for this one evening, and do me the favor hence-throws poison into the lemonade). Yes! she forward to give no more music lessons. MILL. (still more vehemently grasping his hand, full of inward joy). And my daughter, baron! my daughter! (Letting go.) No, no! Money does not make the man-whether I feed on vegetables, or on partridges, enough is enough, and this coat will do very well as long as the sunbeams don't peep in at the elbows. To me money is mere dross. But my girl shall benefit by the blessing; whatever wish I can read in her eyes shall be gratified. FERD. (suddenly interrupting him). Oh! silence! silence! MILL. (still more warmly). And she shall learn to speak French like a born native, and to dance minuets, and to sing, so that people shall read of her in the newspapers; and she shall wear a cap like the judge's daughter, and a kidebarri*, as they call it; and the fiddler's daughter shall be talked of for twenty miles round. FERD. (seizing his hand in extreme agitation). No more no more! For God's sake be silent! Be silent but for this one night; 'tis the only favor I ask of you. SCENE VI. LOUISA with a glass of lemonade; the former. LOUISA (her eyes swelled with weeping, and trembling voice, while she presents the glass to FERDINAND). Tell me, if it be not to your taste. FERD. (takes the glass and places it on the table, and turns to MILLER). Oh! I had almost forgotten! Good Miller, I have a request to make. Will you do me a little favor? MILL. A thousand with pleasure! What are your commands? FERD. My father will expect me at table. Unfortunately I am in a very ill humor. "Twould be insupportable to me just now to mix in society. Will you go to my father, and excuse my absence? LOUISA. (terrified, interrupts him hastily). Oh, let me go! MILL. Am I to see the president himself? FERD. Not himself. Give your message to one of the servants in the antechamber. Here is my watch as a credential that I sent you-I shall be here when you return. You will wait for an an swer. LOUISA (very anxiously). Cannot I be the bearer of your message? FERD. (to MILLER, who is going). Stay-one thing more! Here is a letter to my father, which I received this evening inclosed in one to myself. Perhaps on business of importance. You may as well deliver it at the same time. MILL. (going). Very well, baron! LOUISA (stopping him, and speaking in a tone of the most exquisite terror). But, dear father, I could do all this very well! Pray let me go! MILL. It is night, my child! and you must not venture out alone! [Exit. FERD. Light your father down Louisa. (LouISA takes a candle and follows MILLER. FERDINAND in the mean time approaches the table, and Meaning no doubt, Cul de Paris, a bustle. VOL. 1.-18 must die! The Higher Powers look down, and nod their terrible assent. The vengeance of Heaven subscribes to my decree. Her good angels forsake her, and leave her to her fate! SCENE VII. FERDINAND and LOUISA. LOUISA re-enters slowly with the light, places it on the table, and stops on the opposite side of the room, her eyes fixed on the ground, except when she raises them to him with timid stolen glances. He stands opposite, looking steadfastly on the earth-a long and deep silence. LOUISA. If you will accompany me, Baron von Walter, I will try a piece on the harpsichord! (She opens the instrument. FERDINAND makes no answer. A pause.) LOUISA. You owe me a revenge at chess. Will you play a game with me, Baron von Walter? (Another pause.) LOUISA. I have begun the pocket-book, baron, which I promised to embroider for you. Will you look at the design? (Still a pause.) LOUISA. Oh! I am very wretched! FERD. (without changing his attitude.) That may well be. LOUISA. It is not my fault, Baron von Walter, that you are so badly entertained! FERD. (with an insulting laugh). You are not to blame for my bashful modesty. LOUISA. I am quite aware that we are no longer fit companions. I confess that I was terrified when you sent away my father. I believe, Baron von Walter, that this moment is equally insupportable to us both. Permit me to ask some of my acquaintance to join us. FERD. Yes, pray do so! And I too will go and invite some of mine. LOUISA (looking at him with surprise). Baron von Walter! FERD. (very spitefully). By my honor, the most fortunate idea that in our situation could ever enter mortal brain! Let us change this wearisome duet into sport and merriment, and, by the aid of certain gallantries, revenge ourselves on the caprices of love. LOUISA. You are merry, Baron von Walter! FERD. Oh! wonderfully so! The very streetboys would hunt me through the market-place for a merry-andrew! In fact, Louisa, your example has inspired me. You shall be my teacher. They are fools who prate of endless affectionnever-ending sameness grows flat and insipidvariety alone gives zest to pleasure. Have with you, Louisa, we are now of one mind. We will skip from amour to amour, whirl from vice to vice; you in one direction, I in another. Perhaps I may recover my lost tranquillity in some brothel. Perhaps, when our merry race is run, and we become two mouldering skeletons, chance again may bring us together with the most pleasing surprise, and we may, as in a melodrame, recognize each other by a common feature of disease, that mother whom her children can never disavow. Then, perhaps, disgust and shame comprehensible Creator! may create that union between us, which could it.) I will not arraign thy ordinations, O innot be effected by the most tender love. Yet wherefore didst thou pour thy poison into such beauteous vessels ? Can crime inhabit so fair a region? Oh! 