
Fabricius?
Fabricius. (Touched.) She does not
know ?
William. I assure you.
Fabricius. Live for each other then You
are worthy of each other!
Marian. What does this mean ?
William. ( Taking her in his arms.) Thou
art mine, Marian !
Marian. Heavens! What does this mean?
Can I give thee back this kiss! What a kiss
that was, my brother!
356
22 l


Brother and Sister.
William. Not the kiss of a reserved, ap-
parently cold brother, but the kiss of an eter-
nally happy lover! (Kneeling.) Marian,
thou art not my sister. Charlotte was thy
mother, not mine.
Marian. Thou thou !
William. Thy lover !From this moment
forth, thy husband, unless thou scornest me.
Marian. Tell me how it all came
about!
! Fabricius. Enjoy what God himself can
; only give once in a lifetime. Accept it,
Marian, and ask no questions!You will find
time enough to make all explanations.
Marian. (Looking at him.) No, it is. im-
possible !
William. My sweetheart, my wife !
Marian. (In his arms.) William! it is
impossible !
222


THE thick fog of an early autumnal morn-
ing obscured the extensive courts which
surrounded the princes castle, but through the
mists, which gradually dispersed, a stranger
might observe a cavalcade of huntsmen, con-
sisting of horse and foot, already engaged in
their early preparations for the field. The
active employments of the domestics were al-
ready discernible. These latter were engaged
in lengthening and shortening stirrup-leathers,
preparing the rifles and ammunition, and ar-
ranging the game-bags; whilst the dogs, im-
patient of restraint, threatened to break away
from the slips by which they were held. Then
the horses became restive, from their own high
mettle, or excited by the spur of the rider, who
could not resist the temptation to make a vain
display of his prowess, even in the obscurity
by which he was surrounded. The cavalcade
awaited the arrival of the prince, who was de-
tained a little too long by the tender endear-
ments of his young wife.
Lately married, they thoroughly appreciated
the happiness of their own congenial disposi-
tions; both were lively and animated, and
each shared with delight the pleasures and
pursuits of the other. The princes father
had already survived and enjoyed that period
of life when one learns that all the members
of a state should spend their time in diligent
employments, and that every one should en-
gage in some energetic occupation correspond-
ing with his taste, and should by this means
first acquire, and then enjoy, the fruits of his
labor.
How far these maxims had proved successful
might have been observed on this very day,
for it was the anniversary of the great market
in the town, a festival which might indeed be
considered a species of fair. The prince had
on the previous day conducted his wife on
horseback through the busy scene, and had
caused her to observe what a convenient ex-
change was carried on between the productions
of the mountainous districts and those of the
plain, and he took occasion then and there to
direct her attention to the industrious char-
acter of his subjects.
But whilst the prince was entertaining him-
self and his courtiers almost exclusively with
subjects of this nature, and was perpetually
employed with his finance minister, his chief
223


huntsman did not lose sight of his duty, and
upon his representation it was impossible, dur-
ing these favorable autumnal days, any longer
to postpone the amusement of the chase, as
the promised meeting had already been several
times deferred, not only to his own mortifica-
tion, but to that of many strangers who had
arrived to take part in the sport.
The princess remained, reluctantly, at home.
It had been determined to hunt over the distant
mountains, and to disturb the peaceful inhabit-
ants of the forests in those distridls by an un-
expected declaration of hostilities.
Upon taking his departure, the prince re-
commended his wife to seek amusement in
equestrian exercise, under the conduct of her
uncle Frederick; and I commend you, more-
over, he said, to the care of our trusty
Honorio, who will act as your esquire, and
pay you every attention and saying this as
he descended the stairs, and gave the proper
instructions to a comely youth who stood at
hand, the prince quickly disappeared amid the
crowd of assembled guests and followers.
. The princess, who had continued waving her
handkerchief to her husband as long as he re-
mained in the court-yard, now retired to an
apartment at the back of the castle, which
showed an extensive prospect over the moun-
tain, as the castle itself was situated on the
brow of the hill, from which a view at once
distant and varied opened in all directions.
She found the telescope in the spot where it
had been left on the previous evening, when
they had amused themselves in surveying the
landscape and the extent of mountain and
forest amid which the lofty ruins of their
ancestral castle were situated. It was a noble
relic of ancient times, and shone out gloriously
in the evening illumination. A grand but
somewhat inadequate idea of its importance
was conveyed by the large masses of light and
shadow which now fell upon it. Moreover, by
the aid of the telescope, the autumnal foliage
was seen to lend an indescribable charm to the
prospeCt, as it waved upon trees which had
grown up amid the ruins, undisturbed and un-
molested for countless years. But the princess
soon turned the telescope in the direction of a
dry and sandy plain beneath her, across which
the hunting cavalcade was expeCted to bend
its course. She patiently surveyed the spot,
and was at length rewarded, as the clear mag-
nifying power of the instrument enabled her
delighted eyes to recognize the prince and
his chief equerry. Upon this she once more
waved her handkerchief as she observed, or
rather fancied she observed, a momentary
pause in the advance of the procession.
Her uncle Frederick was now announced,
and he entered the apartment, accompanied
by an artist, bearing a large portfolio under
his arm.
Dear cousin, observed the worthy knight,
addressing her, we have brought some sketches
of the ancestral castle for your inspection, to
show how the old walls and battlements were
calculated to afford defence and protection in
stormy seasons and in years gone by, though
they have tottered in some places, and in
others have covered the plain with their ruins.
Our efforts have been unceasing to render the
place accessible, since few spots offer more
beauty or sublimity to the eye of the aston-
ished traveller.
The prince continued, as he opened the port-
folio containing the different views: Here,
as you ascend the hollow way, through the
outer fortifications, you meet the principal
tower, and a rock forbids all further progress.
It is the firmest of the mountain range. A
castle has been ereCted upon it, so construCled
that it is difficult to say where the work of
nature ceases and the aid of art begins. At a
little distance, side-walls and buttresses have
been raised, the whole forming a sort of ter-
race. The height is surrounded by a wood.
For upwards of a century and a half, no sound
of an axe has been heard within these pre-
cinCts, and giant trunks of trees appear on all
sides. Close to the very walls spring the glossy
maple, the rough oak and the tall pine. They
oppose our progress with their boughs and
roots, and compel us to make a circuit to
secure our advance. See how admirably our
artist has sketched all this upon paper; how
accurately he has represented the trees as they
become entwined amid the masonry of the
castle, and thrust their boughs through the
opening in the walls. It is a solitude which
possesses the indescribable charm of display-
ing the traces of human power long since
passed away, contending with perpetual and
still reviving nature.
Opening a second pidture, he continued his
discourse : What say you to this representa-
tion of the castle court, which has been ren-
dered impassable for countless years by the
falling of the principal tower? We endeav-
ored to approach it from the side, and in
order to form a convenient private road were
compelled to blow up the old walls and vaults
224


