Act III
Scene 1
[An open Country. Enter Frederick alone, holding some Pieces of Money in the Palm of his Hand.]
Frederick.
Return with these few pieces?—Return
to see my mother die?—No, no, rather plunge into the water at once—rather
run on to the end of the world. Ah, my feet seem clogged—I cannot advance—I
cannot recede—the sight of yonder straw-roofed cottage, where rests my
suffering mother!—why must I always turn my eyes that way?—am I
not surrounded by verdant fields and laughing meadows? why must my looks be
still drawn irresistibly towards that cot which contains all my joys, all
my sorrows! (looks with anguish at the money) Man! man! is this your
bounty? this piece was given me by the rider of a stately horse followed by
a servant, whose livery glittered with silver;—this, by a sentimental
lady who had alighted from her carriage to gaze at the country, describe it,
and print her description. "Yon cottage," said I to her, while my tears interrupted
me—"It is very picturesque" she answered, and skipped into her carriage.
This was given me by a fat priest, enveloped in a large bushy wig, who, at
the same time, reviled me as an idler, a vagabond, and thus took away the
merit of his gift. This Dreyer (extremely affected) a beggar gave me
unasked;—he shared with me his mite, and, at the same time, gave me God's
blessing. Oh! at the awful day of retribution, at how high a price will this
dreyer be exchanged by the all-righteous Judge! (He pauses and looks again
at the money) what can I purchase with this paltry sum? Hardly will it
pay for the nails of my mother's coffin—scarcely buy a rope to hang myself!
(He casts a wishful look towards the distant country) There insultingly
glitter the stately towers of the prince's residence;—shall I go thither?
there implore pity?—Oh no! she dwells not in cities—the cottage
of the poor is her palace—the heart of the poor her Temple. Well then,
should a recruiting officer pass by, for five rix-dollars paid on the spot,
he shall have a stout and vigorous recruit. Five rix-dollars! Oh what a sum!
yet on how many a card may such a sum be staked, even at this moment! (wipes
the sweat from his forehead) Father! Father! on thee fall these drops of anguish—on
thee the despair of a fellow creature, and all its dreadful consequences;—yet
God forbid thou shouldst languish in vain for pardon in another world, as
my wretched mother languishes in this for a drop of wine. (a hunting horn
is heard at a distance,—a gun is fired,—succeeded by the "Halloo,
Halloo," to the hounds; several dogs run over the stage, Frederick
looks around) Hunters! Noblemen probably! Well then, now to beg once more!—to
beg for my mother!—Oh God! God! grant that I may meet with compassionate
hearts!
Scene 2
[Enter the Baron and the Count.]
Baron. (Waiting a few moments
for the Count who follows him out of breath)
Quick, quick, Count!—Ha
ha!—that was a cursed blunder indeed—the hounds have! lost the scent
now and wont recover it again.
Count. (panting for breath)
Tant mieux, tant mieux!
mon colonel!—then one may take a little breath. (supports himself
on his gun. The baron retires into the back ground and looks after the bounds;—Frederick
advances with hesitation to the Count.)
Fred.
Noble Sir! I entreat alms of you!
Count. (eying him from head
to foot)
Comment mon ami?—you
are a damned impertinent fellow, you have bones like Hercule,—your
shoulders are equal to the Cretan Milo's;—I'll lay a wager you have strength
enough to carry an Ox.
Fred.
If your lordship would permit me
to make the experiment.
Count.
Our police is not careful enough
of idlers and vagabonds.
Fred. (with a significant look)
So it appears to me! (turns
to the baron who comes forward) Noble Sir, have compassion on a wretched
son who begs for a sick mother!
Baron. (puts his hand into
his pocket and gives him a trifle)
It would be more proper
my son, to work for your sick mother.
Fred.
Willingly, willingly, would I work
for her, but at this moment the necessity is too urgent—Pardon me, worthy
Sir, but what you have given me is not sufficient?
Baron. (surprized and smiling)
Not sufficient?
Fred.
By God it is not!
Baron.
This is singular! however, I shall
give no more.
Fred.
If you have any humanity give me
a florin.
Baron.
This is the first time that I ever
heard a beggar prescribe what I should give him.
Fred.
Oh, for heaven's sake, noble
Sir, give me a florin! you will rescue a fellow-creature from despair!
Baron.
You are beside yourself, my friend.—Come
along Count.
Count.
Allons, mon Colonel!
