Plumptre, Anne. The Natural Son. Ed. Thomas C. Crochunis. British Women Playwrights around 1800. 15 July 2000.
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The
Natural Son
a Play,
in Five Acts,
by Augustus von Kotzebue
Poet Laureat and Director of the Imperial Theatre at Vienna.
Being the original of
Lovers' Vows,
now performing, with universal applause, at the
Theatre Royal, Covent Garden.
Translated from the German
By Anne Plumptre
(Author of the Rector's Son, Antoinette, &c.)
Who has prefixed
a preface,
Explaining the Alterations in the Representation; and
a Life of Kotzebue.
Fourth Edition. Revised.
London
Printed for R. Phillips:
Sold by H.D. Symonds, Pater-Noster-Row; Carpenter
And Co. Old Bond Street; R.H. Westly, Strand;
And by all other booksellers
1798
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
|
Baron von Wildenhain, a Colonel out of service |
Mr. Murray. |
|
Amelia, his Daughter |
Mrs. H. Johnston. |
|
The Pastor of the Parish, in which lies the Baron's Estate, performed under the Name of Anhalt |
Mr. H. Johnston. |
|
Count von der Mulde, performed under the Name of Count Cassel |
Mr. Knight. |
|
Wilhelmina Boettcher, performed under the Name of Agatha Fribourg |
Mrs. Johnson. |
|
Frederick Boettcher, a young Soldier, performed under the Name of Frederick Fribourg |
Mr. Pope. |
|
A Cottager, performed under the Name of Hubert |
Mr. Powel. |
|
Cottager's Wife |
Mrs. Davenport. |
|
Christian, Butler in the Baron's Family |
Mr. Munden. |
Landlord of the Public House.
A Farmer.
A Labourer.
A Young Country Girl.
A Jew.
A Huntsman.
Servants and Huntsmen.
The Natural Son
by Anne Plumptre
Act I
Scene 1
[The Highway leading to a
Town. The Road runs through a small Village, the last Houses of which are
in Sight—A Public House on the Right.
Enter Landlord
from the Public House, pulling Wilhelmina
out by the arms.]
Landlord.
No staying here, woman, no staying
here!—It is the fair to day in the village, and as the country people pass
by with their wives and children, they'll be coming in, and I shall want every
corner of my house.
Wilhel.
Will you thrust a poor sick woman
out of doors?
Land.
I do not thrust you out.
Wilhel.
Your unkindness breaks my heart.
Land.
It is no such mighty hardship.
Wilhel.
I have spent my last penny with
you.
Land.
You have—and because it was
your last, you can stay here no longer?
Wilhel.
I can work.
Land.
Why you can scarcely move your
hands.
Wilhel.
My strength will return.
Land.
Well, then you may return
hither.
Wilhel.
But what will become of me in the
mean time?
Land.
It is fine weather—you may
be any where.
Wilhel.
Who will clothe me should this
my only wretched garment be wet through with dew and rain?
Land.
He who clothes the lilies of the
field.
Wilhel.
Who will give me a morsel of bread
to appease my hunger?
Land.
He who feeds the fowls of the air.
Wilhel.
Hard-hearted man! thou knowest
that I have fasted ever since yesterday morning.
Land.
The sick can eat but little—eating
is not good for them.
Wilhel.
I will faithfully and honourably
pay for every thing.
Land.
By what means?—the times are
hard.
Wilhel.
My fate is also hard.
Land.
I'll tell you what, woman—here
lies the highway; the road is full of passengers—beg a small matter of
some pitiful heart.
Wilhel.
Beg!—No—I will rather
starve!
Land.
That's the great lady indeed!—but
many an honest woman has begged for all that. Only try, custom makes every
thing easy. (Wilhelmina sits down on a stone under a tree.)
Land.
And here comes somebody—I'll
teach you how to begin.
Scene 2
[Enter a Labourer, with his implements passing along the Road.]
Land. (to the Peasant)
Good day!
Lab.
Good day.
Land.
Neighbour Nicholas, won't you please
to bestow a small matter upon a poor woman. (The Labourer passes off.)
That won't do. The poor devil must work himself for his daily pay. But here
comes our fat Farmer, who every Sunday puts some money into the poor's-box,
I'll lay a wager he gives you something.
Scene 3
[Enter a jolly looking Farmer, who walks on very slowly.]