'tis strange! 'tis passing strange! LOUISA. Oh, Walter! Walter! Thou art already unhappy-wilt thou deserve to be so? FERD. (muttering passionately through his teeth). Unhappy? Who told thee so? Woman, thou art too vile to have any feelings of thine own; how, then, canst thou judge of the feelings of others? Unhappy, did she say? Ha! that word would call my anger from the grave! She knew that I must become unhappy. Death and damnation! she knew it, and yet betrayed me! Look to it, Serpent! That was thy only chance of forgiveness. This confession has condemned thee. Till now I thought to palliate thy crime with thy simplicity, and in my contempt thou hadst well nigh escaped my vengeance (seizing the glass hastily). Thou wert not thoughtless, then-thou wert not simple-thou wert nor more nor less than a devil! (He drinks.) The drink is bad, like thy soul! Taste it! LOUISA. To hear this, and yet be compelled to silence! FERD. And that soft melodious voice! How can broken chords discourse such harmony? (Gazing rapturously upon her figure.) All so lovely!-so full of symmetry!-so divinely perfect! Throughout the whole such signs that 'twas the favorite work of God! By heaven, as though all mankind had been created but to practice the Creator, ere he modeled this his masterpiece !— And that the Almighty should have failed in the soul alone? Is it possible that this monstrous abortion of nature should have escaped as perfect? (Quitting her hastily.) Or did God see an angel's form rising beneath his chisel, and balance the error by given her a heart wicked in LOUISA. Oh, heavens! Twas not without rea-proportion? son that I dreaded this meeting. FERD. (imperiously). Drink, I say. [LOUISA, offended, takes the glass and drinks. The moment she raises the cup to her lips, FERDINAND turns away with a sudden paleness, and recedes to the further corner of the chamber. LOUISA. The lemonade is good. FERD. (his face averted and shuddering.) Much good may it do thee! LOUISA (sets down the glass). Oh! could you but know, Walter, how cruelly you wrong me! FERD. Indeed! LOUISA. A time will come, Walter!FERD. (advancing). Oh! we have done with time. LOUISA. When the remembrance of this evening will lie heavy on your heart! FERD. (begins to walk to and fro more vehemently, and to become more agitated, he throws away his sash and sword). Farewell, the Prince's service! LOUISA. Alas for this criminal willfulness! Rather than confess his own rashness, he accuses the wisdom of Heaven! FERD. (falls upon her neck, weeping bitterly). Yet once more, my Louisa! Yet once again, as on the day of our first kiss, when you faltered forth the name of Ferdinand, and the first endearing "Thou!" trembled on thy burning lips! Oh! a harvest of endless and unutterable joys seemed to me at that moment to be budding forth. There lay eternity like a bright May-day before our eyes; thousands of golden years, fair as brides, danced around our souls. Then was I so happy! Oh, Louisa! Louisa! Louisa! Why hast thou used me thus ? LOUISA. Weep, Walter, weep! Your compassion will be more just toward me than your wrath. FERD. You deceive yourself. These are not nature's tears! not that warm delicious dew which flows like balsam on the wounded soul, and drives the chilled current of feeling swiftly along its course. They are solitary ice-cold drops! the LOUISA. My God! what mean you? more at ease. LOUISA. Drink! drink! it will cool you. FERD. That it will, most effectually. The strumpet, though, is kind-hearted! Ay, ay, so are they all! solemnity, laying his hand on her head.) They are tears for thy soul !-tears for the Deity, whose inexhaustible beneficence has here missed its aim, and whose noblest work is cast away thus wanftonly. Oh! methinks the whole universe should LOUISA (rushing into his arms with the deepest clothe itself in black, and weep at the fearful exexpression of love). That to thy Louisa, Ferdi-ample now passing in its centre. 'Tis but a comnand? FERD. (thrusting her from him). Away! away! Hence with those soft and melting eyes! they subdue me. Come to me, Snake, in all thy monstrous terrors! Spring upon me, Scorpion! Display thy hideous folds, and rear thy proud coils to heaven! Stand before my eyes, hateful as the abyss of hell e'er saw thee!