Scene 1
[A Room in the Cottage. Wilhelmina, Frederick, the Cottager and his Wife. Wilhelmina sits on a wooden Stool, with her Head supported on her Son's Breast. Frederick (speaking to the Cottager and his Wife, as they are busied about the Cottage.)]
Frederick.
Dear good people, have you nothing
then? Nothing strengthening? nothing reviving?
Wife.
Run, husband, to our neighbour at
the public house, and fetch a bottle of wine.
Fred.
Ah, that will not do!—his wine
is as bad as his heart. She has already tried that, and I fear it has proved
poison to her.
Cottager.
Go and see, wife, whether the black
hen has not laid an egg. A new laid egg boiled soft—
Wife.
Or a few ripe currants—
Cottager.
Or the best thing that I have—a
piece of bacon.
Wife.
Or there's about half a pint
of brandy standing in the dairy.
Fred. (much affected.)
God bless you and reward
you for your kind-heartedness!—Do you hear mother (Wilhelmina nods
her head)—Do you like any of these things? (Wilhelmina makes
a motion with her hand declining them) She does not fancy them—is
there no physician in the neighbourhood?
Cottager.
There's a horse doctor lives
in the village—but I never in my life saw any other.
Fred.
Oh God what shall I do!—she will
die in my arms—merciful God, take pity on me!—Kind people pray for us—pray
I entreat you! I cannot pray myself.
Wilhel. (with a broken voice.)
Be comforted dear Frederick—I
am well—I am only faint, very faint—a glass of good wine—
Fred.
Yes mother!—immediately mother—directly!
But, oh God where shall I procure it!—no money—none, not a doit.
Wife.
Look you here, husband—did you
carry the money for the rent yesterday to the steward?
Cottager.
Yes, indeed, the more's the
pity. What can be done!—It is true, as I am an honest man, that I have not
a single doit in the house.
Fred.
I will—I will beg—and
if they will not give me—I will rob!—Good people take care of my
poor mother—do what you are able!—give her what help you can!—I
will soon return. (Rushes out of the house.)
Scene 2
[Wilhelmina, the Cottager, and his Wife.]
Cottager.
Should he but step to our pastor,
he'll give something for certain.
Wilhel.
Does the worthy pastor then still
live?
Wife.
Alas no!—The good old gentlemen!—it
has pleased God to take him—he died two years ago, worn out and weary of life.
Cottager.
He went out like a lamp.
Wife. (wiping her eyes)
We have reason enough to
weep for him.
Cottager. (with tears also)
He was our father.
Wilhel. (extremely affected)
Our father!
Wife.
We shall never have such another.
Cottager.
Well, well! let every man have his
deserts—we must not disparage any body. Our present pastor is also a worthy
good man.
Wife.
Yes, indeed, husband—but very
young.
Cottager.
'Tis true, one can't look
up to him with quite so much respect—our hearts don't take to him so
readily—but our old pastor himself, you know, was once young.
Wife. (to Wilhelmina)
This gentleman was tutor
in the family, and my lord the Baron was so well satisfied with him, that
he made him our Pastor.
Cottager.
And well he might be satisfied;
for to be sure our young lady, God bless her, is a charming, affable creature.
Wife.
Not at all proud. When she comes
to church, she nods her head round to all the countrywomen, first to one and
then to another.
Cottager.
And when she comes into the pew,
she holds her fan before her face, and prays with such devotion!
Wife.
And during the sermon, she never
once turns away her eyes from the Pastor.
Wilhel. (with emotion)
And who is this young lady?
Cottager.
The daughter of my lord the Baron.
Wilhel.
Is she here, then?
Wife.
Here!—yes, to be sure!—did not
you know that?—Next Friday it will be five weeks since his lordship made his
entry into the Castle, bag and baggage.
Wilhel.
Baron Wildenhain?
Wife.
Yes, my lord himself.
Wilhel.
And his lady?
Cottager.
Oh, no; her ladyship is dead. They
lived some hundred miles off, in Franconia; and while her ladyship was alive,
my lord never came amongst us. That has frequently been a great loss to us.
