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 UNIVERSITY of CALIFORNIA 
 
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 ins ANuKLES
 
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 THE 
 
 (German ITljcatte, 
 
 TBANSLATEB BY 
 
 BENJAMIN THOMPSON, ESQ. 
 . J2^ SIX VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. n. 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 lovers' VOWS, 
 
 ADELAIDE OF tVULFINGEN, 
 
 COUNT BENYOWSKY. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED POR VERNOR, HOOD, AND SHARP, POULTRY; 
 
 AND LONGMAN, HURST, REES, AND ORME, 
 
 PATERNOSTER-ROW ; 
 
 By J. Wright, St, John's Square, ClerkenwtU. 
 
 1806. 
 
 6S5:i;i
 
 ^ 3 1 3
 
 LOVERS' VOWS 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE NATURAL SON. 
 
 A DRAMA 
 
 IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF 
 
 AUGUSTUS VON KOTZEBUE, 
 
 Benjamin Thompson, Esq. 
 
 LottDon t 
 
 nUNTEP FOR VERNOR AND HOOD, 
 "So, 31, PouLTRy.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 B4RON WiLDENHAiN, a Coloncl out of Service. 
 
 Count von der Mulde. 
 
 Pastor of the Parish in which the Baron's Estate lies. 
 
 Christian, the Buron's Butler. 
 
 Frederick, a young Soldier. 
 
 Landlord. 
 
 Farmer. 
 
 Labourer. 
 
 Jew. 
 
 Gamekeeper. 
 
 Cottager. 
 
 Amelia, the Baron's Daughter. 
 
 WiLHELMINA. 
 
 Cottager's Wife. 
 Country Girl. 
 
 Servants and Gatnekeepers.
 
 .5r 
 
 ; ^7 
 
 'S 
 
 LOVERS^ VOWS. 
 
 ACTL 
 
 Scent., a Road-near a Town. The last Houses of a small 
 Village are zisible. 
 
 Enter Landlord/zwh a Public House, drawing 
 Wilhelmi:ja after him. 
 
 Land. There's no longer any room for you, I tell you. 
 We have a wake to-day in our village, and all the country 
 people, as they pass, will come into my house with their 
 wives and children ; so I must have every corner at liberty. 
 
 Wil. Can you thrust a poor sick woman out of doors? 
 
 Land. I don't thrust you. 
 
 Wil. Yonr cruelty will break my heart. 
 
 Land. It will not come to that. 
 
 Wit. I have spent my last penny with you. 
 
 Land. That is the very reason why I send you away. 
 Where can you procure any more ? 
 
 Wil. I can work. 
 
 Land. Why, you can scarcely move your hand. 
 
 Wil. My strength will return. 
 
 Land. When that is the case, you may return too. 
 
 Wil. Where shall I remain in the mean time ? 
 
 Land. It is fine weather. You may remain any where, 
 B3
 
 d LOvi;Rb' vows, Jci I. 
 
 Wil. Who will clothe me, when this my only wretched 
 garment is drenciied with dew and rain ? 
 
 Land. He who clothes the lilies of the field. 
 
 Wil. Who will bestow on me a morsel of bread to allay 
 tny Imnger ? 
 
 Land. He who feeds the fowls of the air. 
 
 Wil. Cruel man ! you know I have not tasted any thing 
 since yesterday morning. 
 
 Land. Sick people eat little: it is not wholesome to over- 
 load tlielr stomachs. 
 
 Wil. I will pay honestly for every thing I have. 
 
 Lund. By what means ? These are hard times. 
 
 Wil. My fate is hard too. 
 
 Land. I'll tell you what. This is the high-road, and it is 
 much frequented. Ask some compassionate soul to bestow 
 a trifle on you. 
 
 Wil. I beg ! No ; rather will I starve. 
 
 Land. Mercy on us ! What a fine latly ! Many an ho- 
 nest mother's child has begged before now, let me tell you. 
 Try, try. Custom makes every thing easy. (Wilhelmiiui 
 has seated herself upon a stone under a tree.) For instance, 
 here comes somebody. I'll teach you how to begin. 
 
 Enter a Laboukeu with his tools. 
 
 Good day to you ! 
 
 Lab. Good day ! 
 
 Land. Neighbuur Nicholas, will you bestow a trifle on 
 this poor woman ? (Laljoui'er passes and exit.) That was 
 not of much use, for the poor devil is himself obliged to 
 work for his daily bread. But yonder I see our fat farmer, 
 who puts three hellers into the poor-box every Sunday. 
 Who knows but he may be charitably inclined on a weck- 
 dav too ?
 
 Act I. tOVERS* VOWS. 
 
 Enter a fat Farmer, zcalking very leisurely. 
 
 Good morning to you, Sir ; good morning to you ! There's 
 a poor sick woman sitting under yon tree. Will you plea&e 
 to bestow a trifle on her ? 
 
 Far. Is she not ashamed of herself? She is still young, 
 and can work. 
 
 Land. She has had a fever. 
 
 Far. Ay, one must work hard now-a-days, one must toil 
 from morn to night, for money is scarce. 
 
 Land. Pay for her breakfast, will you, Sir? She is 
 hungry. 
 
 Far. (As he passes.) We have had a bad har\-est this 
 j-ear, and the distemper has killed my best cattle. [Exit. 
 