A Tale.
with gunpowder. But there was no necessity i
for similar operations within the castle walls. !
Here is a flat rocky surface which has been i
levelled by the hand of nature, through which,
however, mighty trees have here and there been
able to strike their roots. They have thriven
well, and thrust their branches into the very
galleries where the knights of old were wont
to exercise, and have forced their way through
doors and windows into vaulted halls, from
which they are not likely now to be expelled,
and whence we, at least, shall not remove
them. They have become lords of the terri-
tory, and may remain so. Concealed beneath
heaps of dried leaves we found a perfectly
level floor, which probably cannot be equalled
in the world.
In ascending the steps which lead to the
chief tower, it is remarkable to observe, in
addition to all that we have mentioned above,
how a maple tree has taken root on high, and
has grown to a great size, so that in ascending
to the highest turret to enjoy the prospedt, it
is difficult to pass. And here you may refresh
yourself beneath the shade, for even at this
elevation the tree of which we speak throws
its shadows over all around.
We feel much indebted to the talented
artist who, in the course of several views,
has brought thus the whole scenery as com-
pletely before us as if we had adtually wit-
nessed the original scene. He selected the
most beautiful hours of the day and the most
favorable season of the year for his task, to
which he devoted many weeks incessantly. A
small dwelling was eredted for him and his
assistant in a corner of the castle; you can
scarcely imagine what a splendid view of the
country, of the court, and of the ruins he there
enjoyed. We intend these pictures to adorn
our country-house, and every one who enjoys
a view of our regular parterres, of our bowers
and shady walks, will doubtless feel anxious
to feed his imagination and his eyes with an
actual inspe6tion of these scenes, and so enjoy
at once the old and the new, the firm and the
pliant, the indestrudtible and the young, the
perishable and the eternal.
Honorio now entered and announced the
arrival of the horses. The princess thereupon
addressing her uncle, expressed a wish to ride
up to the ruins and examine personally the
subjects which he had so graphically described.
Ever since my arrival here, she said, this
excursion has been intended, and I shall be
delighted to accomplish what has been de-
i dared almost impracticable, and what the
! pictures show to be so difficult.
Not yet, my dear, replied the prince;
these pictures only portray what the place
will become; but many difficulties impede a
commencement of the work.
But let us ride a little towards the moun-
tain, she rejoined, if only to the beginning
of the ascent; I have a great desire to-day to
enjoy an extensive prospect.
Your desire shall be gratified, answered
the prince.
But we will first direct our course through
the town, continued the lady, and across
the market-place, where a countless number
of booths wear the appearance of a small
town, or of an encampment. It seems as if
all the wants and occupations of every family
in the country were brought together and sup-
plied in this one spot; for the attentive ob-
server may behold here whatever man can
produce or require. You would suppose that
money was wholly unnecessary, and that busi-
ness of every kind could be carried on by
means of barter; and such in fact is the case.
Since the prince directed my attention to this
view yesterday, I have felt pleasure in observ-
ing the manner in which the inhabitants of
the mountain and of the valley mutually com-
prehend each other, and how both so plainly
speak their wants and their wishes in this
place. The mountaineer, for example, has
cut the timber of his forests into a thousand
forms, and applied his iron to multifarious uses,
while the inhabitant of the valley meets him
with his various wares and merchandise, the
very materials and object of which it is dif-
ficult to know or to conjecture.
I am aware, observed the prince, that
my nephew devotes his attention wholly to
these subjects, for at this particular season of
the year he receives more than he expends;
and this after all is the object and end of every
national financier, and indeed of the pettiest
household economist. But excuse me, my
dear, I never ride with any pleasure through
the market or the fair; obstacles impede one
at every step, and my imagination continually
recurs to that dreadful calamity which hap-
pened before my own eyes, when I witnessed
the conflagration of as large a collection of
merchandise as is accumulated here. I had
scarcely
Let us not lose our time, said the prin-
cess, interrupting him, as her worthy uncle
had more than once tortured her with a literal
357
225


account of the very same misfortune. It had
happened when he was upon a journey, and
had retired fatigued to bed, in the best hotel
of the town, which was situated in the market-
place. It was the season of the fair, and in
the dead of the night he was awakened by
screams and by the columns of fire which ap-
proached the hotel.
The princess hastened to mount her favorite
palfrey, and led the way for her unwilling
companion, when she rode through the front
gate down the hill, in place of passing through
the back gate up the mountain. But who
could have felt unwilling to ride at her side
or to follow wherever she led? And even
Honorio had gladly abandoned the pleasure
of his favorite amusement, the chase, in order
to officiate as her devoted attendant.
As we have before observed, they could only
ride through the market step by step, but the
amusing observations of the princess rendered
every pause delightful. I must repeat my
lesson of yesterday, she remarked, for
necessity will try our patience. And in
truth the crowd pressed upon them in such a
manner, that they could only continue their
progress at a very slow pace. The people
testified unbounded joy at beholding the young
princess, and the complete satisfaction of many
a smiling face evinced the pleasure of the
people at finding that the first lady in the land
was at once the most lovely and the most gra-
cious.
Mingled together promiscuously were rude
mountaineers who inhabited quiet cottages
amongst bleak rocks and towering pine trees,
lowlanders from the plains and meadows, and
manufacturers from the neighboring small
towns. After quietly surveying the motley
crowd, the princess remarked to her com-
panion that all the people she saw seemed to
take delight in using more stuff for their gar-
226