For the love of God, my Lord, give a florin! You will save the lives of two unhappy wretches! (as he sees the Baron moving off he kneels to him) a florin, noble Sir! you can never purchase the salvation of a man at a cheaper rate. (The Baron moves onward, Frederick rushes wildly with his drawn sword upon the Baron and collars him.) Your money or your life!
Baron. (agitated)
How! what! halloo! help!
help! thieves! (several huntsmen rush in and disarm Frederick—the
Count running off.)
Fred.
Oh God! what have I done!
Baron.
Bear him away! take heed of him!
confine him in the tower!—I shall follow immediately.
Fred. (kneeling)
Only grant me one petition
my Lord! I have forfeited my life, do with me what you will, but oh assist,
I entreat you assist, my poor mother! she languishes for want in yonder cottage—send
thither and learn the truth! 'twas for my mother I drew my sword, for her
would I shed every drop of my blood.
Baron.
Away with him to the tower! keep
him on bread and water.
Fred. (as he is borne off by
the huntsmen)
Accursed be my father that
he ever gave me existence!
[Exeunt.
Baron. (to another huntsman)
Francis—hasten to the
village—If in the first, the second, or the third house, you find a poor
sick woman, give her this purse.
Huntsm.
Very well, my Lord.
[Exit.
Baron.
Upon
my soul this is a most extraordinary adventure! there is something noble in
the young fellow's countenance—should it prove true that he begged for
his mother—for his mother's sake robbed upon the highway!—Well,
well, we must investigate the matter—this would indeed be a subject for
one of Meissner's sketches.
[Exit.
Scene 3
[A Room in the Baron's Castle.]
Amelia. (alone)
Why am I thus restless?
Am I bewitched? I will not stay in this room—I will go into the garden.
(she is going, but immediately returns.) No, I will not go—Yes,
but I think I will—I will see whether my auriculas are yet in flower,
or whether the apple-kernels which our pastor lately sowed are come up.—Oh,
they must be come up! (returning again) Then if any body should come
to speak with me, I shall not be in the way, but must be called and sought
for.—No, better remain, here—yet the time will seem very tedious,
(she pulls a nosegay to pieces) Hark! did I not hear the house-door
open? No, it was only the wind—I will look at my canary-birds. But suppose
any body should come, and not find me in the visiting room? Yet who is likely
to come? What makes my cheeks burn thus. (She pauses and begins to weep)
What have I to complain of? (sobbing) why then should I weep?
Scene 4
[Enter the Pastor.]
Amelia. (cheers up and wipes
her eyes)
Ah! good morning, dear tutor!—Pastor
I would say—but you will pardon me, I have been so accustomed to call
you tutor.
Pastor.
Call me so still, dear madam, I
shall always hear it with pleasure from your mouth.
Amelia.
Indeed!
Pastor.
Yes, indeed!—Am I mistaken? or
have you not been weeping?
Amelia.
Oh, 'tis nothing—a few tears
only.
Pastor.
Yet they are tears—may one ask
what can have called them forth?
Amelia.
I know not.
Pastor.
Perhaps thinking of your deceased
mother?
Amelia.
I might say yes—but—
Pastor.
A secret, perhaps—I would not
be intrusive.—Pardon me, then, that I come hither at so unusual an hour—I
am commissioned by your Father.
Amelia.
You are welcome to me at all times.
Pastor.
Indeed! am I really so?—Oh, Amelia—
Amelia.
My father teaches me, that he who
forms the heart and mind, is more one's benefactor, than he who merely
gives one life (casting down her eyes) my father says so, and my heart
feels it.
Pastor.
How sweetly does this moment repay
me for eight years exertion.
Amelia.
I was a wild girl—often have I
severely tried your patience—it is no more than just that I should love you
in return.
Pastor. (aside)
Oh God! (in a faultering,
hesitating manner) I—I—come from my Lord, your father—with
a commission—will you sit down?
Amelia. (fetches him a chair
hastily)
Sit down yourself—I
had rather stand.
Pastor. (pushing back the chair)
Count von der Mulde—is
come hither—
Amelia.
Yes.
Pastor.
Do you know with what intention?
Amelia.
To marry me.
Pastor.
That is indeed his wish (very
earnestly) But, believe me, madam, your father would on no account constrain
you—no, he would by no means use compulsion.
Amelia.
Ah, I know that well—
Pastor.
But he wishes—he desires to ascertain
your inclination—I come to consult your inclinations—
Amelia.
Towards the Count?
Pastor.
Yes—no—rather on the subject
of matrimony in general.
