Scene 1
[A Prison in an old Tower in the Castle of Wildenhain.]
Frederick. (alone).
How can a few moments of
anguish—one hour of devouring misery swallow up all the past happiness
of a man's life! When I left the inn this morning, the sun just rising, and
I sang my morning song, oh how cheerful, how happy was I! in thought I banqueted
at the table of joy,—I dreamt with transport of the first re-union with
my mother!—I meant to steal along the road towards the spot where she
once dwelt; thought how I should creep close by the wall, that she might not
from the window espy my approach; and when arrived at the housedoor, how I
should softly, softly pull the bell.—Then in idea, I saw her lay aside
her work, rise up, and come down, I thought how my heart would beat, when
I should hear her steps upon the stairs, how she would open the door to me,
and I should throw myself into her arms. But oh, farewell; ye air-built castles,
ye variegated bubbles, seen through hope's prismatic glass!—I returned
to my native land, and the first object which met my eyes was my dying mother,
my first habitation is a prison, and my first excursion will be to the place
of execution. Oh righteous God! have I deserved this fate? or must the son
answer for the crimes of a father! But be still, my heart—I entangle
myself in a labyrinth! To suffer without murmuring, to sorrow and be silent!
Such is the lesson taught me by my mother, and she hath suffered much!—Thou,
oh God, thou art just! (looks towards Heaven with uplifted hands)
Scene 2
[Enter Amelia with a plate of provisions and a bottle of wine.]
Fred. (turning round at the
noise)
Who's there?
Amelia.
My good friend, I bring you some
refreshment—you may perhaps be hungry or thirsty.
Fred.
Alas no! I feel neither hunger nor
thirst.
Amelia.
Here is a bottle of old wine, and
some meat.
Fred. (eagerly)
Old wine! really, good old
wine?
Amelia.
I do not understand much of wine
myself, but I have often heard my father say this wine is a true cordial.
Fred.
Ten thousand, thousand thanks, lovely,
amiable, Unknown! You make me a costly present indeed, in this bottle of wine.—Oh
hasten, hasten then, most benevolent tender-hearted maiden, let it be instantly
dispatched to the neighbouring village; close by the public-house stands a little
cottage, where will be found a poor, sick woman—a fainting woman, whom, if
she yet live, this wine will revive! (he takes the bottle from Amelia's
hand, and raises it up towards heaven) Oh God! bless this liquor! why can
I not myself?—(gives back the bottle to Amelia) but no—hasten, hasten
then with it, most amiable of your sex! save my mother, and you will be my guardian
angel.
Amelia. (much affected)
Worthy creature! Oh I am
right, he cannot be a villain, a murderer!
Fred.
God be thanked, that I still deserve
to be noticed by so noble a soul!
Amelia.
I will go myself immediately.—But
let me leave this bottle of wine here; I will fetch another for your poor mother.
(she sets down the bottle and is going)
Fred.
Yet one word more. Let me know,
sweet maiden, who you are, that in my prayers to heaven, your name may be remembered.
Amelia.
My father is Baron Wildenhain, the
possessor of this estate.
Fred.
Merciful God!!!—
Amelia.
What is the matter?
Fred. (shuddering)
And the man, against whom
I this day drew my sword!
Amelia.
Was my father?
Fred.
My father!!!
Amelia.
His agitation alarms me. (She
runs out.)
Scene 3
Frederick. (Alone.)