 Land. The miser ! That fellow is always brooding over 
 his dollars. By the way, now, that I am talking of brooding, 
 I remember my old hen ought to hatch her eggs to-day : I 
 must look after her directly. [Exit into the house. 
 
 (^^'ilhelmina is left alone. Her dress betrays cvtreme poterty. 
 Her countenance hears the marks of sickness and anxiety, yet 
 the remains of former beauty are still visible.) 
 
 IVil. Oh, God ! thou know'st I never was thus unfeeling, 
 while I still possessed any thing. Oh thou, whose guardian 
 power has hitherto protected me from dark despair, accept 
 my thank?. Oh that I could but work again ! Tliis fever 
 has completely deprived me of ray strength. Alas! if my 
 Freilerick knew that his raotlier was fallen a victim to 
 penury Is he still alive? Or does some heap of earth 
 already cover him ? Thou autlior of mv sufferings, I will 
 not curse thee. God grant tiiee prosperity and peace, if 
 such blessings ever be bestowed upon the seducer of inno- 
 cence. Should chance conduct thee hither; shouldst thou, 
 amidst these rags, and in this woe-worn form, recognize thy 
 B 4
 
 8 I.(tVKl;s' VOW?. Act I 
 
 former blooming, Wilhelmiiia, what, wliat would be thy 
 sensations ! Alas ! I am hungry. Oh that 1 had but a 
 morsel of bread ! Well, I ^^ill endeavour to be patient. I 
 shall surely not be allowed to starve on the highway. 
 
 Enter a Country Girl, carrying eggs and milk to market. 
 She is passing nimbly on, and sees VVilhehnina. 
 
 Qirl. Cod bless you, good woman i 
 
 Wil. I thank you sincerely. Dearest gu-1, can you bestow 
 a piece of bread on a poor woman ? 
 
 Girl. (Stopping tciik a look of compassion.) Bread ! 
 No; I can't, indeed, for 1 have none. Are you hungry ? 
 
 Wil. Alas ! yes. 
 
 Girl. Good Heavens ! 1 have eat all my bread for break- 
 fast, and I have no money. I am going to the town; and 
 when I have sold my milk and eggs, I'll bring you a dreycr. 
 But you will still be hungry till I return. Will you drink 
 some of my milk ? 
 
 Wil. Yes my good child. 
 
 Girl. There, then ! 'lake as nuicli as you like. (Holds 
 the pail to her lips zcith great kindness.) Won't you have 
 4 little more? Drink ! Drink ! You are very welcome. 
 
 Wil. Heaven reward yi;u for your charity ! You have 
 preserved n;e. 
 
 Girl. I am glad to Iicar it. (Nods kindly to her.) 
 Good day ! God bless you ! [Exit singing. 
 
 H'il. (Looking after her.) .Such formerly was I as 
 happy, as contented, as susceptible of good impressions. 
 
 Enter a Gamekeepep, zvith a gun, and a brace of 
 pointers, 
 
 Wil. I wish vou jrood diversion, lioncst man.
 
 Act I. lover's vows. 9 
 
 Gam. (As he passes.) Damnation ! The first thing 
 I meet on my road is aa old woman ! I would as soon 
 have seen a magpie, or the devil. I'm sure to have bad 
 sport to-day Perhaps not a shot. Go to hell, you old 
 hari-idan ! [Exit. 
 
 Wil. That man conceals the hardness of his heart behind 
 the veil of superstition. Here comes some one else A 
 Jew ! If I could beg, I would implore his aid; for Chris- 
 tians bear but the name of Christians, and scarcely ever 
 recollect the doctrines they profess to follow. 
 
 Enter a Jew, who, as he passes, espies Wilhelmina, stops, 
 and surveys herj'or a moment. 
 
 Wil. Heaven bless you ! 
 
 Jew. I thank you, poor woman. You look ill. 
 
 Wil. I have had a fever. 
 
 Jew.^(HustUi/ puts his hand into his pocket, draws out 
 a small purse, and gives her some money.) There ! I can 
 spare no more, for I have but little myself. \^Exit. 
 
 WIL (Calling after him uith great emotion.) A thou- 
 sand thanks ! .\ thousand thanks ! Was I wrong in my 
 conjecture ? The iieart and the creed have no concern 
 with each other. 
 
 Enter Frederick, 'ai(h his knapsack on his back. He 
 ualks cheerfulh/ en, and is humming a tune ; but at the 
 sight of the sign over the door of the public fiouse, stops. 
 
 Ere. H m ! I'll quench my thirst here, I think. This 
 hot weather m.akes me feel quite parched. But let me con- 
 sult my pocket in the first place. (Draws out a little 
 jiionej/, a7id counts it.) I think I have as nuich as will pay 
 for tuy breakfast and dinner; and at night, please God, I 
 B5
 
 io lovers' rows. Act 1. 
 
 shall Ir.ne reached home. Holla! landlord ! {EspicsWW- 
 heliniiia.) -But what do I sec yonder? A poor sick womuii, 
 who appears to be quite exhausted. She does not beg, but 
 her cfJii'.Ucnauce claims assistance. Should we never be 
 c.iKiriiable till we are asked, and reminded that we ousiht to 
 lie so ? Shanie on it ! No. I must wait till noon before I 
 drink. It" I do a good action, I shall not feel either hungry 
 or thirsty. There ! {Goes torvurds her in oidcr to give her 
 the nionc!/, tchlch he already held in his hand to pui/ for his 
 liqnor.) 
 