(Speaking in a sort of whisper.) She was a proud kind of lady, with a
heap of fancies. Well, well, we should not speak ill of the dead. The Baron
is still a very good kind of gentleman;—scarcely had my lady closed her eyes,
when he resolved immediately to leave the place, and returned to Wildenhain.
And well he might, for this is his native place;—here he grew up to manhood;
many a time has he joined in our rural sports, and has often danced with my
wife on a Sunday evening under the lime-trees.—Don't you remember it,
Bet?
Wife.
O yes, to be sure, I may well remember
it. The young gentleman used to wear a red coat, and fine buckles set with sparkling
stones.
Cottager.
Afterwards, indeed, when he became
an officer, he turned out rather wild; but young folks must sow their wild oats;
the soil was naturally good, but the richest earth, you know, will sometimes
bear weeds.
Wife.
But do you remember, husband, what
a piece of work he made with Boettcher's Minny?—That was not good.
Cottager.
Hush, wife! we must not bring up
such old stories. Besides, we don't know that he was the father of her
child; she never said so.
Wife.
Well, for all that, I'd lay
my Sunday gown and laced cap that he was the man, and nobody else.—No, no,
husband, you must not defend that—that was wicked. Who knows whether the poor
creature has not died of hunger and grief—and her poor father, old Boettcher,
he might have lived longer, if he had not been so heart-broken about it.
(Wilhelmina faints.)
Cottager. (first perceiving
her)
Bet! Bet!—Help! Zounds,
help!
Wife.
Ah! my God!—poor woman!
Cottager.
Quick, quick, carry her into the
chamber; lay her on the bed—and then we'll go and fetch the pastor, for
she scarcely can live till morning.
(They carry her in.)
Scene 3
[A Room in the Baron's Castle. The Tea-table is set out, a lighted Candle and a Roll of wax Taper on the Table. The Baron enters in his night gown.]
Baron.
Sleeps the Count still?
Servant.
No, my lord; his hair is already
dressed.
Baron.
I suspected so; the whole house
is scented with poudre à la Marechalle. Call my daughter hither.
(The servant goes out, the Baron fills his pipe and lights it.)—
It seems to me that the old privy counsellor has saddled me with a complete
coxcomb; whatever he says and does, is as silly and conceited as his countenance.—No,
I will not be precipitate—my Amelia is too dear to me for that;—I
must first know the young gentleman a little better, and not for the sake
of an ancient friendship make my daughter unhappy. The poor girl innocently
says yes, and she will do as her father pleases, and he understands these
things better than herself. Pity, pity, indeed, that the girl was not a boy!—Pity
that the name of Wildenhain must be extinct, even as the flame which I now
blow out.—(He blows out the candle with which he had lighted his pipe.)
—All my fine estate, my glorious prospects, my honest, well-conditioned
tenants—all, all must pass into foreign hands!—'tis to be regretted—
much to be regretted!
Scene 4
[Enter Amelia in a loose morning dress.]
Amelia. (kissing the Baron's
hand)
Good morrow, dear father.
Baron.
Good morrow, my daughter. You have
slept well, I hope?
Amelia.
Oh! yes.
Baron.
You have, indeed, slept well? Not
been at all disturbed?
Amelia.
No—only the gnats made rather
a humming in my ears.
Baron.
The gnats! Well, that does not much
signify. We must only smoke a bough of juniper in the room. 'Tis easier
to drive away gnats than maggots.
Amelia.
If you want to drive them away,
'tis only to boil some peas with a little quicksilver, and that will kill
them.
Baron. (laughing)
Well, well, it will be happy
for you, Amelia, if you never know any other maggots than what a plate of
peas will kill.
Amelia.
Oh, you mean maggots in the head!
No, no, I have none of them.
Baron.
So much the better. What, indeed,
should a young, lively girl of sixteen like you, have to do with maggots in
her head. You have a father who loves you tenderly, and a suitor who begs permission
to love you. How do you like the Count von der Mulde?
Amelia.
Very well.
Baron.
Do you not blush when I name him?
Amelia. (feeling her cheeks)
No.
Baron.
No!—Humph!—And you have not
dreamt of him?
Amelia.