(He repeats the words
with agony.) Was my father!—Eternal justice thou slumberest not!—The
man against whom I drew my sword this day—was my FATHER!—A few moments
more, and I had been a parricide!—Oh—h—h! an icy coldness
freezes all my limbs—my hair stands an end—a mist floats before
my sight—Oh for breath! for breath! (he sinks down on his seat—a
long pause.) What a tumult does this idea raise in my brain!—how
the horrid images flit before my eyes as clouds and vapours, which every moment
change their forms.—And if fate had destined him thus to be sacrificed!—had
my arm consummated the dreadful stroke!—Great Judge of all things, whose
had been the guilt?—Would not thyself have armed the hand of the son,
to avenge a mother's wrongs on an unnatural father?—Oh Zadig! Zadig!—(he
is lost for some minutes in deep reflection)—but this maiden—this
amiable, lovely, inexpressibly lovely creature,—who has just left me,—who
has awakened a new and most delightful sensation in my breast,—this lovely
creature is my sister!—And the silly being, the coxcomb, who accompanied
my father, was he then my brother?—an ill-educated boy, who as it appears
to me, from his youth considered as the only heir, has been taught to regard
nothing but his wealth, his rank, and is thus inflated with his own consequence,
while I, his brother, and my dear mother, suffer want.
Scene 4
[Enter Pastor.]
Pastor.
God preserve you, my friend!
Fred.
And you too, Sir. Judging by your
appearance, you are of the church; therefore, also a messenger of peace. You
are doubly welcome to me.
Pastor.
I wish to bring peace and tranquillity
to your soul. Reproaches I shall spare, for your own conscience must upbraid
you more loudly than the preacher's voice.
Fred.
Oh, you are right!—Where conscience
is silent, are you not of opinion, that the crime at least is doubtful?
Pastor.
Or must have been perpetrated by
a wicked and obdurate heart indeed.
Fred.
That is not my case. I really would
not change this heart for that of any prince—no, nor any priest.—Pardon
me, Sir, that was not aimed at you.
Pastor.
And if it was, mildness is the character
of the religion, I teach.
Fred.
I only mean to say—that my heart
is not obdurate, yet my conscience does not reproach me with a crime.
Pastor.
Does it not deceive you?—Self-love
sometimes supplies the place of conscience.
Fred.
No! no!—Oh, tis a pity that I
am not more endued with learning,—that I understand not in what way properly
to arrange my ideas,—that I can only feel—that I cannot demonstrate!—Yet,
let me ask you, Sir, what was my crime?—that I would have robbed!—Oh, for
a few moments put yourself in my place:—have you any parents?
Pastor.
No, I was early left an orphan.
Fred.
Pity!—pity indeed! then you cannot
fairly judge me.—Yet will I describe my case as well as I am able. I think,
when one looks around, and sees how nature every where exuberantly pours forth
her ample stores; when one observes this spectacle, and beholds at the same
time a dying mother by one's side, who with parched tongue faints for a
drop of wine—if then one rich, and blessed with abundance, should pass by,
and should deny the despairing wretch a florin, because—because it would interrupt
his sport—then suddenly the feelings of the equality of all mankind should
be awakened in the sufferer's soul, and seeing himself neglected by fortune,
he should determine to resume his rights—rights authorized by nature, who
is not unjust to any of her children; and should instinctively grasp at a small
share of those bounties which she presents to all—Such a man does not plunder,
he rightly takes his own.
Pastor.
My friend, were these principles
universal, they would cut asunder every tie that binds society, and change us
soon into Arabian hordes.
Fred.
'Tis possible! and 'tis
also possible, that we should not be more unhappy.—Among the hospitable Arabs
my Mother would not have been suffered to starve on the highway!
Pastor. (Much surprised)
Young man, you appear to
have had an education above your rank.
Fred.
That is foreign to the purpose—for
what I am, I am indebted to my mother.—I would only represent to you, why
my conscience does not accuse me.—The judge pronounces sentence according
to the letter of the law, the Divine should judge not merely the deed itself,
but the motive which prompted it. The Judge might condemn me, but you, oh Sir,
would instantly pronounce my pardon.—That the glutton, who picks even the
last morsel from his pheasant's bones, should leave unmolested his neighbour's
black bread, can be no merit.
Pastor.
Well, young man! suppose I grant
your sophism; grant, that perhaps your peculiar situation allowed you to take,
what you could not obtain by solicitation, does that also exculpate murder,
which you meditated.