 Wil. ( Surreving him minutelij, utters a loud shriek.) 
 Frederick ! 
 
 I're. (Starts, gazes intentlij on her ; casts cr<rai/ his monei/, 
 kti'ipsack, hat, slick, in short, every thing nhich C7icuinbe?s 
 fii/u, and rushes into her arms.) Mother ! {Both are speech- 
 it <<. Frederick //rsf recovers.) Mother ! For God's sake 
 D.) I llnd you in this wretched state ? Mother !; What 
 Jueans this? Speak ! 
 
 f i7.'. {Trembling.) I cannot speak dear son dear 
 i'le icrick "I'he bliss the transport- - 
 
 Tre. Compose yourself dear, good mother ! (She rests 
 her head on his breast.) Compose yourself. How you 
 tremble I You arc fainting. 
 
 Wil. I am so weak I feel so ill my bead is so giddy 
 A!l yesterday [ hud nothing to eat. 
 
 Frc. (Springing up uith looks of horror , and hiding his 
 face with both hands.) Almighty God I (Runs to his 
 knapsack, tears it open, and draus out a piece of bread.) ' 
 Here is some bread! (Collects the luonei/, zihith he had 
 thrczcn azcav, and adds to it uhut he hcts in his pocket.) 
 Here is my little stock of money. Fll sell my coat my 
 <;loak my arn\?. Oh, mother, mother ! Holla, there ! 
 Landlord! (Knocks vioUritli/ at the deer of the pjibUc 
 house. )
 
 Act I. tOVRs' VOW?. 11 
 
 Land. (Looking out of a zvindow.) What now? 
 
 Fre. A bottle of wine ! Directly ! Directly ! 
 
 ImihI. a bottle of wine ! 
 
 Fre. Yes, I tell you. 
 
 Land. For whom, pray'? 
 
 Fre. For me ! Zounds ! Be quick. 
 
 Land. Well But, Mr. Soldier, can you pay for it? 
 
 Fre. Here is the money. Make haste, or I'll break every 
 window in your house. 
 
 Land. Patience ! I'atience ! [Shuts the xcindow. 
 
 Fre. (To hii mother.) Fasted all day! And I had 
 plenty ! Last night I had meat and wine to supper, while 
 my mother was fasting. Oh, God ! Oh, God ! How ia all 
 my joy embittered ! 
 
 117/. Peace, my dear Frederick. I see you again I am 
 well again. I have been very ill and had nu hopes of ever 
 beholding you once more on earth. 
 
 Fre. Ill ! And I was not with you ! Xow I'll never leave 
 you again. See ! I am grown tall and stout. I can work 
 for you. 
 
 Enter Landlord uUh a bottle and glass. 
 
 Jt'ind, Here's wine for you ! A precious vintage, I pro- 
 mise you. Such a glass is not to be tasted every day. To 
 be sure it is only Franconia wine; but it has ihe sourness 
 of Rhenish. 
 
 Fre. Give me it directly. Wliat is the price of the trash ? 
 
 Land. Trash ! Such a capital article as that, trash ! The 
 real juice of the grape, I promise you. I sell none of your 
 common vintner's balderdash. I have another precious 
 wiae in my cellar, which you shall taste. Such a tine rich 
 oily flavour! (Frederick impatiently attempts to take the 
 bottle and glass from him.) Hold ! Hold ! The money, 
 first, if you please. This bottle costs half a guilder. 
 AG
 
 12 lovers' vows. Acl J. 
 
 i:re.(Gixing him all his money.) There! There!- 
 (Pours out a glass, and gives it to his 7/iOther, xoho drinks, 
 and eats a little bread with if.) 
 
 Land. (CouJitins the money.) There ought to he ano- 
 
 hcr drevcr. But, however, one must have compassion, 
 
 A s it is intended for the poor ohJ woman, I'll not insist upon 
 
 the drcver. But take care you don't break tiie bottle or 
 
 ^'lass. [Exit. 
 
 Wil. I thank you, dear Frederick. \Vine from a sou's 
 h.inds instils new hfe. 
 
 Tre. Don't talic too much, mother, till you have recover- 
 ed your strengtli. 
 
 Wil, Tell me how you have fared during; the last five 
 years. 
 
 Tre. I have met with good and bad luck mixed together. 
 One day my pocket was full the next I was worth no- 
 '.hin<; 
 
 Tf j7. Tt is long since you wrote to me. 
 
 Tre. Why, mv dear mother, postage is one of the severest 
 taxes on a soldier. Consider how far we were quartered 
 from you A letter would aluiost have cost me half a year's 
 pay ; and I must have something to subsist on. I always con- 
 soled myself with the idea that my motlier was in good 
 health, -and that it would make no great difference if I de- 
 ferred my letter, for another week or two. Thus one week 
 passed after anotiier. Forgive me, mother. 
 
 Wil. When anxiety is at an end, it is easy to forgive. 
 Have you, then, obtained your discharge .? 
 
 Tre. No, not yet. I have only procured leave of ab- 
 sence for a couple of months. This I did for certain rea- 
 sons ; but as you want me, 1 will remain with you. 
 
 Wil. That is not necessary, my dear Frederick. Your 
 visit \\'\\\ enliven me, and restore me to iiealth. I shall then 
 be ai'ain strong enough to work ; and you can return to your
 
 Act I. lovers' vows, 13 
 
 regiment; for I would not interfere with your fortune. But 
 you said you had obtained leave of absence for certain rea- 
 sons May I know those reasons ? 
 