Amelia.
What I am ignorant of, must be indifferent
to me—I know nothing of the marriage state.
Pastor.
For that very reason I wait upon
you, madam, it is the subject of my commission from your father. He wishes me
to lay before you the agreeable and disagreeable sides of such a condition.
Amelia.
Begin then with the disagreeable,
the best shall be reserved to the last.
Pastor.
With the disagreeable?—Oh, madam,
when two affectionate congenial hearts unite; the marriage state has then no
disagreeable side. Hand in hand the happy pair journey through life. Where they
find their path occasionally strewed o'er with thorns, diligently and cheerfully
they clear their way. If a stream cross their steps, the stronger bears the
weaker over: or if a rock is to be climbed, the stronger takes the weaker by
the hand:—patience and love are their companions. What would be impracticable
to one, to their united efforts proves but sport—and when they
have reached the summit, the weaker wipes the sweat from the brows of her more
vigorous partner. Their joys their pains are never divided guests, nor will
one ever experience a pang of sorrow while transport warms the bosom of the
other. A smile illumines the countenance of both; or tears distil from both
their eyes. But their raptures are more lively and ecstatic than single unparticipated
joy; their sorrow less corroding than solitary woes: for participation enhances
the one, and alleviates the other. Thus their whole life resembles a beautiful
summer's day; beautiful, even though a transient shower may intervene:
—for showers refresh the face of nature, and the sun bursts from the cloud
with renovating lustre. And when the evening of their day draws on, it finds
them surrounded with flowers, which they themselves have planted and reared,
patiently awaiting the approach of night. Then, then, indeed—for night will
come—the one takes the lead and first lies down to sleep, and happy that
one, to whose lot it falls:—the survivor wanders in melancholy solitude
weeping at not being allowed to sleep also.—And this is the only disagreeable
feature of such a marriage.
Amelia.
Oh, I will marry!
Pastor.
Right, madam, this picture is alluring,
but recollect that 'tis a picture for which two loving and congenial hearts
sat as the models. But if motives of mere convenience (what the world generally
terms prudence) if parental authority, rashness or caprice, tie the bonds of
hymen, then, alas! the state of matrimony has no agreeable side. No longer free
and unshackeled man and woman walk with light and airy steps, but victims of
a late repentance drag along their galling chains. Satiety is depicted on each
brow. Images of lost happiness, painted in stronger colours by imagination's
delusive hand, and more tempting in proportion as they are unattainable.—Sanguine
and romantic hopes, which haply might never have been realized if this marriage
had not taken place, but the practicability of which the mind holds certain,
if the parties were not fettered by wedlock. These ideas incessantly harass
the soul, and condemn them to actual suffering, where otherwise patience only
would have been called into exertion. Gradually they accustom themselves to
contemplate their irksome companion as the hateful cause of all the evils which
befal them. Gall infuses itself into their conversation, coldness into their
caresses. To none are they more captious, from none more apt to take offence,
than from their wedded partner: and what would yield them delight in a stranger
is viewed with apathy in the person of their nearest connection. In this manner,
with averted face and downcast eyes, the hapless pair drag on through life,
till at length one lies down to sleep:—then exultingly the survivor lifts
the head and triumphantly exclaims, "Liberty! Liberty!"—And this forms the
only pleasing feature in such a marriage.
Amelia.
I will not marry!
Pastor.
That is in other words to say I
will not love.
Amelia.
Ha!—yes—I will marry—for I
will love—I love already.
Pastor. (extremely confused)
Indeed!—You love the
Count von der Mulde?
Amelia.
Oh no! no!—away with the fool
(taking both his hands with the most cordial familiarity) I love you.
Pastor.
Madam, for God's sake!
Amelia.
And you will I marry.
Pastor.
Me!
Amelia.
Yes, you, dear tutor.
Pastor.
Amelia!—you forget—
Amelia.
What do I forget?
Pastor.
That you are of noble extraction.
Amelia.
What signifies that?
Pastor.
Oh, Heavens!—No, that cannot be.
Amelia.
If you have an affection for me?
Pastor.
I love you as my life.
Amelia.
Well, then, marry me.
Pastor.
Oh, spare me, Amelia!—I am a minister
of religion, 'tis true—that gives me much fortitude—but still I am
a man.
Amelia.
You have yourself exhibited to me
so alluring a picture of the marriage state!—But I am not, then, the woman
with whom you could go hand in hand, with whom you could share all your joys,
all your sorrows?