Land.Good day, Mr. Farmer! Fine weather!— Yonder sits a poor sick woman, who begs alms of you.
Farmer.
Is she not ashamed of herself?
She is still young; she can work.
She has had the fever.
Farmer.
Aye, one may work one's
fingers to the bones; one may toil hard—money is scarce enough now-a-days.
Landlord.
Only bestow a small matter
on her!—she is hungry.
Farmer. (as he passes
on)
The harvest has been very
bad, and the distemper has carried off the best of my cattle. [Exit.
Landlord.
There's a miser for you, that does
nothing but brood over his old dollars!—But talking of brooding, it comes
into my head that my old hen hatches to day—I must make haste and look
after her.—(Goes into the house.)
Scene 4
[Wilhelmina alone.—Her Clothes wretched, her Countenance bearing Marks of Sickness and Sorrow, yet still retaining Traces of Beauty.]
Wilhelmina.
O God! thou knowest that
it was never thus with me while I had wherewithal to give!—Dearest God!
Thou who hast hitherto sheltered me from despair, accept my thanks. Oh that
I could but work again!—but this fever has so shaken me—did my
Frederick know that his mother hungered!—Ah, lives he still, or does
a weight of earth now cover him?—Ah, no, no!—God forbid! I exist
only to see him once more.—Thou author of my woes, I will not curse thee;
heaven suffer thee to prosper, if it can grant prosperity to the seducer of
innocence!—Should chance conduct thee this way, shouldst thou, amid these
rags, beneath this sorrow-stricken form, recognize thy formerly blooming Wilhelmina
—what must be thy feelings?—Ah, I hunger; had I but a morsel of
bread!—but patience; here on the highway I cannot long be suffered to
want.
Scene 5
[A young Country Girl enters carrying Eggs and Milk to Market—she passes briskly on, but seeing Wilhelmina, stops and speaks.]
Country Girl.God preserve you. Wilhelmina.
I thank you kindly!—Ah, dearest child, hast thou not a morsel of bread to give to a poor woman?
Country Girl. (with
looks of compassion)
Bread! no, indeed, I have
not any. Are you hungry then?
Alas, I am. Country Girl.
Ah, dearest God!—and I have no money, and I have eaten the very last morsel of my breakfast.—But I will hasten to the town, sell my milk and eggs, and when I return I will give you a Dreyer. But, now I think of it, all that time you will still be hungry.—Will you drink a little of my milk? Wilhel.
Oh, yes! and thank you kindly, tender-hearted girl. Country Girl.
Well, drink! drink! (she holds the vessel up to her with much kindness) Won't you have any more?—drink again if you like, you are heartily welcome. Wilhel.
Heaven reward you!—you have quite revived me. Country Girl.
I am heartily glad of it (gives her a friendly nod) good day, mother! God protect you!
[Exit. singing.
Wilhel. (looking after her)
Such once was I—like
her, brisk and joyous, and awake to pity.
Scene 6
[Enter a Huntsman, with his Gun and Dogs.]
Wilhelmina.Good sport to you, honest man!
Huntsman. (as he passes
on)
Damnation! must I be crossed
on my way by an old woman at my first setting out!—I shall have no luck
to day. The devil fetch you, you old witch.
Wilhel.
That fellow varnishes over the
hardness of his heart by his superstition.—But here comes another—
a Jew—Ah, if I could beg—of him would I ask relief, for Christians
do but profess humanity.
Scene 7
[Enter a Jew, who is about to pass on, but seeing Wilhelmina, stops and examines her countenance.]
Wilhelmina.God bless you! Jew.
A thousand thanks, poor woman!—you seem very ill. Wilhel.
I have a fever.
Jew. (feeling hastily
in his pocket, whence he takes out a small purse, and gives her some money.)
Here, take this, 'tis all I can spare, I have not much myself.
[Exit.
Wilhel. (much affected calls
after him)
—A thousand thanks!
a thousand thanks!—Was I wrong?—Did my expectation deceive me?—the
creed has no influence upon the heart.
Scene 8
[Frederick enters with his Knapsack at his Back, walks briskly on, humming a Tune: as he approaches, he observes the Sign of the Public-House, and stops.]