 Yre. You shall know all, mother. When T left y<ni, five 
 years since, you had provided me plentifully with clothes, 
 linen, and money ; but one trifle you had forgotten the cer- 
 tificate of my birth. I was then a wild, careless lad, but 
 fifteen years of age, and thought little of the matter. Tliis 
 has since occasioned me much uneasiness. Often, when I 
 have been heartily tired of a soldier's restless life, I have 
 wished to obtain my discharzc, and learn some reputable 
 trade. But whenever I applied to any tradesman, his first 
 ijuestion always was, " Where is the certificate of your 
 birth ?" This silenced me. I was vexed, and remained a 
 soldier ; for in that j)rofession it is only asked whether the 
 heart be in the right place, and a certificate of birth is as 
 little regarded as the diploma of nobility. The circumstance, 
 however, led me into many a quarrel. My cotnrades were 
 become acquainted with it ; and if any of them owed me a 
 grudge, or were rather drunk, they would sneer at me, and 
 torment me with sarcastic remarks. Once or twice I had 
 been so far exasperated as to fight, the consequence of which 
 was, that I was placed under arrest, and severely reprimand- 
 ed. At length, my commanding officer, on anotlier of these 
 quarrels taking place, about five weeks ago, sutrunoned me 
 to attend him in his own room. Oh, mother! he is a noble, 
 generous man ! " Boetcher," said he to me, " I am sorry 
 to hear thatyou are constantly incurring punishment by being 
 engaged in quarrels ; for in other respects I am satisfied with 
 your attention to the service, and have a good opinion of 
 you. The Serjeant has told me the cause of all this. I, 
 therefore, advise you, to write home for the certificate of 
 your birth ; or, if you rather chuse to fetch it yourself, [ will 
 grant you leave of absence for a couple of months." Oh>
 
 14 tOVERs' VOWS. Act T. 
 
 mother ! your form floated before my eyes while he addressed 
 me. I kissed his hand, and stauiniercd out my tlianks. He 
 then put a dollar into my hand. " Go, my lad," said he ; " [ 
 wish you a good journcv. Don't fail to return at tlie ap- 
 pointed time." Well, mother, here I am, as you see; and 
 now you know all that has happened. 
 
 Wil. (Who hus listened to him u'dh peat confusion unci 
 eniharrassmeyit.) ^Yon are come, tlierefore, dear f'rederick, 
 for the certificate of your birth ? 
 
 Fre. Yes. 
 
 Hi/. Oh, Heavens ! 
 
 Fi'e. What is the matter ? ("Wilhelmina hirsff. into a 
 flood of tears.) For God's sake, what is the matter ? 
 
 Wil. You can have no certificate of your birth. 
 
 Fie. Can have none ? 
 
 117/. You are a natural son, 
 
 Fre. Indeed! And wiio is my father? 
 
 Wit. Alas ! the wiidness of your look destroys me, 
 
 Fre. (Recollecting liiniself, in a gentle and nffu'tionafc 
 tone.) No, dear motiicr, I am still your son ; but tell mo, 
 who is my father ? 
 
 ]('//. When you left me five veais since, yon were still too 
 young to be entrusted with such a secret. You have now- 
 reached an age at which you have a claim upon my conri- 
 dence. You are become a man, and a good man. JNIy sweet 
 maternal hopes are quite fulfilled. I have often heard how 
 consoling, how reviving to asutlcrer was the communication 
 of her soirows. The tears which those sorrows draw from 
 another's eyes, alleviate fhe pangs which the sufferer seemed 
 for ever destined lo endure. Thanks, thanks to benignant 
 Heaven, the hour at last is come, when I may, for the first 
 time, feci this consolatory sensation. My son is my confi- 
 dant be he also my judge. Of a rigid judge I must l>e 
 afraid; butmv son will not be rigid.
 
 Act T. LOVERb' VOWS. 15 
 
 Fre. Proceed, good mother. Relieve your heart. 
 
 Wil. Yes, dear Frederick, I will tell you all Yet shame 
 and confusion bind my tongue. You must not look at mc 
 during my recital. 
 
 Fre. Do I not know my mother's heart? Cursed be 
 the thought which condemns you for a weakness : of a crime 
 you are incapable. 
 
 Wil. Yonder village, whose church you at a distance seo 
 towering above the trees, is my native place. In that 
 church I was baptized. In that church I was first instructed 
 in our faith. My parents were wortliy pious cottagers. 
 They were poor, but strictly honest. Wlien I was fourteen 
 years of age, the lady of the manor one day saw mc. She 
 was pleased with me, took me with her to the castle, and felt 
 a pleasure in forming my rude talents. She put good books 
 into my hands. I read ; I learnt French and music. My 
 conceptions and capacity developed themselves. But at the 
 same time my vanity Yes under the mask of reserve I 
 became ridiculou=^lv vain. I was seventeen years old when 
 the son of my benefactress, who was an officer in the Saxon 
 service, obtained leave to visit his relations. I hud never 
 before seen him. He was a handsome and engaging young 
 man. lie talked to me of love and marriage. He was the 
 first who had done homage to my charms. Do not look at 
 me dear Frederick, or I cannot proceed. ^Frederick casts 
 down his ei/es, and presses her hand to his heart.) I was a 
 credulous being, and was easily rotibed of my innocence. 
 The hypocrite feigned the tnost ardent affection promised 
 to marry me at the death of his aged mother vowed 
 fidelity and constancy alas ! and I forgot mv pious 
 parents the precepts of our good old pastor the kindness 
 of my benefactress I became pregnant. Oh, Frederick ! 
 Frederick ! whenever 1 1 ook at yonder church, the late ve- 
 nerable pastorwith his silver locks seems to stand before me.
 