Fred.
Murder! no, it does not exculpate
that. Still I was but the instrument of a higher power. In this adventure, you
only behold one solitary link of a mighty chain, held by an invisible hand,
On this subject I cannot explain, cannot justify myself. Yet, shall I appear
with serenity before my judge, with calmness meet my death, convinced that an
all-powerful hand intends by my blood, the accomplishment of some great purpose
in the career of fate.
Pastor.
It is well worth some pains, most
extraordinary young man, to be better acquainted with you, and perhaps to give
a different complexion to many of your ideas. If it be possible, continue with
me for some weeks, and give me your confidence. Your sick mother I will also
take to my house.
Fred. (embraces him)
A thousand thanks for my
poor mother's sake. With respect to myself, you know that I am a prisoner,
in expectation of receiving sentence of death. The respite which the forms
of justice may afford, use at your pleasure.
Pastor.
You are mistaken.—You are in the
hands of a noble-minded man, who honours your filial love, compassionates your
unhappy situation, and heartily forgives you what has this day happened. You
are free—He sent me hither to announce to you your liberty, and with a paternal
exhortation, a brotherly admonition, to release you from your prison.
Fred.
And the name of this generous man?
Pastor.
Is the Baron von Wildenhain.
Fred.
Von Wildenhain! (as if he was
recollecting himself) Did he not live formerly in Franconia ?
Pastor.
You are right. But at the death
of his Lady, a few weeks since, he returned to this, his paternal estate.
Fred.
His wife then is dead?—and that
amiable girl, who was here just before your arrival, is his daughter?
Pastor.
Yes, she is his daughter, the Lady
Amelia.
Fred.
And the perfumed young man
is his son?
Pastor.
He has no son.
Fred. (eagerly)
Yes he has! (recollecting
himself) I mean the young man who was sporting with him to-day.
Pastor.
No, he is not his son.
Fred. (aside)
God be thanked!
Pastor.
Only a visitor from town.
Fred.
I thank you for this information;
it is highly interesting to me. I also thank you for the kind trouble you have
taken, the philanthropy you have shewn. It grieves me that I cannot offer you
my friendship—were we equals it might be of some value.
Pastor.
Has not friendship this property
in common with love, that it equalizes all ranks?
Fred.
No, kind Pastor, this enchantment
is peculiar to love alone!—Yet I have one more request to make—Conduct
me to the Baron von Wildenhain, and procure me, if it be in your power, a few
minutes conversation with him in private; I wish to thank him for his benevolence,
but if any one be with him, I should be confused, and could not speak with so
much confidence.
Pastor.
Follow me.
[Exeunt.
Scene 5
[A room in the Castle. The Baron seated on a chair, and smoking his pipe—Amelia in conversation with him—The Count upon the Sopha, one moment taking snuff, another holding a smelling-bottle to his nose.]
Baron.
No, no, my child, let it alone at
present—towards evening, when it grows cool, we may take a walk that way.
Amelia.
It is so delightful to do a good
action!—why then should one transfer it to a servant? To confer a kindness
is a real joy, and no one is of too high rank for enjoyment.
Baron.
Simpleton, who spoke of rank? That
was a silly remark which almost makes me angry. I tell you I have sent thither
myself, the woman is better; and in the evening we will take a walk thither
together. The Pastor shall conduct us.
Amelia. (tolerably satisfied)
Well, as you please. (she
sits down and takes out her work)
Baron. (to the Count)
It will be a great pleasure
to you also, Count.
Count.
Je n'en doute pas, mon Colonel,
the douceur and the bonté d'ame of Mademoiselle will
charm me. But what if the good woman should have gotten some epidemical disease?
However I have a vinaigre incomparable against the plague,—we will
at least be prepared with that:
Baron.
As you please, Count. I do not know
any better preservative to offer you against ennui, than such a cordial.
Count.
Ennui, oh mon Colonel!