No.
Baron.
You did not dream at all, perhaps?
Amelia. (considering)
Oh! yes, I dreamt of our
Pastor.
Baron.
Aha! as he stood before you, and
asked you for the ring?
Amelia.
Oh, no! not so.—I dreamt that
we were still in Franconia, and he was still my tutor, and was about to depart,
and that I wept bitterly.
Baron.
And that your father laughed, and
your mother scolded?—Is it not true?—Yes, yes, it was a foolish scene.—It
is still perfectly in my remembrance.
Amelia.
And when I waked, my eyes were really
wet.
Baron.
Hear me, Amelia! When you dream
again of the pastor, let it be that he stood at the altar, and you and the Count
stood before him, and exchanged rings. What think you of that?
Amelia.
I will most certainly, dear father,
if you command it.
Baron.
The devil!—No, I do not command
it!—But I wish to know whether you love him? You know you saw him at the ball,
when we spent a few days in town last winter.
Amelia.
Should I then love every body whom
I see at a ball?
Baron.
Amelia! Amelia! Do not be stupid!—I
mean, that at that time the Count von der Mulde simpered and ogled with you,
danced an elegant minuet or two with you, poured eau de mille fleurs upon
your pocket-handkerchief, and God knows what he was talking about all the time.
Amelia.
God knows, indeed!—I'm sure
I remember nothing about it.
Baron.
Nothing?
Amelia.
If it would be a satisfaction to
you, I will endeavour to recollect as much as I can.
Baron.
No, no, there is no occasion. What
one is forced to try to recollect, can only be brought forth from a corner of
the memory, not from the recesses of the heart. You do not then love him?
Amelia.
I believe not.
Baron. (aside.)
I believe not too.—Yet
I wish to make you understand the connection between his visit and my questions.
His father is a privy counsellor—a man of wealth and rank—of wealth
and rank! dost thou hear?
Amelia.
Yes, dear father—if you command
it. But our pastor always told me that I should not regard such things; that
wealth and rank are mere gifts of chance.
Baron.
Well, well, he is right enough in
that. But if it so happens that wealth and rank go hand in hand with merit,
then they are an advantage. You understand me?
Amelia.
Perfectly. (With simplicity,
and without any apparent design.) And is that the case with the Count von
der Mulde?
Baron. (embarrassed.)
Humph!—His father has
rendered the State important services;—he is my old friend—he was
my suitor with your mother, and I have great obligations to him;—and
because he so earnestly wishes for a marriage between you and his son—and
because he supposes that in time you will love the young man so ardently—
Amelia.
Does he suppose that?
Baron.
Yes. But it appears to me that you
are not of the same opinion?
Amelia.
Not entirely. Still, if you command,
dear father—
Baron.
The devil!—I tell you that one
must not command in such things;—a marriage without love is absolute
slavery;—none but congenial minds should be united—I would not pair a nightingale
with a finch. If you like each other, be it so—if not, here let the matter
rest. (Most calmly.) Attend, my Amelia!—the whole of the affair is
this—can you, or can you not, love this man? If you cannot, then we must send
him back with a refusal.
Amelia.
Dear father, it appears to me that
I never shall love him. I have read so much in romances about love, how strange
and wonderful are its effects—
Baron.
Hey! what! Don't prattle to
me of your romances! they are the devil, indeed!—they tell you a parcel of
nonsense, that never can stand the test of experience. But stop!—I will put
a few questions to you—answer them with sincerity, Amelia—with strict sincerity.
Amelia.
I have never answered you otherwise.
Baron.
Are you pleased when you hear people
talk of the Count?
Amelia.
Good or ill?
Baron.
Good, good?
Amelia.
Oh, yes. I am always pleased when
I hear good of any man.
Baron.
But are you not elated when you
hear him mentioned? (She shakes her head.) Are you not embarrassed? (She
shakes her head.) Do you not wish sometimes that he should be made the subject
of conversation, yet have not courage to begin talking of him yourself? (She
shakes her head.) Would you not defend him, if you should hear any one find
fault with him?
Amelia.
Oh, certainly, if I can. Our pastor—
Baron.