 16 lovers' vows. Ad I. 
 
 On the day that I first went to confession, how did he afl'ect 
 my young heart ! How full of true devotion and of virtue 
 was my mind ! At tliat time I would have ventured with a 
 certainty of triumph upon any temptation, and (Oh, God ! 
 how was it possible ;) this deep, this rooted impression did a 
 wild, unthinking youth erase by a few love-sick looks, l)y a 
 few love-sick words 1 I became pregnant. We both awoke 
 from the sweet delirium, and beheld with horror the pros- 
 pect of futurity. I had ventured every thing. lie feared 
 tlie anger of his mother, who was a good woman, but inex- 
 orably strict and rigid. How kindly did he implore me, how 
 impressively did he conjure me, not to betray him ! How af- 
 fectionately, how tenderly, did he promise to reward me at 
 a future period for all that I endured on his account ! He 
 succeeded. I pledged to him my word that I would be si- 
 lent, that I would bury the name of my seducer, as well as 
 his much-loved form in my heart ; that for his sake I would 
 encounter every misfcirtune which awaited me for, oh, how 
 dearly did I love him ! Much, much, indeed, I have en- 
 countered. He departed, satisfied with my j)romise. Ihe 
 time of my delivery approached, and I found it impossible 
 any longer to conceal my situation. Alas ! I was harshly 
 treated when I persisted in my determination not to confess 
 who was the father of my child. I was driven from the 
 castle with every mark of disgrace ; and, when I reached 
 the door of my afflicted parents, I was again refused admit- 
 tance. My father would have exceeded all bounds ; but my 
 mother tore him hastily away, at the moment he was about 
 to curse me. She returned, threw me a crooked dollar 
 which she wore round her neck, and wept. Since that day 
 I have never seen her. The dollar I have still in my pos- 
 session. (Produces it.) Rather would I have starved than 
 have parted with it. (Grtzcs at it, kisses it, and puts it again
 
 Act I. Lovi Its' vovvH. 17 
 
 into fierbosoM.) 'vVithout ii iionic, without money, witiiout 
 friends, I wandered a whole night through 0(en fieldb. I 
 once came near the stream where the mill stands, and al- 
 most was I tempted to throw myself under the wheels of the 
 mill, and thus put an end to my miserable existence. But 
 suddenly our pastor's venerable form again appeared to me. 
 I started back ; and while I thought I saw him, all his in- 
 structions occurred to me, and roused my confidence. As 
 soon as the morning dawned I went to his house. lie re- 
 ceived me with kindness, and did not reproach me. " What 
 is done," said he, " cannot be undone. God is merciful to 
 the penitent. Reform, my daughter, and all may yet be 
 well. You must not remaai in the village, for that will only 
 be a mortification to you, and likewise a scandal to my parish. 
 But " Here he put a piece of gold into my hand, and de- 
 livered to me a letter, which he had written for me. " Go 
 to the town, my daughter, and seek the honest old widow to 
 whom this letter is addressed. With her you may remain in 
 safety, and she will teach you how to earn an honest liveli- 
 hood." With these words he laid his hand upon my head, 
 gave me his blessing, and promised to appease my father's 
 resentment. Oh ! I felt newly born; and on my way to the 
 town, I reconciled myself with the Almighty, by solemnly 
 vowing never again to swerve from the path of virtue, I 
 have kept my vow. Now look at me again, Trederick. 
 ^Frederick clasps her icifh speechless emotion in his arms. A 
 pause.) Your birth was to me the cause of much joy, and 
 of much sorrow. I twice wrote to your father but 
 Heaven knows w hether he received ray letters ; I have 
 never received any answ er to them. 
 
 Fre. ( Violent Ij/.) Never any answer ! 
 
 Wil. Check your indignation, my son. It w as in time of 
 war, and the regiment to which he belonged was in the field. 
 There was a commotion through the whole empire ; fur the
 