ments than was necessary, whether it consisted
of cloth, linen, ribbon or trimming. It
seemed as if the wearers, both men and
women, thought they would be the better if
they looked a little larger.
We must leave that matter to themselves,
answered the uncle; every man must dispose
of his superfluity as he pleases; well for those
who spend it in mere ornament.
The princess nodded her assent.
They had now arrived at a wide open square
which led to one of the suburbs; they there
perceived a number of small booths and stalls,
and also a large wooden building from whence
a most discordant howling issued. It was the
feeding hour of the wild animals which were
there enclosed for exhibition. The lion roared
with that fearful voice with which he was ac- :
customed to terrify both woods and wastes, j
The horses trembled, and no one could avoid
observing how the monarch of the deserts
made himself terrible in the tranquil circles
of civilized life. Approaching nearer, they
remarked the tawdry colossal pictures on which
the beasts were painted in the brightest colors,
intended to afford irresistible temptation to
the busy citizen. The grim and fearful tiger
was in the a<5t of springing upon a negro to
tear him to pieces. The lion stood in solemn
majesty as if he saw no worthy prey before
him. Other wonderful creatures in the same
group presented inferior attractions.
Upon our return, said the princess, we
will alight and take a nearer inspection of
these rare creatures.
Is it not extraordinary, replied the
prince, that man takes pleasure in fearful I
excitements? The tiger, for instance, is lying j
quietly enough within his cage, and yet here
the brute must be painted in the act of spring-
ing fiercely on a negro, in order that the
public may believe that the same scene is to be i
witnessed within. Do not murder and death,
fire and desolation, sufficiently abound, but
that every mountebank must repeat such hor-
rors? The worthy people like to be alarmed,
that they may afterwards enjoy the delightful
sensation of freedom and security.
But whatever feelings of terror such fright-
ful representations might have inspired, they
disappeared when they reached the gate, and
surveyed the cheerful prospects around. The
road led down to a river, a narrow brook in
truth, and only calculated to bear light skiffs,
but destined afterwards, when swelled into a
wider stream, to take another name, and to
water distant lands. They then bent their
course further through carefully cultivated fruit
and pleasure gardens, in an orderly and popu-
lous neighborhood, until first a copse and then
a wood received them as guests, and delighted
their eyes with a limited but charming land-
scape. A green valley leading to the heights
above, which had been lately mowed for the
second time, and wore the appearance of velvet,
having been watered copiously by a rich
stream, now received them with a friendly
welcome. They then bent their course to a
higher and more open spot, which, upon
issuing from the wood, they reached after a
short ascent, and whence they obtained a
distant view of the old castle, the object of
their pilgrimage, which shone above the
groups of trees, and assumed the appearance
of a well-wooded rock. Behind them (for no
one ever attained this height without turning
to look round) they saw through occasional
openings in the lofty trees the princes castle
on the left, illuminated by the morning sun;
the higher portion of the town obscured by a
light cloudy mist, and on the right hand, the
lower part through which the river flowed in
many windings, with its meadows and its
mills; whilst straight before them the country
extended in a wide productive plain.
After they had satisfied their eyes with the
landscape, or rather, as is often the case in
surveying an extensive view from an eminence,
when they had become desirous of a wider
and less circumscribed prospect, they rode
slowly along a broad and stony plain, where
they saw the mighty ruin standing with its
coronet of green, whilst its base was clad
with trees of lesser height; and proceeding
onwards they encountered the steepest and
most impassable side of the ascent. It was
defended by enormous rocks which had en-
dured for ages; proof against the ravages of
time, they were fast rooted in the earth and
towered aloft. One part of the castle had
fallen, and lay in huge fragments irregularly
massed, and seemed to acl as an insurmount-
able barrier, the mere attempt to overcome
which is a delight to youth, as supple limbs
ever find it a pleasure to undertake, to combat
and to conquer. The princess seemed dis-
posed to make the attempt; Honorio was at
hand ; her princely uncle assented, unwilling
to acknowledge his want of agility. The
horses were directed to wait for them under
the trees, and it was intended they should
make for a certain point where a large rock
227


had been rendered smooth, and from which a
prospect was beheld, which, though of the
nature of a birds-eye view, was sufficiently
picturesque.
It was midday; the sun had attained its
highest altitude, and shed its clearest rays
around; the princely castle in all its parts,
battlements, wings, cupolas and towers pre-
sented a glorious appearance. The upper part
of the town was seen in its full extent, the eye
could even penetrate into parts of the lower
town, and with the assistance of the telescope
distinguish the market-place, and even the
very booths. It was Honorios invariable
custom to sling this indispensable instrument
to his side. They took a view of the river,
in its course and its descent, and of the
sloping plain, and of the luxuriant country |
with its gentle undulations, and then of the |
numerous villages, for it had been from time j
immemorial a subje<5t of contention how many
could be counted from this spot.
Over the wide plain there reigned a calm
stillness, such as is accustomed to rule at mid-
da}'an hour when, according to classical
phraseology, the god Pan sleeps, and all nature
is breathless, that his repose may be undis-
turbed.
It is not the first time, observed the prin-
cess, that, standing upon an eminence which
presents a wide extended view, I have thought
how pure and peaceful is the look of holy na-
ture, and the impression comes upon me that
the world beneath must be free from strife and
care; but returning to the dwellings of man,
be they the cottage or the palace, be they wide
or circumscribed, we find that there is in truth
| ever something to subdue, to struggle with, to
| quiet and allay.
i Honorio, in the meantime, had directed the
228