Who can think of ennui in the same house with Mademoiselle?
Baron.
Very gallantly spoken!—Amelia,
don't you thank the Count?
Amelia.
I thank him, truly. (the Count
makes a complimentary bow).
Baron.
Tell me, Count, did you reside long
in France?
Count.
Oh talk not to me of France, I entreat
you, mon Colonel—you rend my heart.—My father, le barbare,
had the sottise to refuse me a thousand Louis-d'ors which I had
destinè for that purpose. It is true I was there some months—I
have indeed seen that dear place replete with charms, and, spite of le barbare
de pere, I had perhaps been there still, but for a most unpleasant occurrence.
Baron. (sneeringly)
Probably une affaire
d'honneur.
Count.
Point du tout but it was
no longer a place in which a vrai Cavalier could remain with credit to
himself. You have heard of the Revolution? Oh yes, you must have heard of it,
for it is the conversation of all Europe.—Eh bien! imáginez vous!—I
was at Paris, I went into the Palais Royal, I knew nothing at all of
what was passing—tout d'un coup I perceived myself surrounded
by a crowd of dirty raggamuffins, one kicked me on one side, another pushed
me on the other side, another thrust his fists in my face.—I asked what was
the meaning of all this? They abused me, and cried that I had no cockade in
my hat—you understand me, no national cockade. I screamed out that I was Comte
du Saint Empire.—What did they do?—they absolutely caned me—foi
d'honnete homme they caned me, and a dirty Poissarde gave me
a filip on the nose;—indeed there were even some who would have had me a
la lanterne.—What say you to this? what would you have done a ma place?
I threw myself with all possible expedition into my post-chaise, and hastened
away with all possible speed.—voila tout! it is indeed une histoire
facheuse, but nevertheless I must ever regret the moments delicieuses
which I have tasted in that capitale du monde, and this I must say,
this must every one perceive, that though indeed, I passed but a few months
there, mon savoir vivre, mon formation, and, le plie, which is
observed in me, perfectly Françoise, perfectly Parisien.
Baron.
Of that I am no judge, but your
language does not appear to me German.
Count.
Ah, mon Colonel, you pay
me a high compliment.
Baron.
I am glad you take it as such.
Count.
Then all my soins have happily
not been taken á pure perte. For five years past have I made every
possible effort totally and completely to forget German. What say you, Madam,
is not the German language entirely devoid of grace, and at best, only supportable
in so lovely a mouth as yours. That eternal guggling and rattling in the throat—a
tout moment—one reels—one stumbles—it does not flow, roll, smoothly
on—as par example, one would make a declaration d'amour,
one wishes it to be a chef d'oeuvre d'eloquence. Well, one
studies it, but, helas, scarcely has one gone through a douzaine
of words, but the tongue hitches now here, now there; thrusts itself first one
way, then the other; the teeth run pêle mêle against one
another; the throat quarrels with the roof of the mouth, and if one did not
throw in a few French words to set all to rights again, one should run the hazard
of losing, irrecoverably, the faculties of speech. Et convenez vous á
cela Mademoiselle, that this cannot be otherwise—for why? we have no genies
celèbres, whose taste is properly refined. I know, indeed, that at
present the Germans pique themselves much, sur la gout, la lecture,
les belles lettres. There is a certain Monsieur Wieland, who has gained
some renommeé, by translating some tales from the Mille et
une nuits, but mon dieu, still the original is French.
Baron.
But what the devil is the matter,
Count, that you are every moment snuffing up your tabac, or holding your
smelling-bottle to your nose, and drenching your clothes and my sopha with Eau
de Lavande, and making the air in my room so fade, that it is like
the shop of a French Marchand des modes.
Count.