 13 tOVEEb' VOWS, Acl I, 
 
 troops of three powers were alternately pursuing each other. 
 How easily,therefbre,might my letters be lost! No, Iain cer- 
 tain he never received them; for he was not a villain. After 
 that time, I did not chuse to trouble him, from a sensation 
 perhaps of pride. I thouglit, if he hud not f(jrgotteii me, 
 he would come in search of me, and would easily learn from 
 the pastor wiierc I was to be found but he did not come- 
 and some years after, I even heard (With a sigh) that 
 he was married. I then bade farewell to my last hope. In 
 silent retirement I earned my subsistence by manual labour, 
 and by instructing a few ciiilfhen in what I mvself had 
 learnt at the castle. You, dear Frederick, were my only 
 comfort ; and on your education I bestowed e\ ery thing 
 which was not absolutely necessary for my own subsistence. 
 My diliiience was not ill rewarded, for yuu were a good bov; 
 but the wildness of your youthful ardour, your bent towards 
 a soldier's life, and your resolution to seek your fortune iii 
 the wide world, caused me much uneasiness. At last I 
 thought it must be as God ordained ; and if it v>ere your 
 destination, I ought not to prevent it, even if the j)ar!ing 
 were to break my heart. I'ive years ago, therefore, I allowed 
 you to go, and ga\ e you as much as I could spare Perhaps 
 more than I could spare; for I v\ as in good heallh, and then 
 we are not apt to aniicipate illness. Had this continued, I 
 could have earned more than I wanted ; I should ha\ e been 
 a rich woman in my situation, and could have made my sou 
 an annual Chri-itmus ]iresent. But I was attacked by a 
 lingering and con^uniui^ illness. My earnings \verc at an 
 end, and mv little savings were scarcely sutiicient to ])ay my 
 physician and my nurse. A few days since, therefore, I was 
 obliged to leave my little hut, being no longer able to dis- 
 charge the rent, and \Nas compelled to wander on tiie high- 
 way with this stick, this sack, and these rags, soliciting a 
 morsel of bread from the charity of those who happcnrd tu 
 pass,
 
 Act I. lOVERs' VOWS. 10 
 
 Fre. Had your Frederick suspected this, how bitter would 
 have been to him every morsel which he eut, and every drop 
 which he drank ! Well, Heaven be praised that I have 
 found you alive at my return ; for now I will remain with 
 you for ever. I will send information of this to ray com- 
 manding officer, and he may take it in what light he picises; 
 for if he even call it desertion, I will not again forsake my 
 mother. Alas ! I have unfortunately learnt no art, no 
 trade ; but I have a couple of stout nervous arms, with 
 which I can guide the plough, or wield the flail. I'll hire 
 myself to some farmer as a day-labourer, and at night write 
 for some lawyer. I write a good legible hand, thanks to 
 you, my dear mother. We shall succeed, no doubt. God 
 will assist us. God is ever ready to support those who re- 
 vere their parents. 
 
 Wil.^{Cla.'!ps him nith emotion in her arms.) ^\Vhat prin- 
 cess can offer me any thing in exchange for such a blissful 
 moment? 
 
 F?e. One thing I had forgotten, mother. What was my 
 father's name ? 
 
 Wli. Baron Wildeniiain. 
 
 Fre. And does he live on this estate ? 
 
 in/. There formerly his mother lived. She is dead. He 
 marrried a rich lady in Franconia, and, as is said, through 
 affection for her, went to dweil there. A steward occupies 
 the castle, who manages every thing as he likes. 
 
 Fre. I wiil away to the Baron I will face him boldlv. I 
 will bear you upon my back to him. How far is it to Fran- 
 conia? Twenty to thirty miles, perhaps. Hov,' ! Did he 
 escape his conscience by flying so short a way ? Truly, it 
 must be a lazy, sluggish conscience, if, after following him 
 twenty years, it has not yet overtaken him. Oh, sliame, 
 shame on him ! Why should I claim acquaintance with my 
 father, if he be a villain ? Cannot my heart be satisfied
 
 20 lovKHs' vows. Act ! 
 
 with a moUier a mother wlio has taught tue to love ? ^V!ly 
 should I seek, a father who teaches me to hate ? No ! I 
 vill not go to him. lie may remain quietly where he is, 
 easting and revelling till his last hour, and then he may see 
 f/htit account he can give of his actions to the Almighty 
 Judge. We do not want him, mother; we will live without 
 him. But what is the matter? How your countenance is 
 altered in a single moment ! Mother, what is the matter? 
 
 Wil. (Very much exhausted, and almost fu'mt in g.) No- 
 thing, nothing. The transport Too much talking. I 
 should like a little rest. 
 
 Fre. Heavens ! I never perceived before that we were on 
 the highway. (Knocks at the door of the public house.) 
 Holla ! Landlord ! 
 
 Land. (Opening the zcindow.) Well ! W"hat now? 
 
 Fi'C. Let this good woman have a bed directly. 
 
 Land. (With a sneer.) She have abed, indeed ! Ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! A pretty joke, truly ! She slept last night in my 
 stable, and has, perhaps, bewitched all the cattle in it. 
 
 Yakuts the tcindouK 
 
 Fre. (Taking up a stone in a rage.) Infernal scoun- 
 drel ! (Looks at his mother, and throws the stone azcuii.) 
 Oh, my poor mother ! (Knocks in the anguish of despair 
 at the door ()f' a cottage, which stands further in the buck- 
 ground.) Holla ! Holla ! 
 
 Ejifcr a C0TT.4GER from the hut. 
 
 Cot, God bless you ! What do you want ? 
 
 Fre. Good friend, you see thai this poor sick woman is 
 fainting in the open air. She is my mother. Let her have 
 some little spot to rest upon for half an hour. For Hea- 
 ven's sake do; and God will reward you for it. 
 
 Col. Hold your tongue. I understand you. (Putting 
 lii.i head into the house.) Rachel, make up the bed direct-
 
 Act I. LOVERS* VOWS. 21 
 
 !y. You mav lay the child on the bench while you do it. 
 {Returns.) Don't begin a long history again about God's 
 reward and Heaven's blessing. If God were to reward 
 all such trifles, he would have enough to do. Come ! take 
 hold of the good woman on that side, while I support her 
 on this, and let us lead her in with care. She shall have as 
 good a bed as I am worth ; but she will not find much more 
 in my cottage, I must own. [T/iej/ conduct her into the hut. 
 