telescope towards the town, and now ex-
claimed, Look, look! the town is on fire in
the market-place.
They looked and saw a column of smoke
arising, but the glare of daylight eclipsed the
flames. The fire increases, they exclaimed,
still looking through the instrument. The
princess saw the calamity with the naked eye;
from time to time they perceived a red flame
ascending amid the smoke. Her uncle at
length exclaimed, Let us return; it is calami-
tous. I have always feared the recurrence of
such a misfortune.
They descended, and having reached the
horses, the princess thus addressed her old
relative, Ride forward, sir, hastily with your
attendant, but leave Honorio with me, and we
will follow.
Her uncle perceived the prudence and util-
ity of this advice, and riding on as quickly as
the nature of the ground would allow, de-
scended to the open plain. The princess
mounted her steed, upon which Honorio ad-
dressed her thus: 1 pray your highness to
ride slowly; the fire-engines are in the best
order, both in the town and in the castle,
there can surely be no mistake or error even
in so unexpected an emergency. Here, how-
ever, the way is dangerous, and riding is in-
secure, from the small stones and the smooth
grass, and, in addition, the fire will no doubt
be extinguished before we reach the town.
But the princess indulged no such hope; she
saw the smoke ascend, and thought she per-
ceived a flash of lightning and heard a thunder-
clap, and her mind was filled with the fright-
ful pictures of the conflagration which her
uncles oft-repeated narrative had impressed
upon her.
That calamity had indeed been dreadful,
sudden and impressive enough to make one
apprehensive for the repetition of a like mis-
fortune. At midnight a fearful fire had broken
out in the market-place, which was filled with
booths and stalls, before the occupants of those
temporary habitations had been roused from
their deep slumber. The prince himself, after
a weary days journey, had retired to rest, but
rushing to the window perceived with dismay
the flames which raged around on every side
and approached the spot where he stood.
The houses of the market-place, crimsoned
with the reflection, appeared already to burn,
and threatened every instant to burst out into
a general conflagration. The fierce element
raged irresistibly, the beams and rafters
crackled, whilst countless pieces of consumed
linen flew aloft, and the burnt and shapeless
rags sported in the air and looked like foul
demons revelling in their congenial element.
With loud cries of distress, each individual
endeavored to rescue what he could from the
flames. Servants and assistants vied with their
masters in their efforts to save the huge bales
of goods already half consumed, to tear what
still remained uninjured from the burning
stalls, and to pack it away in chests, although
they were even then compelled to abandon
3-5S
229


their labors and leave the whole to fall a prey
to the conflagration. How many wished that
the raging blaze would allow but a single mo-
ments respite, and pausing to consider the
possibility of such a mercy, fell victims to
their brief hesitation. Many buildings burned
on one side, while the other side lay in obscure
darkness. A few determined, self-willed char-
acters bent themselves obstinately to the task
of saving something from the flames, and suf-
fered for their heroism. The whole scene of
misery and devastation was renewed in the
mind of the beautiful princess; her counte-
nance was clouded, which had beamed so ra-
diantly in the early morning; her eyes had
lost their lustre, and even the beautiful woods
and meadows around now looked sad and
mournful.
Riding onwards she entered the sweet val-
ley, but she felt uncheered by the refreshing
coolness of the place. She had, however, not
advanced far, before she observed an unusual
appearance in the copse near the meadow
where the sparkling brook which flowed
through the adjacent country took its rise.
She at once recognized a tiger couched in the
attitude to spring, as she had seen him rep-
resented in the painting. The impression
was fearful. Fly! gracious lady, cried
Honorio, fly at once! She turned her
horse to mount the steep hill which she had
just descended, but her young attendant drew
his pistol, and approaching the monster, fired;
unfortunately he missed his mark, the tiger
leaped aside, the horse started, and the ter-
rified beast pursued his course and followed
the princess. The latter urged her horse up
the steep stony acclivity, forgetting for a
moment that the pampered animal she rode
was unused to such exertions. But urged by
his impetuous rider the spirited steed made a
new effort, till at length, stumbling at an
inequality of the ground, after many attempts
to recover his footing, he fell exhausted to the
ground. The princess released herself from
the saddle with great expertness and presence
of mind, and brought her horse again to its
feet. The tiger was in pursuit at a slow pace.
The uneven ground and sharp stones appeared
to retard his progress, though as Honorio ap-
proached, his speed and strength seemed to
be renewed. They now came nearer to the spot
where the princess stood by her horse, and
Honorio, bending down, discharged a second
pistol. This time he was successful and shot
the monster through the head. The animal
fell, and as he lay stretched upon the ground at
full length, gave evidence of that might and
terror, which was now reduced to a lifeless
form. Honorio had leaped from his horse,
and was now kneeling on the body of the
huge brute. He had already put an end to
his struggles, with the hunting knife which
gleamed within his grasp. He looked even
more handsome and active than the princess
had ever seen him in list or tournament. Thus
had he oftentimes driven his bullet through
the head of the Turk in the riding-school,
piercing his forehead under the turban, and,
carried onward by his rapid courser, he had
oftentimes struck the Moors head to the
ground with his shining sabre. In all such
knightly feats he was dexterous and successful,
and here he had found an opportunity for
putting his skill to the test.
Despatch him quickly, said the princess
faintly, I fear he may injure you with his
claws.
There is no danger, answered the youth,
he is dead enough, and I do not wish to
spoil his skinit shall ornament your sledge
next winter.
Do not jest at such a time, continued
the princess; such a moment calls forth
every feeling of devotion that can fill the
heart.
And I never felt more devout than now,
added Honorio, and therefore are my
thoughts cheerful; I only consider how this
creatures skin may serve your pleasure.
It would too often remind me of this
dreadful moment, she replied.
And yet, answered the youth, with burn-
ing cheek, this triumph is more innocent
than that in which the arms of the defeated
are borne in proud procession before the con-
queror.
I shall never forget your courage and
skill, rejoined the princess; and let me
add that you may during your whole life com-
mand the gratitude and favor of the prince.
But rise, the monster is dead; rise, I say,
and let us think what next is to be done.
Since I find myself now kneeling before
you, replied Honorio, let me be assured
of a grace, of a favor, which you can bestow
upon me. I have oftentimes implored your
princely husband for permission to set out
upon my travels. He who dares aspire to the
good fortune of becoming your guest, should
have seen the world. Travellers flock hither
from all quarters, and when the conversation
2 30