Pshaw! Pshaw! we won't talk
about our pastor at present.—How do you feel when you see the Count?
Amelia.
Very well.
Baron.
Don't you feel any palpitation
as he approaches you?
Amelia.
No. (Hastily recollecting herself.)
Yes, I did once.
Baron.
Aha!—now it's coming out.
Amelia.
It was at the ball, when he trod
on my foot.
Baron.
Don't be foolish, Amelia!—Don't
you cast down your eyes when he addresses you?
Amelia.
I never cast my eyes down before
any body.
Baron.
Do you not play with your apron
or handkerchief, when he is talking to you?
Amelia.
No.
Baron.
Does not your face glow when he
makes you a fine speech, referring perhaps to love or marriage?
Amelia.
Did he ever say any thing of that
kind to me? It's more than I recollect.
Baron.
Humph! humph!—(After a pause.)
Have you not sometimes yawned while he was talking to you?
Amelia.
No, dear father—that is not polite.
Baron.
But were you ever disposed to yawn?
Amelia.
Oh yes, dear father.
Baron.
So!—then there is little hope.—Do
you think him handsome?
Amelia.
I don't know.
Baron.
Do you not know what beauty is?—or
do you not know whether you think him handsome?
Amelia.
I never particularly examined him.
Baron.
Bad again.—How did you feel when
he came yesterday evening?
Amelia.
I was vexed;—for at the very time
the servant so unseasonably called me, I was walking with our pastor on the
little romantic hill.
Baron.
Unseasonably!—Humph!—Well, only
one more question.—Have you not undesignedly dressed your hair this morning
with unusual care, and selected a becoming deshabille?
Amelia. (surveying herself)
This is not dirty yet, dear
father; I only wore it yesterday and the day before.
Baron. (aside)
Here's little prospect of
success! Well, my dear child, the Count, then, is indifferent to you?
Amelia.
Why not, unless you command it?
Baron. (warmly)
Listen to me, Amelia!—If
you repeat again your damned command, I may be tempted perhaps to command
indeed. (More mildly.) To see you happy, my child, is my earnest wish,
and commands cannot produce happiness. Marriage is a very inharmonious
duet, if the tones are ill assorted; therefore the great Composer has planted
in our hearts the pure harmony of love. I'll tell you what, Amelia, I will
send the pastor to you.
Amelia. (joyfully)
The pastor!
Baron.
He shall instruct you in the duties
of the marriage state; for that office a clergyman is better qualified than
a father.—Then examine yourself; and if you believe that the Count is the
man towards whom your heart can fulfil these duties, in God's name marry
him.—Till then I say no more. (calls) Henry! (a servant enters)
Go to the minister, and desire him, if he be disengaged, to come hither for
a quarter of an hour. (The servant is going.)
Amelia.
And tell him, I wish him a good
morning.
Baron. (looking at his watch)
My young gentleman takes
a devilish time for dressing, methinks. Come, Amelia, pour out the tea.
(Amelia sits down at the tea-table.)
Baron.
What sort of weather have we?—Have
you put your head out of the window this morning Amelia?
Amelia.
Oh, I was in the garden by five
o'clock; it is indeed a most charming morning.
Baron.
One may then take an hour's shooting;
I know not what else to do with my gentleman—he fatigues me terribly.
Ha! here he comes!
Scene 5
[Enter Count von der Mulde.]
Count.
Ah, bon jour mon colonel!—Dear
young lady, I kiss your hand. (Amelia curtsies.)
Baron.
Good morrow! good morrow! Why, count,
it is almost noon. In the country one is used to rise earlier.
Count.
Pardonnez, mon colonel!—I
have been up ever since six o'clock; but my homme de chambre has
been guilty of a betise, which has quite driven me to despair—a loss
which pour le moment cannot be repaired.
Baron.
Aye! aye! I am sorry indeed for
that. (Amelia offers him tea.)
Count. (taking it)
I am your most humble slave! Is it Hebe herself, or Venus in la place of Hebe? (Amelia looks at him sneeringly.)
Baron. (rather peevishly)
Neither Venus, nor Hebe,
but Amelia Wi'denhain with your permission. But may I be informed of your
loss?