 END OF ACT I.
 
 22 lovers' vows. Act JJ. 
 
 ACT 11 
 
 ScKNF, a Room in the Cottage. Wilhki-vina is discovered 
 sitting on a rcoeden Stool, and resting her Head on Fre- 
 derick's Bieast. The Cottager and his Wiie aie 
 husilij employed in procuring rvhatevcr can conduce to the 
 Comfort of their sick Guest. 
 
 Frc. Have you nothing which will refresh and strengthen 
 her, good people ? 
 
 JVife. Run, husijund, and fetch a bottle of wine from 
 our neighbour's pul)lic house. 
 
 Fre. Oh, spare yourselves that trouble. His wine is as 
 sour as his disposition. She has already drank some of it. 
 and I fear it has poisoned her. 
 
 Cot. Look, Rachel, whether the black hen has laid an egg 
 this morning. A new-laid egg, boiled soft 
 
 Wife. Or a handful of ripe currants^ 
 
 Cot. Or the best thing I have a piece of bacon 
 
 Mife. There is still a little brandy standing below in the 
 dairy. 
 
 Frc. (Decpit/ affected.) God reward and bless you f(;r 
 your rca(hness to assist my poor mother ! (To \Mllicl- 
 mina.J You ha\e heard these good people? (W'ilhelmina 
 nods.) Can you relish any thing they have oilerrd ? (W'il- 
 hc\n\\na mahes a moli<in uith hi r hand that she cannot.) 
 Alas ! is there then no surgeon in the neighbourliood r 
 
 Cot. We have a farrier in the village, \^h(jm we always 
 call Doctor; and I ncvci' a\v any other in my liie. 
 
 Fre. Merciful Heavens ! \Miat shall I do? Siic will 
 die in my arms ! Gracious God ! have compassion on our 
 distrf s':rs. Prnv. vv^w. iznod people I cann()t pray.
 
 Act II. lovers' vows. 23 
 
 Wil. (In a broken voice.) Be at case, dear Frederick 
 I am well only faint very faint. A glass of good 
 wine 
 
 Fre. Yes, mother, instantly. Oh, God ! where can I 
 procure it? I have no money. I have nothing at all. 
 
 Wife. There ! Now, you see, husband, if you liad not 
 carried tlie money to the steward yesterday 
 
 Cot. I miglit have assisted this good woman. Why, 
 that's true, to be sure. But how are we to manage matters 
 now ? As true as I am an honest man, I have not a single 
 dreyer in the house. 
 
 Tre. Then I will yes, I will lieg and if no one will be 
 cliaritable, I will steal. Good people, take care of her, and 
 do what you can for lier. I shall soon be with you again. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Cot. If he would go to our pastor's, I am sure he would 
 succeed. 
 
 Wil. Is the old pastor still alive? 
 
 Wife. Oh, no. God bless his worthy heart. lie died 
 about two years since, old, and weary of life. 
 
 Cot. Yes, he went out like a lamp, as one may say. 
 
 Wife. (Wiping her eyes.) Wc have shed many a tear 
 for the loss of him. 
 
 Cot. (Ttie same.) lie was our father. 
 
 WU. (Deeply ajfcclej.) Our father. 
 
 Wife. ^Ve shall never have such another. 
 
 Cot. Come, come ! give every one his due and despise 
 nobody. Our present pdstor is a goo-'l worthy man too. 
 
 Wife. ^Vhy, he is, to be sure; but he is so young. 
 
 Cot. I own his appearance does not claim quite so much 
 respect, and we can't confide in him so soon : but our late 
 pastor had been young too. 
 
 Wife. {To Wiihclmina.) This gentleman was tutor to 
 our Baron's daughter; and as my Lord was vcr- " :' ^nti'-- 
 licd wifh hi'Ti. he cavr }y.>v, t'li- ''':!;'.
 
 '-^i LOVE Kb' VOWS. Act 11, 
 
 Cot, Ay, and lie deserved it too ; for the young lady of 
 the castle (God bless her ! ) is a friendly, kind creature as 
 ever lived. 
 
 Wife. Yes, she has no pride ; for when she comes into 
 the church, she nods here and there, on this side and on 
 that, to the country women. 
 
 Cot. And when she is in the pevv, she holds her fan 
 before her face, and prays with real devotion. 
 
 Wife. And during the sermon she never turns her eyes 
 from the pastor. 
 
 Wil.(Alar)ned.) What lady is this > 
 
 Cot. Our Baron's daughter. 
 
 Wil. Is she here 1 
 
 Wife. To be sure she is. Didn't you know that ? It will 
 be five weeks next Friday since my Lord's family arrived at 
 the castle. 
 
 Wil. Do you mean Baron Wildcnhain .'' 
 
 Wife. Exactly. 
 
 Wil. And his lady } 
 
 Cot. liis lady is dead. They lived several hundred miles 
 from this place ; and during her Ladyship's life the Baron 
 never came hither, which has caused us many a sorrow. 
 (In a lozccr voice, and in a cojfdential tone.) Folks say 
 she was a haughty woman, and full of whims. Well ! well ! 
 We ought not to speak ill of the dead. Our Baron is a good 
 gentleman. She had no sooner closed her eyes, than he 
 ordered his coach, and came to Wildenhain. Oh ! he must 
 like this place ; for he was born here, and has often played 
 with me in the meadows, and danced with my wife on a sun- 
 day under the lime-trees. You remember that, Rachel ch ? 
 