Frederick.Humph!—to drink!—it is very hot to day.—But let me first examine my purse.—(takes out some pieces of money, which he contemplates as he holds them in his hand) Yes, to be sure there will be enough to pay for a breakfast and a dinner, and by evening, please God, I hope to be at home. Come, then, I am very thirsty— Holler! Landlord! (he sees Wilhelmina) But what have we here? a poor sick woman, pining, consuming away—she does not beg, but her situation asks assistance, and should we always wait to give till we are entreated?— fye, fye!—We must forego the drinking, else shall we have nothing left for dinner; be it so!—To perform a good action satisfies both hunger and thirst—There! (goes to her with a view to give her the money, which he was holding between his fingers to pay for his liquor.)
Wilhel. (looks at him stedfastly,
then gives a loud shriek)
—Frederick!!!
Fred. (starts, gazes at her
earnestly, throws away his money, knapsack, hat, stick, whatever encumbers
him, and falls into her arms)
Mother!!! (both remain
speechless some time—Frederick first recovers himself and proceeds)—
Mother! Good heavens! to find you in this state!—Mother!—what is
the matter!—speak!
Wilhel. (trembling)
I cannot—speak—dear
son!—dear Frederick!—the joy!—the transport!
Recover yourself, dear, dear mother! (he rests her head upon his breast) Recover yourself! how you tremble!—you are fainting. Wilhel.
I am so weak—my head is so giddy—the whole of yesterday—I had nothing to eat.
Fred. (starting up, wildly,
and covering his face with both hands)
Ah, my God! (he runs
to his knapsack, tears it open, and takes out a piece of bread) here is
bread! (collects together the money which he had thrown away, and adds
to it what remained in his pocket) here is my little store of money, and
my coat, my cloak, my arms, I'll sell them all. Ah, mother, mother.—Holla,
Landlord! (knocks hastily at the public-house).
Landlord. (looking out
at the window)
What's the matter?
A bottle of wine here!—quick!—dispatch! Land.
A bottle of wine! Fred.
Yes, yes! Land.
And for whom? Fred.
For me!—the devil!—make haste! Land.
Well, well!—but, Mr. Soldier, can you pay for it? Fred.
Here is money!—but make haste, or I'll break every window in your house. Land.
Patience! patience! (he shuts the window).
Fred. (to his mother)
Fasted the whole day!—fasted!
—and I had wherewithal to eat!—I had meat and wine served up to
me yesterday evening at the Inn, while my mother hungered!—Oh, God! how
is all my promised joy embittered!
Be comforted, dear Frederick!—I see thee again—I am now well—I have been very ill—I scarcely hoped ever to see thee more. Fred.
Ill! and I was not with you!—Well, never will I leave you more.—See, I am become tall, and strong, I will work for your support.
Enter Landlord with a bottle and glass.
Land.There is wine—of precious growth; a glorious bottle; 'tis only Franconian wine to be sure, but it is sour enough to pass for good old Rhenish. Fred.
Bring it hither! What does the trash cost? Land.
Trash! call one of the most precious gifts of Heaven trash! Good friend my wine is no trash; I have besides another delicious French wine in my cellar, aye, you ought to taste that, so rich, so luscious, when you have emptied the glass it looks dyed all over such a fine red. (Frederick impatiently attempts to snatch the bottle from him) Come, come, I must have the money first! this bottle costs half a guilder
Fred. (Gives him all his money)
There! there! (pours
out some for his mother, who drinks, and eats a piece of bread with it.)
Land. (Counting over
the money)
It is one dreyer short,
but however one ought to be compassionate—To revive a poor sick woman,
one may overlook such a thing; but take care of the bottle, and do not break
the glass, there's a fine German verse engrav'd upon it.
I thank thee kindly, dearest Frederick! wine is reviving, and wine, from the hands of a son, gives new life. Fred.
Don't exhaust yourself by talking, mother; recover yourself! Wilhel.
Tell me then how it has fared with you for these last five years? Fred.
Good and ill jumbled together; one day 'twas all plenty, the next nothing at all. Wilhel.
'Tis a long time since you have written to me. Fred.
Ah dearest mother 'tis a hard matter for a poor soldier to afford the money for postage, only think of the distance—it takes half a year's pay, and you know one must live. And then I always thought within myself, my mother is strong and healthy, and I am strong and healthy, I may as well wait a few weeks longer; and so I delayed it from one week to another,—but I hope you'll forgive me, dearest mother. Wilhel.
We easily forgive neglect when the anxiety it occasions is no longer felt. Have you then obtained your discharge? Fred.
No. I have only procured leave of absence for a few months for a particular reason; but you want me, I will continue with you. Wilhel.