Count.
Oh, my God! help me to banish the
triste remembrance, I am envelopé in a maze of perplexities.
I am afraid I must even be obliged to write a letter upon the occasion.
Baron.
What? Is the misfortune really so
great?
Count. (sipping his tea)
'Tis absolute nectar, most
divine young lady! but could it be otherwise from your fair hands?
Baron.
Indeed this nectar was sold to me
for plain congou tea.
Amelia.
But, my good count, you do not tell
us what you have lost?
Baron. (aside)
His understanding!—
Count.
You command—your slave obeys.
But in doing this you tear open wounds, which even the sight of you had scarcely
healed. My homme de chambre—the vaut-rien!—Oh the man is
a mauvais sujet. As he was packing up my things the day before yesterday, I
said to him, "Henri," said I, "Yonder on that window stands a little
pot of pommade." You understand me, most charming lady, I said to him
most emphatically, "forget it not upon any consideration, let it be packed up."
I repeated it three times, nay, I believe, four times—"You know, Henri," I
said, "that I am undone without this pommade"—for you will understand,
madam, they cannot make pommade here in Germany, they know not how to
give it l'odeur—it is incomparable. I can assure you, madam,
it comes tout droit from Paris, the author is parfumeur du roi.
More than once, when I have been dejour at her highness the princess
Adelaide, she has asked, where I could get my pommade, "for count,"
she said, "the whole chambre is parfumé when you are with
me dejour. Now only imagine, most charming lady, et vous mon colonel,
the fellow totally forgot the pommade, there it stands upon the window
still, as I am a true cavalier.
Amelia. (smiling)
Dreadful indeed!
Baron.
Unless the mice should have made
prize of it.
Count.
Et voila encore, mon colonel,
another raison which drives me to desperation. Would you believe it,
this fellow, this Henri, has been thirty years in our service! For thirty
years has he been provided in our family with every thing for which a man of
his extraction can have occasion, and what does he now in return?—forgets
my pommade—leaves it standing on the window—as I am a vrai cavalier.
O Ciel! and the German mice will perhaps gormandize upon the most delicate
parfum that all France can produce. But it was impossible to restrain
mon indignation; I instantly discharged him.
Baron. (throwing himself back)
A servant who had lived
with you thirty years!
Count.
Oh be not uneasy! I have another
in petto—an excellent servant indeed! he dresses hair like a deity.
Amelia.
And poor Henri must be turned
away for such a trifle!
Count.
What say you, charming lady? a Bagatelle?
Amelia.
Deprive a poor man of his bread!
Count.
My God, how can I do less? Has he
not deprived me of my pommade?
Amelia.
May I not plead for him?
Count.
Your sentiments transport me! but
your goodness must not be abusé. The man has quantité
of children, who in the course of time, when they are arrived at an age mur
will be able to maintain their blockhead of a father.
Amelia.
And has he a family too? Oh, I entreat
you most earnestly, count, not to discharge him!
Count.
Vous etes aimable, divine
creature!—trés aimable!—You command, your slave obeys. Henri
shall come and kiss the skirt of your garment.
Baron. (aside, rubbing his
hand impatiently)
No! that is not to be borne!—away
with the coxcomb! (to the count) What say you, count, to taking an
hour's shooting before dinner?
Count. (kissing the ends of
his fingers)
Bravo! mon colonel! a
charmant thought! I accept the party with pleasure. Madame,
you will then have a sight of my elegant shooting-dress. You will find it
in the very newest taste. I had it made up on purpose pour cette occasion.
And my gun, monsieur le colonel, the stock is set with mother-of-pearl,
you never saw any thing finished with superior gout; even my arms are
carved upon it.
Baron. (drily)
Can you shoot?
Count.
I never was out a shooting but once
in my life, and I cannot say then that I had the fortune to attraper any
thing.
Baron.
My gun is but an old and dull looking
one to be sure—but it brings down every bird.
Enter a Servant.
Servant.
The pastor attends,
sir.
Baron.
Well then, hasten, count, and put
on your elegant shooting-dress, I will be with you quickly.
Count.