Pastor.
Were it in my choice, you only should
be the person. Did we live in the golden days of which poets dream, when all
ranks were equal, I would have you alone. But 'tis not for us to alter
the customs of the world; and as the world is now constituted, you must marry
a man of rank.—Whether you would be happy or not with the humble pastor, is
not the question.—Oh, God! I have already said too much!
Amelia.
Others, perhaps, may not make that
a question, but it must be one with me.—Have you not often told me that the
heart alone ennobles us. (She places her hand upon his heart) Oh, truly,
I shall marry a noble-man.
Pastor.
Madam! let me entreat you to call
in reason to your aid.—A thousand objections lie against such an union—but,
at this moment, Heaven knows, not one occurs to me.
Amelia.
Because in truth there are none.
Pastor.
Yet, yet—but my heart is so full—my
heart would plead—but that it shall not, must not. Think only of the sneers
of your relations—how they will shun you, ashamed of the new connection you
have brought among them—on those solemn days when all the family should be
collected together, omitting to invite you, shaking their heads when your name
is mentioned, whispering your story, forbidding their children to play with
yours, or even to accost them with familiarity—embroidering their arms upon
their liveries, painting them upon their carriages, while you must ride in one
humble and unornamented—scarcely recollecting you, should they meet you at
a third place—or, if they should condescend to favour you with a word, addressing
you not as a lady of rank, but with scornful countenances, as the parson's
wife.—
Amelia.
Ha! ha! ha! Is that so very terrible?
Pastor.
You laugh?
Amelia.
Yes; you must pardon me, dear tutor.
For seven years was I under your instruction, but in all that time never were
any of your precepts advanced upon such shallow reasonings as those you have
now uttered.
Pastor.
I am sorry for that—extremely
sorry, indeed! for—
Amelia.
It rejoices me extremely—for—
Pastor. (much embarrassed)
For—
Amelia.
For—you must marry me.
Pastor.
Never!
Amelia.
You know me well—you know that
I am not untractable, and from a constant intercourse with you, I shall daily
improve. I will take all possible pains to make you happy—or rather, it shall
be my pride to do so without exertion. Together we will live, happy, truly happy
in each other, till one of us lie down to sleep, and then the other shall weep,
indeed; but that is yet far distant. Well, then, consent, else shall I think
you have no regard for me.
Pastor.
Oh! it is glorious to maintain
the character of a man of honour; but the task is often hard. Madam, did you
but know how much you torture
me!—No, no, this must not, cannot be! I should sink into the earth at
the moment, were I to attempt
to make such a proposal to your father.
Amelia.
I will make it myself.
Pastor.
For Heaven's sake, forbear!
To his liberality I owe my present comfortable situation—to his friendship
the happiest hours of my life—and shall I, ungrateful wretch! mislead his
daughter, his only child!—Oh, God! Oh, God! thou seest the purity of my intentions!
support me in this conflict.
Amelia.
My father wishes me to marry—he
wishes to see me happy. Well then, I will marry. I will be happy—but with
you only. Thus will I tell my father, and what will be his answer.—At the
first moment he will start, and say, "Girl, art thou mad!" but soon he will
recollect himself, and, smiling, add, "Well, well, in God's name be it
so." Then will I kiss his hand, skip away from him, and fly into your arms.
It shall be told about that I am betrothed; the country people, with their wives,
from the whole village, will come and wish me joy, and ask God's blessing
upon us both—and God will bless us.—Certainly, certainly, he will bless
us.—Ah! ever since my father returned hither, I have not known what it was
so oppressed my heart, but I know it now—it is now lightened. (taking
his hand.)
Pastor. (withdrawing his hand.)
Oh! you have almost deprived
me of my senses—and of more, of my peace of mind.
Amelia.
No, no.—But I hear some one
on the stairs—I have yet many things to say to you.
Scene 5
[Enter Christian the Butler, an old Servant in the House.]
Amelia. (peevishly.)
Ah! is it you?
Christ.
Without vanity be it spoken, Christian
Lebrecht Goldmann has pursued his way hither the moment the happy news reached
his ears.
Amelia. (embarrassed)
What news?
Pastor. (confused)
He has overheard us.
Christ.
A faithful, old servant, young lady,
who has often carried the lady your mother in his arms, and, without vanity
be it spoken, has received from her many a box on the ear, hath, on this joyful
day, flown hither to present his humble gratulations.—Sing, Oh, Muse! on the
happy occasion—strike up thy notes, Oh Lyre!