There is no occasion, dear Frederick,—your visit will restore my health and renew my vigour, then shall I be able again to work, and you may return to your regiment; I would not be a hindrance to your fortune. But it seems you have obtained leave of absence for a particular reason? Did you not say so?—may I know this reason? Fred.
Oh yes, dear mother!—listen and I will relate it.—When I left you five years ago, you equipped me excellently with clothes, and linen, and money,—but one trifle you forgot,—the certificate of my birth. I was at that time a giddy, thoughtless lad of fifteen, and this never occurred to me, but it has since occasioned me much vexation. Many times have I been heartily weary of a soldier's bustling life, and was desirous of obtaining my discharge, that I might apply myself to learn some reputable trade, but whenever I mentioned this subject to any tradesman, saying, "Good Sir, I wish to bind myself to you to learn your trade," the first question always was, "where's the certificate of your birth?"—That settled the point at once. I was vexed and continued a soldier, for in that profession they only ask, whether all is right about the heart; the certificate of birth is of no more account than the diploma of nobility. But still this brought me into many unpleasant scrapes. My comrades found this out, and if any of them wished to teaze me, or were intoxicated, they would sneer at me, and make ill-natured speeches, and endeavour to irritate me. Twice I was even compelled to fight, and was put under arrest. My captain frequently admonished me—and at last about five weeks ago, when another of these quarrels happened, he called me to him in his own room—(Oh, mother, my captain is a fine charming man)—"Boettcher," said he, "I am sorry to learn, that you are continually getting into quarrels and incurring punishment, for in other respects I am extremely satisfied with your service, and have a good opinion of you. The serjeant has informed me of the cause. I'll tell you what—write home, and desire that your certificate may be sent, or if you are inclined to go and fetchit yourself, I will give you leave of absence for a few months,—the time of exercising is over."—Oh, mother, your form hovered before my eyes, as he spoke so kindly. I kissed his hand and stammered out my thanks. He presented me with a dollar,—"Go, my lad," said he, "may your journey be prosperous, and remember to return at the proper time."—Now, mother, you see I am here, and this is the whole of the story.
Wilhel. (who had listened to
his narrative with embarrassment.)
And you are come hither,
dear Frederick, to fetch the certificate of your birth?
Yes. Wilhel.
Oh heavens! Fred.
What is the matter? (Wilhelmina bursts into tears) for God's sake what is the matter? Wilhel.
Alas, there is no such certificate! Fred.
How? Wilhel.
Thou art—a—Natural Son— Fred.
Indeed—and who then is my father? Wilhel.
Ah! the wildness of your looks tortures me!
Fred. (recovering himself and
speaking mildly and affectionately)
Be not alarmed, dearest
mother!—still I am your son—tell me only who is my father?
When you left me five years ago, you were too young to be entrusted with such a secret. Now your maturer years demand my confidence. You are grown to man's estate, and are moreover worthy of the name of man. My fair maternal hopes have not deceived me. Ah, I have heard full often, how consolatory, how reviving it is to the spirits of the afflicted to meet with one to whom their wrongs may be imparted. The tears which your sufferings draw from the eyes of another, assuage the anguish of your own. Thanks, thanks be to God the hour is arrived, in which I can enjoy this consolation: my son is my confident, be he also my judge, for a strict judge I must deprecate, but my son will not be severe on me.— Fred.
Speak, dearest mother! lay open your whole heart! Wilhel.
Ah my son, I will tell you all; and yet shame almost chains my tongue: do not then look at me. Fred.
Know I not well the heart of my mother! accursed be the thought that would condemn her for a weakness—of a crime she is incapable. Wilhel.
Yon village, the spire of whose church you see at a distance, is the place of my birth: In that church was I baptized, and there also was I instructed in the first rudiments of our faith. My parents were pious and good cottagers; poor, but honest. When I was fourteen years old, I chanced one day to be seen by the lady of the castle: I pleased her, she took me to her mansion, and delighted in forming my rustic mind. She put good books, into my hands; I was instructed in French and music; my ideas and capacities developed themselves, but so also did my vanity: Yes, under the appearance of reserve I became a vain silly girl. I had just attained my seventeenth year, when the son of my benefactress, who was in the Saxon service, obtained leave of absence, and came to visit us; it was the first time of my seeing him; he was a handsome and seductive youth;—he talked to me of love, of marriage;—he was the first man who had paid homage to my charms: Ah, Frederick, do not look at me, I cannot go on.