I fly. My dearest lady, it is un
sacrifice due to your father, thus to tear myself away for a while from
his aimable daughter. (Exit.)
Baron.
Hear me, Amelia!—It is scarcely
necessary that I should talk with the pastor, and he afterwards talk with you.
But still, as he is here, leave us together—I have other matters on which
I wish to confer with him.
Amelia. (going)
Dear father, I do not think
I ever shall love the Count.
Baron.
As you please.
Amelia. (meeting the
pastor with a complacent smile)
Good morrow! good morrow!
dear sir. (Exit.)
Scene 6
[The Baron, the Pastor.]
Pastor.
I wait your lordship's commands.
Baron.
Excuse me if I have sent for you
at an inconvenient time, a few words will comprize my business—I yesterday
received a miserable translation from the French, which came from the press
about twenty years ago. I myself possess a very elegant German original, of
which, without vanity be it spoken, I am the author. Now I am solicited to strike
my name out of the original, and bind it up together with this contemptible
translation—and I wish to ask you, as corrector of my work, your opinion
upon the subject.
Pastor.
Indeed, my lord, I do not understand
your allegory.
Baron.
No! Humph! I am sorry for that,
I thought I had framed it so dexterously—but in short, then, the young count
von der Mulde is here, and would fain marry my daughter.
Pastor. (starts but soon recovers
himself)
Indeed!
Baron.
He is a gentleman of the privy-chamber—
but nothing else upon God's earth. He is—he is—in short he pleases
me not.
Pastor. (rather eagerly)
And your daughter?
Baron. (imitating her)
As you command—if you
command—what you command—Well, well, but I think you know me too
well to suppose, that on such an occasion I lay any commands—but if the
man's head were not so totally empty, and his heart were right, I should have
no objection; for his father is my old friend, and the match in other respects
advantageous.
Pastor.
In other respects, my Lord?—what
then remains to a man, whose head and heart are good for nothing.
Baron.
That is not what I mean—I mean
as to rank and fortune. My friend, I will explain to you my ideas upon this
subject. If Amelia loved another, I should not waste a syllable upon the subject,
I would only ask who he is?—is all right here? (pointing to his heart).
If the answers were satisfactory, in God's name they should have my blessing.
But Amelia does not love any other man, which circumstance alters the case entirely.
Pastor.
And never will love another.
Baron.
Truly that is a different question.—But
understand me. I do not mean to persist in this, I would only do what is incumbent
on me not to offend the old Count von der Mulde, by refusing to honour the bill
of exchange, which he has drawn for my daughter; for I have already received
the value in friendship from him; therefore I wish you to talk with my child,
and explain to her the duties of the marriage state, and this done, ask her,
whether she be inclined to take upon herself those duties as the wife of the
young Count: if she answer in the negative, 'tis enough—she shall be
urged no farther. What think you of this?
Pastor.
I—yes—certainly.—I understand
you well—I will talk with the young lady.
Baron.
Yes, yes, do so! (he fetches
a deep sigh) Ah! one weight is now removed from my mind, but another hangs
more heavily upon it, and oppresses it more grievously. You understand me—No
success yet, my friend? still no intelligence?
Pastor.
I have sought it with all diligence,
but hitherto in vain.
Baron.
Believe me, this has occasioned
me many a sleepless night. How often is a man guilty of errors in his youth,
which in age he would give all he possesses, could they be obliterated. How
does he thus lay up a store of misery to corrode the happiness of his future
life, since the retrospect of the past, and the hopes and prospects of the future
are inseparably linked together. Is the view behind us darken'd o'er
with clouds, so surely must we encounter storms as we proceed onwards in our
course. Well, well, we will hope the best. Farewell, my friend, I am going a
shooting. In the mean time make your experiment, and remember to dine with me.
[Exit.
Pastor. (alone)
What a commission!—to
me? (looking anxiously around) If I should meet with her directly!—
No, I must first collect myself—prepare myself for the interview—at
present it is impossible to encounter it.—A walk in the fields, and
a devout prayer to heaven—then will I return—but ah, the instructor
alone must come hither, the man I must leave at home.
[Exit.
END OF ACT II