turns on some town, or on some peculiar part
of the globe, your guests are asked if they
have never seen the same. No one can expedt
confidence who has not seen everything. We
must instrudl ourselves for the benefit of
others.
Rise, repeated the princess; I can
never consent to desire or request anything
contrary to the wish of my husband; but, if I
mistake not, the cause of your detention here
has already been removed. It was the wish of
your prince to mark how your charadter should
ripen, and prove worthy of an independent
nobleman, who might one day be required to
assert his honor abroad, as you have done
hitherto here at court, and I doubt not that
your present deed of bravery will prove as good
a passport as any youth can carry with him
through the world.
The princess had scarcely time to mark
that, instead of an expression of youthful de-
light, a shade of grief now darkened his coun-
tenance, and, he could scarcely display his
emotion, before a woman approached, climb-
ing the mountain hastily, and leading a boy
by the hand. Honorio had just risen from his
kneeling posture and seemed lost in thought,
when the woman advanced with piercing cries,
and immediately flung herself upon the lifeless
body of the tiger. Her conduct, no less than
her gaudy and peculiar attire, bore evidence
that she was the owner and attendant of the
animal. The boy by whom she was accompa-
nied was remarkable for his sparkling eyes and
jet-black hair. He carried a flute in his hand,
and he united his tears to those of his mother,
whilst, with a more calm but deep-felt sorrow
than she displayed, he knelt quietly at her
side.
The violent expression of this wretched
womans grief was succeeded by a torrent of
expostulations, which rushed from her in
broken sentences, reminding one of a moun-
tain stream whose course is interrupted by im-
peding rocks. Her natural expressions, short
and abrupt, were forcible and pathetic; it
would be a vain task to endeavor to translate
them into our idiom; we must be satisfied
with their general meaning. They have
murdered thee, poor animal, murdered thee
without cause. Tamely thou wouldst have
lain down to await our arrival, for thy feet


pained thee, and thy claws were powerless.
Thou didst lack thy burning native sun to
bring thee to maturity. Thou wert the most
beautiful animal of thy kind. Who ever be-
held a more noble royal tiger stretched out to
sleep, than thou art as thou best here never to
rise again ? When in the morning thou
awokest at the earliest dawn of day, opening
thy wide jaws and -stretching out thy ruddy
tongue, thou seemedst to us to smile; and
even when a growl burst from thee, still didst
thou ever playfully take thy food from the
hand of a woman, or from the fingers of a
child. Long did we accompany thee in thy
travels, and long was thy society to us as in-
dispensable as profitable. To us, in very
truth, did food come from the ravenous, and
sweet refreshment from the strong. But alas !
alas! this can never be again !
She had not quite finished her lamentations,
when a troop of horsemen was observed riding
in a body over the heights which led from the
castle. They were soon recognized as the
hunting cavalcade of the prince, and he him-
self was at their head. Riding amongst the
distant hills, they had observed the dark
columns of smoke which obscured the atmos-
phere, and, pushing on over hill and dale, as
if in the heat of the chase, they had followed
the course indicated by the smoke, which
served them as a guide. Rushing forwards,
regardless of every obstacle, they had come
by surprise upon the astonished group, who
presented a remarkable appearance in the
opening of the hills. The recognition of
each other produced a general surprise, and
after a short pause a few words of explanation
cleared up the apparent mystery. The prince
heard with astonishment the extraordinary
occurrence, as he stood surrounded by the
crowd of horsemen and pedestrian attendants.
There seemed no doubt about the necessary
course. Orders and commands were at once
issued by the prince.
A stranger now forced his way forward, and
appeared within the circle. He was tall in
figure, and attired as gaudily as the woman
and her child. The members of the family
recognized each other with mutual surprise
and pain. But the man, collecting himself,
stood at a respectful distance from the prince,
and addressed him thus:
This is not a moment for complaining.
My lord and mighty master, the lion has also
escaped, and is concealed somewhere here in
the mountain; but spare him, I implore you;
I have mercy upon him, that he may not perish,
like this poor animal.
The lion escaped exclaimed the prince.
Have you found his track?
Yes, sire. A peasant in the valley, who
needlessly took refuge in a tree, pointed to the
direction he had takenthis is the way, to
the left; but perceiving a crowd of men and
horses before me I became curious to know
the occasion of their assembling, and hastened
forward to obtain help.
Well, said the prince, the chase must
begin in this direction. Load your rifles; go
deliberately to work; no misfortune can hap-
pen, if you but drive him into the thick woods
below us; but in truth, worthy man, we can
scarcely spare your favorite: why were you
negligent enough to let him escape?
The fire broke out, replied the other,
and we remained quiet and prepared; it
spread quickly round, but raged at a distance
from us. We were provided with water in
abundance, but suddenly an explosion of gun-
powder took place, and the conflagration im-
mediately extended to us and beyond us. We
were too precipitate, and are now reduced to
ruin.
The prince was still engaged in issuing his
orders, and there was general silence for a mo-
ment, when a man was observed flying, rather
than running, down from the castle. He was
quickly recognized as the watchman of the
artists studio, whose business it was to occupy
the dwelling and to take care of the workmen.
Breathless he advanced, and a few words
served to announce the nature of his busi-
ness.
The lion had taken refuge on the heights,
and had lain down in the sunshine behind the
lofty walls of the castle. He was reposing at
the foot of an old tree in perfeCt tranquillity.
But, continued the man, in a tone of bitter
complaint, unfortunately, I took my rifle to
the town yesterday to have it repaired, or the
animal had never risen again; his skin, at
least, would have been mine, and I had worn
it in triumph for my life.
The princewhose military experience had
often served him in time of need, for he had
frequently been in situations where unavoid-
able danger pressed on every sideobserved,
in reply to the man, What pledge can you
give that, if we spare your lion, he will do no
mischief in the country?
My wife and child, answered the father,
hastily, will quiet him and lead him peacefully
232