Pardonnez, mon Colonel, but
it must be confessed that the smoke of your tobacco is altogether insupportable
—my nerves are most sensibly affected with it—my clothes must be hung a
month at least in the open air to purify them—and I assure you, mon Colonel,
it even gives a tinge to the hair. It is a vile custom, which indeed one must
pardon in Messieurs du Militaire, because en campagne, they have no opportunity
of mixing with the beau monde, and acquiring the manners of ton.
But in the mean time, there is no possibility of enduring this horrible smell
any longer.—Vous m'excuserez, mon Colonel—but I must go and
breathe a little fresh air, and change my clothes.
[Exit.
Scene 6
[The Baron and Amelia.]
Baron.
Bravo, my young gentleman!—I know,
now, however, a means of getting rid of you, when I am tired of your twattling.
Amelia.
Dear father, I cannot take him for
a husband.
Baron.
Dear child, I cannot take him for
a son.
Amelia. (Who appears to have
something on her mind.)
I cannot endure him.
Baron.
Nor I neither.
Amelia.
What can one do, if one cannot bear
the man?
Baron.
Nothing at all.
Amelia.
Love comes and goes unsolicited.
Baron.
It does so indeed.
Amelia.
It is often scarcely possible to
give a reason why one loves or hates.
Baron.
That may be the case.
Amelia.
Yet there are cases in which one's
inclination, or aversion, are founded upon good grounds.
Baron.
Undoubtedly.
Amelia.
For example, my aversion to the
Count.
Baron.
Certainly.
Amelia.
And my inclination towards the Pastor.
Baron.
Yes. (Both pause.)
Amelia.
Probably I may marry.
Baron.
And you ought to marry. (Both
pause again.)
Amelia.
Why does not our Pastor marry?
Baron.
That you must ask him himself. (Pause
again.)
Amelia. (She keeps her eyes
constantly on her work, at which she seems very busily employed.)
He seemed to have a great
regard for me.
Baron.
I am glad to hear it.
Amelia.
And I have also a great regard for
him.
Baron.
That is but just. (Another pause.)
Amelia.
I believe if you were to offer him
my hand, he would not refuse it.
Baron.
I believe so myself.
Amelia.
And I would readily obey you.
Baron. (With particular attention.)
Indeed! Are you serious?
Amelia.
Oh yes!
Baron.
Ha! ha! ha!—well we shall see!
Amelia. (Looking up more cheerfully.)
Are you really serious,
dear Father?
Baron.
Oh no!
Amelia. (Dejectedly again.)
No?
Baron.
No, Amelia—that will not do—to
play such a pretty romance, like Abelard and Heloise, or St. Preux and Julie—does
not accord with our rank, and the Pastor himself is too honourable to think
of such a thing.
Amelia.
You are his benefactor.
Baron.
At least he thinks me so.
Amelia.
And can any thing be more honourable
than to make the daughter of his benefactor happy?
Baron.
But if this daughter be a child,
and has childish fancies, and wishes to day to possess a toy, which perhaps
to-morrow she may throw away in spleen?
Amelia.
Oh no, I am not such a child!
Baron.
Listen to me, Amelia!—A hundred
Fathers would say to you, you are of rank yourself, you must marry a man of
rank.—But I do not say so—my child shall not be sacrificed to prejudice—a
woman never can obtain rank by merit, therefore never has reason to be proud
of it.
Amelia.
And therefore—
Baron.
Therefore I say, in God's name,
marry the Pastor, if you do not find among our young men of rank, one, who for
person and endowments of heart and mind, corresponds with your ideas.—There
may be many of this description—many, perhaps—but as yet you know too little
of men in general, to have formed your judgment upon this point. Wait till the
ensuing winter—we will spend it in town—we will frequent balls and assemblies,
perhaps you may then think differently.
Amelia.
Oh no!—I must first know a man
well, and may even then be deceived in him. But with our Pastor I have been
so long, so intimately acquainted, that I can read his heart as plainly as my
catechism.
Baron.
Amelia, thou hast never loved. The
Pastor educated you, and you mistake your ardent gratitude for love, ignorant
of what love really is.