Fred. (casts down his eyes, and presses her hand to his heart—both pause.)
Wilhel.I, too credulous creature, was beguiled of my innocence! he feigned the most ardent love—promised me marriage after the death of his aged mother—swore eternal faith and constancy.—Alas! and I forgot my pious parents, the precepts of our worthy pastor, the kindness of my foster-mother—Ah Frederick, Frederick, often as I cast my eyes towards the tower of yonder church, so often does the figure of our good old pastor with his silver hairs seem to stand before my eyes, as he appeared when for the first time I went to confession. How did my young heart then flutter—how full was I of virtue and elevated devotion!—Oh at that time, certain of triumph, I had courage frankly to acknowledge every failing.—How, oh Heavens! how could it be possible, that a wild, unthinking youth, should, by a few idle words and glances, efface that deep, deep impression: yet so it was—I became pregnant.—We were both awakened from our sweet intoxication, and shuddered at the fearful prospect of the future. I had put every thing to the hazard—he only had to fear the anger of his mother, a good, but inexorably strict woman. How tenderly did he conjure me, how affectingly did he entreat of me, not to betray him!— How seducingly, how ardently did he promise hereafter to make me amends for all—and so dearly did I love him, that I gave him my word, to conceal the name of my seducer,—to bury his image in my heart, and patiently to endure, for his sake, whatever sorrow might be in store for me.—Alas 'tis much indeed that I have suffered!—He departed, satisfied—meanwhile the time of my delivery approached—I could no longer conceal my situation—Ah I was severely dealt with for persisting in my refusal to name the father of my child.—I was driven indignantly from the house, and when I came to the door of my afflicted parents, there too was I denied admittance. My father upbraided me bitterly, and even was about to curse me, when my mother tore him hastily away. She soon returned—threw me a crooked dollar, which she wore about her neck, and wept; since that time I never have seen them. But the dollar I have still (she shews it) I have suffered hunger rather than part with this! (she gazes on it some time, kisses it, and restores it to its place.) Without a house in which to hide my head, without money, without friends, I wandered a whole night in the open fields. Once I had arrived at the river-side, there where stands the mill, and sorely was I tempted to throw myself in under the mill-wheel, thus at once to end my misery. But immediately the image of the worthy Pastor presented itself before me with his gentle, venerable mien—I started back; and looked around me to see whether he were not behind me.—The thought of him, and of his precepts, awakened my confidence—morning came on, I resolved to go to his house. He received me affectionately, uttered not a single reproach —"What is done," he said, "is done! Heaven pardons the penitent—reform then, my daughter, and all may yet be well. Here in this village, however, thou must not remain; that will be to thee a continued mortification, and a scandal to my parishioners—but,"—and here he put a piece of gold into my hand, together with a letter which he had written in my behalf,—"go to the town, my daughter, seek out an old and respectable widow to whom this letter is directed, with her thou wilt be safe, and she will besides give thee instruction in what manner to obtain an honest livelihood."—With these words he laid his hand upon my forehead, and giving me his blessing, promised also to endeavour to soften my father.—Ah I seemed now to receive new life!—On my way to the town I reconciled myself with my Creator, and solemnly vowed never again to deviate from the path of virtue—that vow I have strictly kept, so far may you still respect me, my Frederick. (Frederick presses her silently in his arms, after a pause she proceeds) Your birth was to me the cause of much sorrow, and much joy— Twice did I write to your father, but God only knows whether he received the letters, no answer have I ever obtained.
Fred. (Hastily)
No answer!