artist: carl gehrts.
I'HE PRINCE AND THE LION-TAMER


along, until I repair his shattered cage, and
then we shall keep him harmless and unin-
jured.
The child seemed to be looking for his flute.
It was that species of instrument which is
sometimes called the soft, sweet flute, short
in the mouthpiece, like a pipe. Those who
understood the art of using it could extract
from it the most delicious tones.
In the meantime the prince inquired of the
caretaker on which path the lion had ascended
the mountain.
Through the low road, replied the latter;
it is walled in on both sides, has long been the
only passage, and shall continue so. Two foot-
paths originally led to the same point, but we
destroyed them, that there might remain but
one way to that castle of enchantment and
beauty which is to be formed by the taste and
talent of Prince Frederick.
After a thoughtful pause, during which the
prince stood contemplating the child, who
continued playing softly on his flute, the
former turned towards Honorio, and said:
Thou hast this day rendered me an essen-
tial service; finish the task you have begun.
Occupy the narrow road of which we have
heard, hold your rifle ready, but do not shoot
if you think it likely that the lion may be
driven back; but under any circumstances
kindle a fire, that he may be afraid to de-
scend in this direction. The man and his
wife must answer for the consequences.
Honorio proceeded without delay to execute
the orders he had received.
The child still continued to play upon his
flute. He produced no exact melody, as a
mere succession of notes followed, without
any precise order or artistic arrangement, yet,
perhaps for this very reason, the efife61 seemed
replete with enchantment. Every one was de-
lighted with the simple music, when the father,
full of a noble enthusiasm, addressed the as-
sembled spedlators thus:
God has bestowed the gift of wisdom
upon the prince, and the power of seeing
that all divine works are good, each after its
kind. Behold how the rocks stand firm and
motionless, proof against the efifedls of sun
and storm. Their summits are crowned with
ancient trees, and, elated with the pride of
their ornaments, they look round boldly far
and wide. But should a part become de-
tached, it no longer appears as before; it
breaks into a thousand pieces, and covers the
side of the declivity. But even there the
pieces find no resting-place; they pursue their
course downwards, till the brook receives
them, and carries them onward to the river.
Thence, unresisting and submissive, their
sharp angles having become rounded and
smooth, they are borne along with greater
velocity from stream to stream, till they finally
attain the ocean, in whose mighty depths
giants abide and dwarfs abound.
But who celebrates the praise of the Lord,
whom the stars praise from all eternity? Why,
however, should we direct our vision so far ?
Behold the bee, how he makes his provision
in harvest time, and construdts a dwelling,
redtangular and level, at once the architedl
and workman. Behold the ant, she knows
her way, and loses it not; she builds her hab-
itation of grass and earth and tiny twigs,
builds it high and strengthens it with arches,
but in vain,the prancing steed approaches
and treads it into nothing, destroying the
little rafters and supports of the edifice. He
snorts with impatience and with restlessness,
for the Lord has formed the horse as com-
panion to the wind, and brother to the storm,
that he may carry mankind whither he will.
But in the palm forest even he takes to flight.
There, in the wilderness, the lion roams in
proud majesty; he is monarch of the beasts,
and nothing can resist his strength. But man
has subdued his valor; the mightiest of ani-
mals has respect for the image of God, in
which the very angels are formed, and they
minister to the Lord and His servants. Daniel
trembled not in the lions den; he stood full
of faith and holy confidence, and the wild
roaring of the monsters did not interrupt his
pious song.
This address, which was delivered with an
expression of natural enthusiasm, was accom-
panied by the childs sweet music. But when
his father had concluded, the boy commenced
to sing with clear and sonorous voice, and
some degree of skill. His parent in the mean-
time seized his flute, and in soft notes accom-
panied the child as he sung:
Hear the Prophets song ascending
From the caverns dark retreat,
Whilst an Angel, earthward bending,
Cheers his soul with accents sweet.
Fear and terror come not oer him,
As the lions angry brood
Crouch with placid mien before him,
By his holy song subdued.
The father continued to accompany the
verses with his flute, whilst the mothers
359
233