Amelia.
You explained the subject to me
this morning.
Baron.
Did I so?—Well, and my questions?—
Amelia.
All applied to the Pastor, as if
you had penetrated the inmost recesses of my heart.
Baron.
Really!—Humph!—Humph!
Amelia.
Yes, dear Father, I love, and am
also beloved.
Baron.
Are also beloved!—Has he told
you so?
Amelia.
Yes.
Baron.
Fye! fye!—that was not right in
him.
Amelia.
Oh if you knew how I took him by
surprise?
Baron.
You took him by surprise?
Amelia.
He came, by your desire, to speak
to me in behalf of the Count,—and I told him I never would marry the Count.
Baron.
But would marry him?
Amelia.
Yes, him.
Baron.
Very frank, by my soul?—and what
answered he?
Amelia.
He talked to me about my rank, my
family, my uncles and aunts—of his duty to you—and, in short, would have
persuaded me to think no more of this. But my heart could not suffer itself
to be persuaded.
Baron.
That was honourable in him—And
probably he will speak to me on this subject?
Amelia.
No, he said that was impossible!
Baron.
So much the better—then I may
be supposed ignorant of the whole affair.
Amelia.
But I assured him—that I would
speak myself.
Baron.
So much the worse—that embarrasses
me exceedingly.
Amelia.
And now I have done as I said I
would.
Baron.
Truly you have.
Amelia.
Dear Father!
Baron.
Dear Child!
Amelia.
See the tears will come into my
eyes.
Baron. (Turning from her.)
Suppress them! (Both pause; Amelia rises from her seat, and bends
downwards, as if looking for something.) What do you look for?
Amelia.
I have lost my needle.
Baron. (Pushes back his seat
and bends forwards to assist her.)
It cannot be gone so far.
Amelia. (Approaches and falls
tenderly on his neck:)
My dear Father!
Baron.
Well, and what now?
Amelia.
This one request!—
Baron.
Let me go!—You make my cheeks
wet with your tears!
Amelia.
I never can love any other—never
can be happy with any other.
Baron.
Buffoonery, Amelia!—Childishness!—be
a good girl! (he stroaks her cheeks.) Sit down again!—we will talk
more of this another time—it is not a matter that needs such great haste—there
is no occasion for an extra-post upon the subject. The knot that binds you together
is tied in a moment—the state of wedlock endures for years. Many a girl sheds
tears, because she thinks she cannot have her lover, and if she attain him at
last, perhaps, sheds torrents of tears that she can never be released from him.
Thou hast relieved thy heart of its oppressive burden, and thy Father now bears
it in his—bears it for thee, for his dear Amelia.—So small a wound time
will soon heal, or if it do not, then thou may'st chuse thy physician.
Amelia.
My dear, kind Father!
Baron.
Aye truly, had thy Mother been
alive, thou wouldest not have escaped so easily—she would have clung
to the sixteen generations, which she numbered as her ancestors.
Scene 7
[Enter the Pastor.]
Baron.
You are come opportunely.
Pastor.
In consequence of your order, my
Lord, I have released the young man from his prison. He is in the anti-chamber,
and wishes to return you his thanks in person.
Baron.
I am pleased to hear it—I must
not suffer him to depart empty-handed, I would not confer benefits by halves.
Pastor.
He intreats a few words with you
in private.
Baron.
In private—Wherefore?
Pastor.
He pleaded his confusion in the
presence of witnesses. Perhaps he has some discovery to make, of which he wishes
to relieve his heart.
Baron.
Well, be it so!—Retire Amelia,
remain in the anti-chamber with the Pastor. I wish afterwards to speak to
you both. (Amelia withdraws—the Pastor opens the door, introduces
Frederick, and retires.)
Scene 8
[Baron and Frederick.]
Baron. (Approaching him.)