Amelia.
Ah! my good Christian, I have no
inclination at present to attend to your muse or to your lyre. And what is now
the matter?
Christ.
Ah! my noble, blessed young lady—
To-day I cannot silent be,
But hither must command
to flee
Trumpet, violin, and drum,
As fast as ever they can
come;
And bid my verses softly
flow,
As waters through the meadows
go.
Hitherto has no birth-day, or wedding-day, or christening-day, or their anniversaries, been solemnized in the most noble Baron's family, which has not been celebrated by an offering from my ever-ready and obedient muse. In the course of six-and-forty years, no less than three hundred ninety and seven congratulatory effusions have flowed from my pen. To-day, the three hundred ninety and eighth shall echo around. Who knows how soon a solemn marriage affiance in Christ may furnish an opportunity for a three hundred ninety and ninth!—and then, ha! ha! ha!—in another year will come the four hundredth.
Amelia.
To-day is Friday—that is the only
thing remarkable in it, that I can recollect.
Christ.
Yes, indeed, it is Friday; but more—in
the first place, Heaven has been pleased to rescue our noble lord the Baron
from an imminent danger—and in the second place, it is therefore a day of
rejoicing.
Amelia.
Rescued my father from danger!—What
do you mean?
Christ.
Even this moment has the huntsman
Frank arrived in haste, and advertised the congregated household of his lordship
of a piece of villainy, which the latest posterity, without vanity be it spoken,
never shall read without the strongest emotions of horror.
Amelia. (anxiously)
Oh! tell it me quickly.
Christ.
Our most noble Baron, and the foreign
Count of the Holy Roman Empire, had scarcely
One half hour trodden the
unbeaten way,
To seek the nimble-footed
hare to slay.
Amelia.
For heavens sake tell it me in prose!
Christ.
My Lord Baron had already shot one
hare—for I myself have had the honour of seeing it; the left fore foot was
quite torn to pieces.
Amelia. (impatiently)
Well, well, but my father!
Christ.
A second hare was already started,
and the hounds pursued her with due activity, particularly Spadillio, he more
than any other distinguished himself, when suddenly his honourable Lordship
was met in the midst of the field by a soldier who demanded alms. Frank, the
huntsman himself, saw how the most noble Baron with inexpressible kindness felt
in his pocket, drew out a piece of money, and gave it to the beggar. But the
ungrateful, audacious, high-way robber, suddenly drew his sword, fell, without
vanity be it spoken, like a mad dog upon his honourable Lordship, and had not
our active huntsman hastened in a moment to his assistance, I, poor old man,
should have been under the mournful necessity of composing a funeral elegy,
and an epitaph in commemoration of his melancholy exit.
Amelia. (terrified)
My God!
Pastor.
A highway-robber!—in broad day-light!—
that is extraordinary!
Christ.
I must form it into a ballad after
the manner of Bürger.
Pastor.
Is not the man taken up?
Christ.
Yes, indeed he is. The most noble
Baron has commanded, that till further orders, he be confined in the old Tower.
Frank says he will be here immediately: (he steps to the window) I believe,
indeed—the sun blinds me a little—they are coming already—Sing O muse,
strike up thy notes O lyre! (he runs out, the others go to the window).
Amelia.
Never in my life did I see a highway
robber!—he must doubtless have a terrifying physiognomy.
Pastor.
Did you never see the Female Parricide
in Lavater's Fragments?
Amelia.
Fye!—a female Parricide! Can such
a monster exist in the world?—But look—the young man approaches—an interesting
figure indeed!—a noble countenance!—yet it is full of sorrow!—the poor
man excites my compassion.—No, no; he cannot be a highway robber!—Oh, fye,
fye! see how the huntsmen thrust him into the Tower! hard-hearted wretches!—now
they lock the door—and now he is in total darkness—what must be the feelings
of the unhappy wretch!
Pastor. (aside)
They can scarcely be more
poignant than mine.
Scene 6
[Enter the Baron.]
Amelia. (running up to him)
A thousand congratulations
to you, dear father!
Baron.
For God's sake spare me!—Old
Christian has been pouring out his congratulations to me in Alexandrines all
the way up stairs.
Pastor.
The story then is true?—indeed,
as related by the talkative old Butler, it appeared wholly incredible.
Amelia.
The young man with the interesting
countenance was, indeed, a highway robber?
Baron.