Be calm! my son, be calm!—It was in time of war, his regiment was then in service,—all was bustle and confusion throughout the whole country,—the troops of three different powers pursued each other alternately; how easily then might letters be lost; No, he certainly never received mine, for he was no villain. Since then indeed I have never troubled him; it might be pride, or call it what you please, but I thought that if he had not forgotten me, he would certainly seek information concerning me,—learn from our pastor whither I was retired, and come to see me, but alas, he came not, and some years after I even heard (she sighs deeply)—that he was married. Thus was I compelled to bid farewel to my last ray of hope;—in silence and solitude I inhabited an indigent cottage, where I gained a livelihood by the work of my hands, and by instructing the neighbouring children in what I had learnt at the castle. You, my dearest Frederick, were my only joy; and on your education I bestowed all that I could spare from the necessaries of food and clothing. My diligence was not ill repaid; you were a good boy, only your wildness, your youthful fire, your love for a soldier's life, and desire to ramble about the world, occasioned me many a heartache: at last I thought it must be as God pleases! Is it the boy's destination? I will not hinder him, though my heart should break at the separation. Five years ago therefore, I suffered you to depart, giving you at that time, all that I could possibly spare, perhaps more than I ought to have spared, but then I was in health, and when that is the case, one is too apt to think one shall never be sick. Indeed had I continued well, I had earnt still much more than I wanted for myself, had been a rich woman for one in my situation, and still, dear Frederick, had sent you every year a Christmas present. But I was attacked by a lingering sickness—there ended my earnings—my little store scarcely sufficed for physician, nurse, and medicines, and I was obliged a few days ago, to turn my back upon my poor little cottage, as I had no longer wherewithal to pay the rent. My only resource was to totter along the road with this stick, this bag, and these rags, and solicit a morsel of bread from the charity of those who happened to pass by. Fred.
Ah, if your Frederick had suspected this, how bitter would have been every morsel he eat, every drop that he drank. Well, God be thanked! I am here again, you are alive, and I will remain with you; I will not on any account leave you; and I will write thus to my Captain. Let him take it as he will, let him revile it as desertion, I will not stir from my mother. Alas! however I have not learnt any art, any trade, but I have a pair of nervous arms, I can guide the plough, I can handle the flail; I will hire myself as a day-labourer, and at night copy writings for some lawyer; for thanks to you, my good mother, I write a fair and legible hand. Oh, all will go well! God will help us, for he supports those who honour their parents.
Wilhel. (clasps him in her
arms much affected)
What princess could offer
me an equivalent for such a son?
One thing you have still forgotten, mother—What is my father's name? Wilhel.
Baron Wildenhain. Fred.
And he lives on this estate? Wilhel.
There once lived his mother, but she is dead. He himself married a noble heiress in Franconia, and as I am assured, has, to please her, for ever forsaken his native country. Here in the mean time lives a Steward, who manages the estate at his pleasure. Fred.
I will hasten to the Baron my father, boldly face him, and bear you upon my back to him. How great is the distance of Franconia; from twenty to thirty miles? only so far has he removed himself, and has he escaped from his conscience at so short a distance? Truly, a lazy creeping kind of a conscience, twenty years has it been crawling after him, and not yet overtaken him!—Oh, fye, fye!—Wherefore must I know my father, when my father is not an honest man? My heart was satisfied with a mother, a mother who has taught me to love, and why should I know a father who will teach me to hate?—No, I will not seek him!—Let him remain where he is, and feast and pamper himself till his last hour, and then he may see how he has prepared himself to meet his God. Is it not true, mother, that we need him not? We will—but what is the matter! your countenance is changed!—Mother, what is the matter?
Wilhel. (very weak and almost
fainting)
Nothing! nothing!—my
joy!—too much talking!—I wish to be quiet awhile.
My God! I never till now perceived that we were in the high way! (he knocks at the door of the public-house) Halloo! Landlord!
Land. (at the window)
Well, what is the matter
now?
Here, I want a bed in an instant for this poor woman. Land.
A bed for this poor woman! (sneeringly) Ha, ha, ha!—Last night she lay in the stall with my cattle, and has bewitched them all! (shuts the window).
Fred. (taking up a stone in
a rage)
Cursed scoundrel! (he
looks at his mother and drops the stone again) Ah, my poor mother! (he
knocks in despairing anguish at a cottage door which stands further in the
back ground) Halloo! halloo!
Scene 9
[Enter a Cottager from the House.]
Cottager.God preserve you!—What do you want? Frederick.
Good friend, look at this poor woman, she is fainting here in the open air. She is my mother. Do pray let her have a corner in your house, where she may rest for half an hour. I beg it for God's sake, and heaven will reward you! Cot.
Hold your tongue, I entreat!—I understand you perfectly well (speaking to somebody in the house) Bet, make up the bed there, quickly; you can lay the boy upon the bench in the mean time: (to Frederick) Don't tell me a long story again about God rewarding, and heaven paying; if God is to pay all such trifles, he'll have enough to do(indeed. Come, quick, support her, let us lead her in gently. A bed, as good as I can give her, she shall have; but indeed she will not find much in my house besides. (They lead her into the cottage).
END OF ACT I