voice was occasionally heard to intervene as
second.
The effedt of the whole was rendered more
peculiar and impressive by the childs fre-
quently inverting the order of the verses.
And if he did not, by this artifice, give a new
sense and meaning to the whole, he at least
highly excited the feelings of his audience:
Angels oer us mildly bending,
Cheer us with their voices sweet.
Iiark what strains enchant the ear!
In the caverns dark retreat,
Can the Prophet quake with fear ?
Holy accents sweetly blending,
Banish evry earthly ill.
Whilst an Angel choir descending
Executes the heavenly will.
Then all three joined with force and em-
phasis :
Since the Eternal eye, far-seeing,
Earth and sea surveys in peace,
Lion shall with lamb agreeing
Live, and angry tempests cease.
Warriors sword no more shall lour;
Faith and Hope their fruit shall bear;
Wondrous is the mighty power
Of Love, which pours its soul in prayer.
The music ceased. Silence reigned around.
Each one listened attentively to the dying
tones, and now for the first time could one
observe and note the general impression.
Every listener was overcome, though each
was affedted in a different manner. The
prince looked sorrowfully at his wife, as
though he had only just perceived the dan-
ger which had lately threatened him, whilst
she, leaning upon his arm, did not hesitate to
draw forth her embroidered handkerchief to
dry the starting tear. It was delightful to re-
lieve her youthful heart from the weight of
grief with which she had for some time felt
oppressed. A general silence reigned around,
and the fears were forgotten which all had ex-
perienced both from the conflagration below
and the appearance of the formidable lion
above.
The repose of the whole company was first
interrupted by the prince, who made a signal
to lead the horses nearer; he then turned to
the woman and addressed her thus: You
think, then, to master the lion wherever you
meet him, by the power of your song, assisted
by that of the child and the tones of your
flute, and believe that you can thus lead him
harmless and uninjured to his cage?
She protested and assured him that she
would do so; whereupon a servant was or-
dered to show her the way to the castle. The
prince and a few of his attendants now took
their departure hastily, whilst the princess, ac-
companied by the rest, followed more slowly
after. But the mother and the child, accom-
panied by the servant, who had armed himself
with a rifle, hastened to ascend the mountain.
At the very entrance of the narrow road
which led to the castle, they found the hunt-
ing attendants busily employed in piling to-
gether heaps of dry brushwood to kindle a
large fire.
There is no necessity for such precau-
tion, observed the woman; all will yet
turn out well.
They perceived Honorio at a little distance
from them, sitting upon a fragment of the
wall, with his double-barrelled rifle in his lap,
prepared as it seemed for every emergency.
But he paid little attention to the people who
approached ; he was absorbed in his own con-
templations, and seemed engaged in deepest
thought. The woman entreated that he would
not permit the fire to be kindled; he, how-
ever, paid not the smallest attention to her
request. She then raised her voice, and ex-
claimed with a loud cry: Thou handsome
youth, who killed my tiger, I curse thee not;
but spare my lion, and I will bless thee.
But Honorio was looking upon vacancy ;
his eyes were bent upon the sun, which had
finished its daily course and was now about
to set.
You are looking to the evening, cried
the woman, and you are right, for there is
yet much to do; but hasten, delay not, and
you will conquer. But, first of all, conquer
yourself. He seemed to smile at this obser-
vationthe woman passed on, but could not
avoid looking round to observe him once
more. The setting sun had cast a rosy glow
upon his countenance; she thought she had
never beheld so handsome a youth.
If your child, said the attendant, can,
as you imagine, with his fluting and his sing-
ing, entice and tranquillize the lion, we shall
easily succeed in mastering him; for the fero-
cious animal has lain dchvn to sleep under the
broken arch, through which we have secured
a passage into the castle court, as the chief
entrance has been long in ruins. Let the
child then entice him into the interior, when
we can close the gate without difficulty, and
the child may, if he please, escape by a small
winding staircase, which is situated in one of
234


the corners. We may in the meantime con- |
ceal ourselves; but I shall take up a position |
which will enable me to assist the child at
any moment with my rifle.
These preparations are all needless;
Heaven and our own skill, bravery and good
fortune are our best defence.
But first let me conduct you by this steep
ascent to the top of the tower, right opposite
to the entrance of which I have spoken. The
child may then descend into the arena, and
there he can try to exercise his power over the
obedient animal.
This was done. Concealed above, the at-
tendant and the mother surveyed the pro-
ceeding. The child descended the narrow
staircase and soon appeared in the wide court-
yard. He immediately entered into the nar-
row opening opposite, when the sweet sounds
of his flute were heard, but these gradually
diminished till at length they finally ceased.
The pause was fearfulthe solemnity of the
proceeding filled the old attendant with ap-
prehension, accustomed as he was to every
sort of danger. He declared that he would
rather engage the enraged animal himself.
But the mother preserved her cheerful counte-
nance, and, leaning over the parapet in a
listening attitude, betrayed no sign of the
slightest fear.
At length the flute was heard again. The
child had issued from the dark recess, his face
beaming with triumph ; the lion was slowly
following, and seemed to walk with difficulty.
Now and then the animal appeared disposed
to lie down, but the child continued to lead
him quietly along, bending his way through
the half-leafless autumn-tinged trees, until he
arrived at a spot which was illumined by the
last rays of the setting sun. They were shed-
ding their parting glory through the ruins,
and in this spot he recommenced his sweet
song, which we cannot refrain from repeating:
Hear the Prophets song ascending
From the caverns dark retreat,
Whilst an Angel, earthward bending,
Cheers his soul with accents sweet.
Fear and terror come not oer him,
As the lions angry brood
Crouch with placid mien before him,
By his holy song subdued.
The lion in the meantime had lain quietly
down, and raising his heavy paw, had placed
it in the lap of the child. The latter stroked
it gently and continued his chant, but soon
observed that a sharp thorn had penetrated
into the ball of the animals foot. With great
tenderness the child extradled the thorn, and
taking his bright-colored silk handkerchief
from his neck, bound it round the foot of the
huge creature, whilst the attentive mother,
still joyfully leaning over the parapet with
outstretched arms, would probably have testi-
fied her approbation with loud shouts and
clapping of hands, if the attendant had not
rudely seized her and reminded her that the
danger was not yet completely over.
The child now joyfully continued his song,
after he had hummed a few notes by way of
prelude:
Since the Eternal eye, far-seeing,
Earth and sea surveys in peace,
Lion shall with lamb agreeing
Live, and angry tempests cease.
Warriors sword no more shall lour;
Faith and Hope their fruit shall bear;
Wondrous is the mighty power
Of Love, which pours its soul in prayer.
If it were possible to conceive that the feat-
ures of so fierce a monster, at once the tyrant
of the forest and the despot of the animal
kingdom, could display an expression of
pleasure and grateful joy, it might have been
witnessed upon this occasion; and, in very
truth, the child, in the fulness of his beauty,
looked like some victorious conqueror, though
it could not be said that the lion seemed sub-
dued, for his mighty power was only for a
time concealed; he wore the aspect of some
domesticated creature, who had been content
to make a voluntary surrender of the mighty
power with which it was endued. And thus
the child continued to play and to sing, trans-
posing his verses or adding to them, as he felt
inclined;
Holy Angels, still untiring,
Aid the good and virtuous child,
Every noble deed inspiring
And restraining actions wild.
So the forest king to render
Tame as child at parents knee,
Still be gentle, kind, and tender,
Use sweet love and melody.
235