'Tis true; yet am I almost
convinced that he was so for the first and last time in his life. My friend,
(to the pastor) it was a most singular accident.—The young man begged
of me for his mother.—I gave him a trifle—I might, perhaps, have given him
more, but the hares were running in my head, and the cry of the hounds filled
my ears. You know well, that when a man pursues his pleasure, he has no feeling
for the afflictions of his brethren. In short, he wanted more—despair was
in his whole manner, yet I turned my back upon him; lost to himself he drew
his sword, but I would wager my life against Amelia's head-dress, that
highway-robbery is not his trade.
Amelia.
Certainly not.
Baron.
He trembled as he held me by the
breast, a child might have knocked him down. Oh, it was a shame that I did not
suffer the poor wretch to escape. My sport may perhaps cost him his life, and
I might have saved it—saved the life of a man for a florin only. Ah, that
he had not been seen by my people! but the bad example!—come with me to my
closet, good Pastor, we must contrive how we can best save the young man, for
should he be delivered over to the arm of justice, he cannot be saved. (going)
Amelia.
Dear father, I have had much conversation
with the Pastor.
Baron.
Have you?—and on the subject of
the holy marriage state?
Amelia.
Yes; I have told him.
Pastor. (extremely embarrassed)
In consequence of my commission—
Amelia.
He will not believe me.
Pastor.
I have explained to the young lady.—
Amelia.
And indeed I spoke from my heart—
Pastor. (pointing to the closet)
May I request—
Amelia.
But his diffidence—
Pastor.
The result of our conversation shall
be related in your closet.—
Baron.
What the devil is the matter now;—you
interrupt each other, so that neither can go on. Amelia, have you entirely forgotten
all the rules of politeness?
Amelia.
Oh, no, dear father!—but is it
not true that you said you would let me marry whom I should chuse?
Baron.
Assuredly!
Amelia.
Hear you not, dear Tutor?
Pastor. (takes out his handkerchief
in haste, and holds it to his face)
I beg your pardon, my Lord,
I am not well.
[Exit.
Baron. (calls after him)
I shall expect you! (Going.)
Amelia.
Stop a moment, dear father! I have
most important things to communicate.
Baron. (smiling).
Important things! I suppose
you want me to buy you a new fan.
[Exit.
Amelia. (alone)
A fan!—indeed I think
I am in want of a fan, (she fans herself with her pocket-handkerchief)
my cheeks burn so; but this will not relieve me! Ah my God how my heart beats!—I
do, indeed I do, most dearly love the Pastor; how unfortunate that he should
be taken ill just now;—No, the Count scarcely deserves the name of man.
When I contemplate my father or the Pastor, I feel a sort of reverence; but
the Count I feel only disposed to ridicule. (she goes to the window)
The tower is stil locked. Oh how terrible must be such confinement!—I
wonder whether the poor man has any thing to eat and drink! (she beckons
and calls) Christian! Christian! come hither directly!—the young
man interests me—I know not why, but he does interest me: he has hazarded
his life for his mother, that does not bespeak a bad heart.
Scene 7
[Enter Christian.]
Amelia.
Ah, good Christian, tell me, have
you carried the prisoner any thing to eat?
Christ.
Yes, my most benevolent lady!
Amelia.
What have you carried him?
Christ.
Good black bread, and fine clear
water.
Amelia.
Oh fye!—are you not ashamed?—hasten
instantly into the kitchen and get some meat from the cook, then fetch a bottle
of wine from the cellar, and carry them to him immediately.
Christ.
Most gladly would I fulfil the will
of my most benevolent lady, but at present he must be content with bread and
water, for the most noble lord baron hath expressly commanded—
Amelia.
Ah, my father only did that in the
first moments of passion.
Christ.
What our noble masters command in
passion, 'tis the duty of a faithful old servant, without vanity be it
spoken, to obey in cold blood.
Amelia.
You are a stupid fellow!—so old,
and have not yet learnt that 'tis your duty to comfort the unfortunate.
Give me the key of the cellar, I will go myself.
Christ.
I solemnly protest most blessed
Lady—
Amelia.
Give it to me, I command you.
Christ. (gives her the key)
I must go immediately, and
exculpate myself to his honourable Lordship.
Amelia.
You may do that with all my heart.
[Exit hastily.
Christ. (after a pause, and
shaking his head.)
In woe and anguish,
Each day to languish,
Is right affecting
And dejecting.
Is then the youthful mind
To follow good inclin'd;
Let him still in memory
keep
The good old proverb, look
before you leap.
[Exit.]
END OF ACT III