Depart with God's blessing,
my friend, you are free. I have sent to your mother, she is better, for her
sake I pardon you, but beware of a repetition of your offence; highway-robbing
is a bad trade. There is a Louis-d'or—seek some creditable employment,
and if I hear that you are diligent and orderly in your behaviour, my doors
and my purse shall always be open to assist you. Go, my friend, and heaven
support you!
Frederick. (Taking the
Louis-d'or.)
You are a liberal man, free
in parting with your money—not sparing of your good advice. But I have
a still greater favour to entreat of you.—You are a rich man, a man of
influence, assist me to obtain justice against an unnatural Father!
Baron.
How!—who is your Father?
Fred. (With anguish.)
A man of rank, lord of much
land, and over many tenants—esteemed at court—honoured in the state—beloved
by his peasants—benevolent, noble-hearted, generous—
Baron.
And yet suffers his Son to want?
Fred.
Yet suffers his Son to want!
Baron.
Doubtless not without reason. You
were perhaps a wild young fellow, libertine in your principles and practices,
gamed, kept a mistress, and your Father therefore thought that following the
drum for a few years might have a good effect in correcting irregularities.
And if this be really the case, I cannot think your Father has done wrong.
Fred.
You mistake, Sir, my Father knows
me not—never has seen me—he cast me off even before my birth.
Baron.
How!
Fred.
The tears of my Mother are all the
inheritance I ever received from my Father. Never has he enquired after me,
never concerned himself whether I had existence.
Baron.
That is bad! (much confused)
very bad indeed!
Fred.
I am the unhappy offspring of a
stolen amour. My poor seduced Mother has educated me amidst sighs and anguish—with
the labour of her hands she gained a sufficiency to enable her, in some degree,
to cultivate my heart and mind—and I think I am, through her care, become
a man, who might be a source of joy to any father. But mine, willingly foregoes
this pleasure, and his conscience leaves him at ease respecting the fate of
his unhappy child.
Baron.
At ease!—Oh if his conscience
can be at ease under such circumstances, he must be a hardened villain indeed!
Fred.
As I grew up, and wished no longer
to be a burthen upon my indigent mother, I had no other resource but to assume
these garments, and I entered into the service of a volunteer corps—for one
illegally born cannot be received as an apprentice by any tradesman or artist.
Baron.
Unfortunate young man!
Fred.
Thus, amidst turmoils, passed the
early years of my life—care and sorrow are the companions nature gives to
the maturer man. To the thoughtless youth she generally gives pleasure, and
through its enjoyment strengthens the mind against future days of trouble; but
the joys of my youth were coarse harsh bread, with pure water, and stripes from
the serjeant's hand. Yet, what signifies that to my Father?—his table
is splendidly set out, and to the lashes of conscience he is insensible.
Baron. (Aside)
This young man wrings my
heart!
Fred.
After a separation of five years
from my Mother, I this day returned home, full of love for the country which
contained that dear parent—full of the sweetest dreams—of the most pleasing
pictures imagination could form. I found my poor mother sick—reduced to beggary
—not having eaten for two days—no bundle of straw on which to lay her head—no
shelter against rain or storms—no compassionate heart to close her eyes—no
spot whereon to die in peace. But what does that concern my father? He has a
fine castle, sleeps on soft beds of down, and when he dies, the minister of
religion will in a pompous funeral sermon, hand down to posterity his many christian
virtues.
Baron. (shuddering.)
Young man, what is thy father's
name?
Fred.
That he abused the weakness of a
guiltless maiden,—deceived her through false oaths—that he gave existence
to an unhappy wretch, who must curse him for the fatal gift—that he has driven
his only son almost to parricide—Oh these are trifles—and when the day of
reckoning comes, may all be paid for by a piece of gold?—(throws the Louis-d'or
at the Baron's feet.)
Baron. (Half distracted.)
Young man, tell me thy father's
name!
Fred.