—but not in that angel form! Take any shape but that! "Tis too late. I must crush thee like a viper, or despair! Mercy on thy soul! LOUISA. Oh! that it should come to this! FERD. (gazing on her). So fair a work of the heavenly artist! Who would believe it? Who can believe it? (Taking her hand and elevating mon sorrow, when mortals fall and Paradise is lost; but, when the plague extends its ravages to angels, then should there be wailing throughout the whole creation! LOUISA. Drive me not to extremities, Walter. I have fortitude equal to most, but it must not be tried by a more than human test. Walter! one word, and then-we part forever.-—A dreadful fatality has deranged the language of our hearts. Dared I unclose these lips, Walter, I could tell thee things!-I could- -But cruel fate has alike fettered my tongue and my heart, and I must en- * dure in silence, even though you revile me as a common strumpet. FERD. Dost thou feel well, Louisa? LOUISA. Why that question? with horror. After a long silence, he falls upon FERD. It would grieve me, shouldst thou be the floor, as if struck by lightning.) Oh! that called hence with a lie upon thy lips. I sorrowful act! Ferdinand!- -I was comLOUISA. I implore you, Walterpelled- -forgive me-thy Louisa would have FERD. (in violent agitation). No! no!-That preferred death-but my father-his life in danger! revenge were too satanic!-No! God forbid! I They were so crafty in their villainy. will not extend my anger beyond the grave !— Louisa, didst thou love the marshal? Thou wilt leave this room no more! LOUISA (sitting down). Ask what you will. shall give no answer. I FERD. (in a solemn voice). Take heed for thy immortal soul! Louisa! didst thou love the marshal?-Thou wilt leave this room no more! LOUISA. I shall give no answer. FERD. (throwing himself on his knees before her, in the deepest emotion). Louisa! didst thou love the marshal? Before this light burns out-thou wilt stand-before the throne of God! LOUISA (starting from her seat in terror). Merciful Jesus! what was that?- And I feel so ill! (She falls back into her chair.) FERD. Already? O woman, thou eternal paradox! thy deliberate nerves can sport with crimes at which manhood trembles; yet one poor grain of arsenic destroys them utterly LOUISA. Poison! poison! Oh! Almighty God! FERD. I fear it is so !-Thy lemonade was seasoned in hell!-Thou hast pledged hell in the draught! LOUISA. To die!-to die! All-merciful God! Poison in my drink! And to die!-Oh! have mercy on my soul, thou Father in heaven! FERD. Ay, be that thy chief concern; I will join thee in that prayer. LOUISA. And my mother -My father, too!— Saviour of the world!-My poor forlorn father! Is there then no hope?-And I so young, and yet no hope?-And must I die so soon? FERD. There is no hope!-None-You are already doomed !-But be calm. We shall journey together. LOUISA. Thou too, Ferdinand? Poison, Ferdinand-From thee!-Oh! God forgive him!God of mercy, lay not this crime on him! FERD. Look to your own account-I fear it stands but ill. LOUISA. Ferdinand! Ferdinand!-Oh!-I can be no longer silent.--Death-Death absolves all oaths-Ferdinand!-Heaven and earth contain nothing more unfortunate than thou !—I die innocent, Ferdinand! FERD. (terrified). Ah!-What do I hear?Would she rush into the presence of her Maker with a lie on her lips? LOUISA. I lie not!-I do not lie !—In my whole life I never lied but once!-Ugh! what an icy shivering creeps through my veins!- When I wrote that letter to the marshal. FERD. Ha! that letter! Blessed be God! Now I am myself again! LOUISA (her voice every moment becomes more indistinct. Her fingers tremble with a convulsive motion). That letter-Prepare yourself for a terrible disclosure!--My hand wrote what my heart abhorred. It was dictated by your father! -(Ferdinand stands like a statue, petrified FERD. (starting furiously from the ground). God be thanked! The poison spares me yet! (He seizes his sword.) LOUISA (growing weaker by degrees). Alas! what would you? He is thy father! FERD. (in the most ungovernable fury). A murderer-the murderer of his son-He must along with us, that the Judge of the world may pour his wrath on the guilty alone. (Hastening away.) LOUISA. My dying Redeemer pardoned his murderers. May God pardon thee and thy father! (She dies.) FERD. (turns quickly round, and perceives her in the convulsions of death, throws himself distractedly on the body). Stay! stay! Fly not from me, angel of light! (Takes her hand, but lets it fall again instantly.) Cold! cold and damp! her soul has flown! (Starting up suddenly.) God of my Louisa! Mercy! Mercy for the most accursed of murderers! Such was her dying prayer!-How fair, how lovely, even in death! The pitying destroyer has touched gently on those heavenly features. That sweetness was no mask-the hand of death even has not removed it !(After a pause) But how is this?