HENRIETTA and Armidoro had been for
some time engaged in walking through ;
the garden in which the Summer Club was
accustomed to assemble. It had long been
their practice to arrive before the other mem-
bers, for they entertained the warmest attach-
ment to each other, and their pure and vir-
tuous friendship fostered the delightful hope
that they would shortly be united in the bonds
of unchanging affedlion.
Henrietta, who was of a lively disposition,
no sooner perceived her friend Amelia ap-
proach the summer-house from a distance, than
she ran to welcome her. The latter was already
seated at a table in the ante-chamber, where
the newspapers, journals and other recent pub-
lications lay displayed.
It was her custom to spend occasional even-
ings in reading in this apartment, without
paying attention to the company who came
and went, or suffering herself to be disturbed
by the rattling of the dice or the loud conver-
sation which prevailed at the gaming-tables.
236
' She spoke little, except for the purpose of
; rational conversation. Henrietta, on the con-
trary, was not so sparing of her words, being
of an easily satisfied disposition, and ever
ready with expressions of commendation.
They were soon joined by a third person,
whom we shall call Sinclair. What news do
you bring? exclaimed Henrietta, addressing
him as he approached.
You will scarcely guess, replied Sinclair,
as he opened a portfolio. And even if I
inform you that I have brought for your in-
spection the engravings intended for the
Ladies Almanac of this year, you will hardly
guess the subjects they portray; but when I
tell you that young ladies are represented in a
series of twelve engravings
Indeed! exclaimed Henrietta, interrupt-
ing him, you have no intention, I perceive,
of putting our ingenuity to the test. You
jest, if I mistake not; for you know how I
delight in riddles and charades, and in guess-
ing my friends enigmas. Twelve young


ladies, you saysketches of character, I sup-
pose ; some adventures, or situations, or some-
thing else that redounds to the honor of the
sex.
Sinclair smiled in silence, whilst Amelia
watched him with calm composure, and then
remarked, with that fine sarcastic tone which
so well became her, If I read his count-
enance truly, he has something to produce of
which we shall not quite approve. Men are
so fond of discovering something which shall
have the appearance of turning us into rid-
icule.
Sinclair. You are becoming serious, Ame-
lia, and threaten to grow satirical. I shall
scarcely venture to open my little packet.
Henrietta. Oh! produce it.
Sinclair. They are caricatures.
Henrietta. I love them of all things.
Sinclair. Sketches of naughty ladies.
Henrietta. So much the better; we do
not belong to that class. Their portraits would
afford us as little pleasure as their society.
Sinclair. Shall I show them?
Henrietta. Do so at once.
So saying, she snatched the portfolio from
him, took out the pictures, spread six of them
upon the table, glanced over them hastily,
and then shuffled them together as if they
had been a pack of cards. Capital! she
exclaimed; they are done to the very life.
This one, for instance, holding a pinch of
snuff to her nose, is the very image of Madame
S----, whom we shall meet this evening; and
this old lady with the cat is not unlike my
grand-aunt;that figure, holding the skein
of thread, resembles our old milliner. We
can find an original for every one of these
ugly figures; and even amongst the men I
have somewhere or other seen an old fellow
bent double, just like that picture; and also
a close resemblance to the figure holding the
thread. They are full of fun, these engravings,
and admirably executed.
Amelia, who had glanced carelessly at the
pictures, and instantly withdrawn her eyes,
inquired how they could look for resemblances
in such things. One deformity is like an-
other, just as the beautiful ever resembles the
beautiful. Our minds are irresistibly attracted
by the latter, in the same degree as they are
repelled by the former.
Sinclair. But our fancy and our wit find
more amusement in deformity than in beauty.
Much can be made of the former, but nothing
at all of the latter.
But beauty exalts, whilst deformity de-
grades us, observed Armidoro, who, from
his post at the window, had paid silent atten-
tion to all that had occurred. Without ap-
proaching the table, he then adjourned into
the adjoining cabinet.
All clubs have their peculiar epochs. The
interest of the various members towards each
other, and their friendly harmony together, are
of a fluctuating character. The club of which we
speak had now attained its zenith. The mem-
bers were, for the most part, men of refine-
ment, or at least of calm and quiet deportment;
they mutually recognized each others value,
and allowed all want of merit to find its own
level. Each one sought his own individual
amusement, and the general conversation was
often of a nature to attract attention.
At this time a gentleman named Seyton
arrived, accompanied by his wife. He was a
man who had seen much of the world, first
from his engagement in business, and after-
wards in political affairs; he was moreover an
agreeable companion; although, in mixed
society, he was chiefly remarkable for his
talent as a card-player. His wife was a worthy
woman, kind and faithful, and enjoying the
most perfect confidence and esteem of her
husband. She felt happy that she could now
give uncontrolled indulgence to her taste for
pleasure. At home she could not exist with-
out a companion, and she found in amusement
and dissipation the only incentive to home
enjoyment.
We must treat our readers as strangers, or
rather as visitors to the club, and in full con-
fidence we must introduce them speedily to
our new society. A poet paints his charac-
ters by describing their actions; we must
adopt a shorter course, and by a hasty sketch
introduce our readers rapidly to the scenes.
Seyton approached the table and looked at
the pictures.
A discussion has arisen, observed Hen-
rietta, with respect to caricatures. What
side do you take? I am an advocate for them,
and wish to know whether all caricatures do
not possess something irresistibly attractive.
Amelia. And does not every evil calumny,
provide it relate to the absent, also possess an
incredible charm ?
Henrietta. But does not a sketch of this
kind produce an indelible impression?
Amelia. And that is just the reason why I
condemn it. Is not the indelible impression
of what is disagreeable precisely the evil which
360
237