Baron Wildenhain! (The Baron
strikes his forehead with both hands, and remains fixed to the spot where
he stands. Frederick proceeds with violent emotion.) Yes, in this
house, in this very room, perhaps, was my mother beguiled of her virtue, and
I was begotten for the sword of the executioner. And now, my Lord, I am not
free—I am your prisoner—I will not be free.—I am a highway-robber
—loudly do I accuse myself as such—you shall consign me over to
the hand of justice—shall conduct me to the place of execution—you
shall hear how the priest seeks in vain to calm my mind—shall hear how
in despair I curse my father—shall stand by me as the head falls from
the trunk—and my blood—your own blood—shall sprinkle your garments.
Baron.
Oh hold! hold!
Fred.
And when you turn from this scene,
and descend from the scaffold—there at its foot shall you find my mother,
even at the moment that she draws her last breath—sighs out her soul in anguish!
Baron.
Inhuman! hold!
[The Pastor rushes in hastily.]
Pastor.
Heaven's what is the matter?—I
hear impassioned words!—what has been passing here?—young man, I hope you
have not attempted—
Fred.
Yes, sir, I have attempted to take
your office from your hands—I have made a sinner tremble! (pointing to
the Baron.) See there—thus after a lapse of one and twenty years, the
injuries arising from inordinate passions, are revenged.—I am a murderer—I
am a highway-robber—but what I feel in this moment is transport, is bliss,
compared with the thorns which lacerate his breast. I go to surrender myself
up to justice, and then at the throne of heaven will I appear a bloody witness
against this man.
[Exit.
Scene 9
[The Baron and the Pastor.]
Pastor.
For heaven's-sake what is the
matter?—I cannot understand.—
Baron.
Oh he is my son! he is my son!—away,
my friend, advise me—assist me, hasten to the poor sick woman in the village—Frank
will shew you the way—hasten!—oh hasten!—
Pastor.
But what am I to do?
Baron.
Oh God!—your own heart must instruct
you! (Exit the Pastor—the Baron proceeds with great emotion holding his
head with both his hands.) Am I in my senses?—or are these only visions
of fancy?—I have a son, a brave, a noble youth, and I have not yet clasped
him in my arms, have not pressed him to my heart—(calls) Rodolph!
(Enter a Huntsman.) Where is he?
Huntsman.
Who, my Lord?—the highway-robber?
Baron.
Sluggard!—the young man that even
now went hence!
Huntsman.
He is going before the justice—we
have sent after the constable.
Baron.
Let the constable be kicked down
stairs when he comes—let no one dare lay hands upon the young man.
Huntsman. (surprised.)
Very well, my Lord. (going.)
Baron.
Stay, Rodolph!
Huntsman.
Most noble Lord!
Baron.
Conduct the young soldier into the
green-room, by the dining-hall, and attend upon him as his Servant.
Huntsman.
The count von der Mulde
lodges there, my Lord.
Baron.
Let him be kicked out, and sent
to the devil.—(The Huntsman stands perplexed, not knowing
what he should do, the Baron walks eagerly backwards and forwards.)
I want no son-in-law!—I have a son—a son who shall continue my name,
and inherit my estates—a son in whose arms I will die.—Yes, I will
atone to him for all—I will suffer no false shame to restrain me!—All
my tenants, all my servants, shall know it;—know that I could forget
my child—but that I am not hardened in my guilt. Rodolph!
Huntsman.
My Lord!
Baron.
Conduct him hither!—entreat
him to come in, and let all who are in the anti-chamber come with him. (Rodolph
goes out.) Oh, my heart!—What is it thus makes my blood rush through
my veins, that from the crown of my head even to the sole of my foot, I am
pulsation all over!—'Tis joy!—joy!—joy!—joy wholly unmerited
by me. (Frederick enters, surrounded by a number of servants, the Baron
rushes towards him.) He comes!—Oh let me clasp thee to this heart!
(He throws himself upon Frederick's neck, and clasps him in his
arms.) My son!!!
END OF ACT IV