-why do I feel nothing. Will the vigor of my youth save me? Thankless care!-That shall it not! (He seizes the glass.) SCENE VIII. FERDINAND, the PRESIDENT, WORM, and SERVANTS, who all rush a atum into the room. Afterward MILLER, with a crowd and OFFICERS of justice, who assemble in the background. PRES. (an open letter in his hand). My son ! what means this? I never can believe FERD. (throwing the glass at his feet). Convince thyself, murderer! (The PRESIDENT staggers back. All stand speechless.-A dreadful pause.) PRES. My son! Why hast thou done this? FERD. (without looking at him). Why, to be sure! I ought first to have asked the statesman, whether the trick suited his cards. Admirably fine and skillful, I confess, was the scheme of jealousy to break the bond of our hearts! The calculation shows a master-mind-'twas pity only that indignant love would not move on wires like thy wooden puppets. PRES. (looking round the circle with rolling eyes). Is there no one here who weeps for a despairing father? MILL. (calling behind the scenes). Let me in! For God's sake, let me in! FERD. She is now a saint in heaven! Her cause is in the hands of another! (He opens the door for MILLER, who rushes in, followed by officers of justice and a crowd of people.) MILL. (in the most dreadful alarm). My child! My child-Poison, they cry-poison has been here-My daughter! Where art thou? FERD. (leading him between the PRESIDENT and LOUISA's corpse). I am innocent. Thank this man for the deed. MILL. (throwing himself on the body). O Jesus! FERD. In few words, father!--they begin to be precious to me-I have been robbed of my life by villainous artifice-robbed of it by you! How I may stand with God I tremble to think,—but a deliberate villain I have never been! Be my final judgment what it will,-may it never fall on thee! But I have committed murder! (In a loud and fearful voice). A murder whose weight thou canst not hope that I should drag alone | before the judgment-seat of God. Here I solemnly bequeath to thee the heaviest, the bloodiest part; -how thou mayst answer it, be that thy care! (Leading him to LOUISA.) Here, barbarian! Feast thine eyes on the terrible fruits of thy intrigues! Upon this face thy name is inscribed in the convulsions of death, and will be registered by the destroying angel!-May a form like this draw thy curtain when thou sleepest, and grasp thee with its clay-cold hand! May a form like this flit before thy soul when thou diest, and drive away thy expiring prayer for mercy! May a form like this stand by thy grave at the resurrection, and before the throne of God when he pronounces thy doom! (He faints, the servants receive him in their arms.) PRES. (extending his arms convulsively toward heaven). Not from me, Judge of the world-Ask not these souls from me, but from him! (Pointing to WORM.) WORM (starting). From me? PRES. Accursed villain, from thee! From thee, Satan!Thou gavest the serpent's counsel! -thine be the responsibility-their blood be not on my head, but on thine! WORM. On mine! on mine! (Laughing hysterically.) Oh! Excellent! Now I understand the gratitude of devils. On mine, thou senseless villain! Was he my son? Was I thy master? Mine the responsibility? Ha! by this sight which freezes the very marrow in my bones! Mine it shall be! I will brave destruction, but thou shalt perish with me. Away! away! Cry murder through the streets! Awaken justice! Bind me, officers! Lead me hence! I will discover secrets which shall make the hearer's blood run cold. (Going.) PRES. (detaining him). Surely, madman, thou wilt not dare?— WORM (tapping him on the shoulder). I will, though, comrade, I will! I am mad, 'tis true-but my madness is thy work-and now I will act like a madman! Arm in arm with thee, will I to the scaffold! Arm and arm with thee, to hell! Oh! how it tickles my fancy, villain, to be damned with thee! (The officers carry him off.) MILL. (who has lain upon LOUISA's corpse in silent anguish, starts suddenly up, and throws the purse before the MAJOR's feet). Poisoner, take back thy accursed gold! Didst thou think to purchase my child with it? (Rushes distractedly out of the chamber.) FERD. (in a voice scarcely audible). Follow him! He is desperate. The gold must be taken care of for his use; 'tis the dreadful acknowledgement of my debt to him. Louisa, I come! Farewell! On this altar let me breathe my last! PRES. (recovering from his stupor.) FERDINAND! my son! Not one last look for a despairing father? (FERDINAND is laid by the side of LOUISA.) FERD. My last must sue to God for mercy on myself. PRES. (falling down before him in the most dreadful agony.) The Creator and the created abandon me! Not one last look to cheer me in the hour of death! (FERDINAND stretches out his trembling hand to him, and expires.) PRES. (springing up). He forgave me! (To the OFFICERS.) Now, lead on, sirs! I am your prisoner. [Exit, followed by the OFFICERS; the curtain falls. THE MISANTHROPE. Region in a Park. SCENE I. A FRAGMENT. ANGELICA VON HUTTEN, WILHELMINE VON HUTTEN, her Aunt and Lady-matron, issue from a Grove; soon after the Gardener, BIBER. ANG. Here it was where we intended to await his arrival, my dear aunt. Take a seat in the library, and read a book. I shall go to the gardener for my flowers. In the mean while it will be nine o'clock, the hour appointed for his arrival. Does this arrangement suit you? WIL. According to thy pleasure, my dear. (Goes to the bower.) BIBER (with flowers.) This is the best I can offer you, to-day, my lady. My hyacinths are gone. ANG. Many thanks even for these few. BIBER. To-morrow you shall have a rose, the first of this spring, provided you will promise me ANG. What is it you wish, my good Biber? BIBER. Look, my lady, my tuberoses are gone, and my beautiful bed of wall-flowers is nearly at an end; yet my gracious master has not deigned to look at either. Last year I caused the large swamp to be drained, and I had a few thousand trees planted upon it. The young trees are full of vigor, and it delights one's soul to walk among them and behold their rapid growth. I am at my post when the sun rises, and I enjoy in advance the spendid surprise, when I shall be permitted to introduce my gracious master into this colony. But evening comes, and another evening, and yet my master has not seen them. Look, my lady, this grieves me, I cannot deny it. ANG. He will see them, surely; have patience, good Biber. BIBER. He expends on his park, year in year out, some two thousand dollars, and my wages are beyond my desert of what use am I to him, if I cannot even procure for my master a single, joyful hour, in exchange for the sums of money he spends? No, my lady, I can no longer eat your noble father's bread, until he gives me an opportunity to convince him, that I do not rob him of it. ANG. Peace! peace! my good man. We all know that you not only deserve your present wages, but a great deal more. BIBER. With your leave, my lady, you cannot decide the matter in this way. For my twelve hours' labor in his garden; for my faithful discharge of my duties; and for my strict watchfulness over his men, my master pays me money. But for the joyful readiness with which I attend to my duty, for my dreaming of it at night, for hastening to my post at the first dawn of morning, for this, my lady, he owes me an expression of his satisfaction. A single visit in his park pays me better for this than all his money. And, so you see, my lady, this it is that I intended. ANG. No more of this I pray you. You yourself, know how often, and how vainly-Alas! you know father. my BIBER (seizing her hand with emotion). He has not yet visited his nursery. Beg him to grant me leave to conduct him to his nursery. It is impossible to obtain thanks from the unreasoning creature, and to give men up for lost. Who will assert that he despairs of joy as long as labor is its own reward, and hopes are still realized? ANG. I understand you, honest Biber. But perhaps you have had better success with plants than my father had with men. BIBER (quickly and with emotion). And he possesses such a daughter? (He wants to say more, but suppresses it and is silent for a moment.) My gracious master may have suffered a great deal from men; in many of his expectations he may have been disappointed; his plans may have failed, but (seizing the young lady's hand with eagerness) one hope has arisen for him-he has not experienced every pang that can tear a man's heart. [Exit. SCENE II. ANGELICA, WILHELMINE. . WIL. (rising and looking after him). Strange man! His heart always feels sore when this chord is touched. There is something incomprehensible in his fate. ANG. (looking around uneasily). It is late. I have never had to wait for him so long formerly. WIL. Rosenberg will not fail to come. Again how anxious and impatient! ANG. This time not without reason, dear aunt -supposing my hopes should fail! I have awaited the arrival of this day with perfect agony! WIL. Expect not too much of this single day. ANG. Suppose he should dislike him?-Suppose their temperaments should repel each other? How can I hope that he who excepts none will except him?-Suppose their temperaments should repel each other?-My father's humiliating bitterness, and Rosenberg's irresistible pride? My father's melancholy, and Rosenberg's playful and cheerful temper! Could there be a more unfortu nate play of Nature? And who assures me that he will not refuse to receive him a second time, because he dreaded to value him too highly at his first visit? WIL. All this may be, my dear! but until yesterday thy heart was silent about all this. ANG. Yesterday! As long as I saw, felt and knew but him! Then the light-hearted, loving girl reigned supreme. But now my father's image has taken possession of my soul, and all my sweet hopes have vanished. Why could not this charm |