 Wfe. That I do, as well as if it had been yesterday. He 
 used to wear a red coat, and a pair of buckles made ol 
 glittering stones. 
 
 Cot. Afterwards, wlieu he became an officer, he was
 
 Act II. lovers' vows. 25 
 
 rather wild ; but we must make allowances for young peo- 
 ple. The soil was good, and the best of land sometimes 
 produces weeds. 
 
 Wife. But do you recollect, husband, what happened at 
 the castle between him and Boetcher's daughter, Wilhel- 
 niina ? That was too bad. 
 
 Cot. Pshaw ! hold your tongue, Rachel. Who would 
 think of talking about that, when so many years are past 
 since it happened, and when nobody knows whether he w^s 
 really the father of the child ? for she never would confess 
 it. 
 
 Wife. He was the father, and nobody else, that I am 
 sure of; and I'll bet my best gown and cap upon it. No, 
 no, husband, you must not defend that it was too bad. 
 Who knows whether the poor creature did not perish in 
 distress? Her father, too, old Boetcher, was driven to his 
 grave by it, and died broken-hearted. [Wilhelrainayain^s, 
 
 Cot. (Who first observes it.) Rachel ! Rachel 1 Sup- 
 port her ! Zounds ! support her. 
 
 Wife. Oh ! mercy on us ! ^The poor woman ! 
 
 Cot. Away with her to bed directly ! Then let us send 
 for the pastor. She will hardly live till morning. 
 
 [They carry her in. 
 
 Scn.sE, a Roo?n in the Castle. The breakfast Table is 
 discovered. A Servant places oi the Table a Tea-urn, a 
 lighted Candle, and a Wax-taper. 
 
 Enter the Barox, iii his Night-gown. 
 
 Boron. Is the Count in bed still? 
 
 Ser. No, my Lord. He has sent for his servant to dress 
 his liair. 
 
 Baron. I might have discovered that; for the hall, as 
 \ oL. IL " B
 
 26 LOVF.R.S' V0\V9. Jct 11. 
 
 I passed tlwouj^Ii it, was scented with poudre cit la Marechal. 
 Call my daughter. [Exii Servant. 
 
 (The. Ba.TOX\ Jills mid lights his pipe.) 
 I cannot but think that my friend, the old privy counsellor, 
 has sent me a complete coxcomb. Every thing he says 
 and docs is as insijnJ and silly i\s his countenance. No 
 I will not be too hasty. My Amelia is too dear to me to be 
 bestowed on any one who is not worthy of her. I must be 
 rather better acquainted with the young man ; for my 
 intimacy with his father shall never induce me to make my 
 daughter miserable. The poor girl would consent, and 
 would then sit in a corner dejected and repining, and blaming 
 her father, who ought to have understood these matters bet- 
 ter. What a pity, what a great pity it is, that the girl was 
 not a boy ! That the name of Wildciihain must be extinct ! 
 (blows out the wax-taper, with which he had lighted his 
 pipe.) and vanish like the flame which I now blow out. 
 My fine estates, my delightful prospects, my honest tenan- 
 try all, all \vill fall into the hands of a stranger. How un- 
 fortunate ! 
 
 Enter Amelia in a careless morning dress, 
 
 Amelln. (Kisses the Baron's hand.) Good morning to 
 yon, my dear father. 
 
 Baron. Good morning, Amelia. Have you slept well ? 
 
 Amelia. Oh, yes ! 
 
 Baron. Indeed ! You have slept very well ? You '.verc 
 not at all uneasy? 
 
 Amelia. No. The gnats, to be sure, hummed rather too 
 much in my ears. 
 
 Baron. The gnats ! Well, that is of no great consequence. 
 Let a bough of juniper be burnt in the room, and you will 
 not be troubled with them again. Gnats are more easily 
 driven away than magsiots.
 
 A(tII. lovers' vows, J7 
 
 Amelia. Oh, no. You may drive masgots away by boiling 
 a few peas with a little quicksilver, for that will kill them. 
 
 Baron. (Smiling.) Indeed ? It is well for you, Amelia, 
 if you as yet know no maggots which cannot be destroyed 
 by a plate of peas. 
 
 Amelia. Oh, you mean maggots iu the head. No, father, 
 I am not troubled with them. 
 
 Baron. So much the better ! But how, indeed, can a 
 lively girl, when only sixteen years of age, be troubled with 
 whims, while she has a father who loves her, and a suitor 
 who begs permission to love her.' How do you like the 
 Count von der Mulde ? 
 
 Amelia. Very well. 
 
 Baron. Don't you blush when I mention his name? 
 
 Amelia. '( Feeling her cheeks.)^ ISSn. 
 
 Baron. No ! Ilem ! Have you not been dreaming of 
 him ? 
 
 Amelia. No. 
 
 Baron. Have not you dreamt at all, then ? 
 
 Amelia. (Beflecting.) Yes. I dreamt of our pastor. 
 
 Baron. Ha ! Ha ! As he stood before you, and de- 
 manded the ring ? 
 
 Amelia. Oh, no ! I dreamt we were in Franconia, and 
 that he was still my tutor. He was just going to leave us, 
 and I wept very uiuch ; and when I awoke, my eyes were 
 really wet. 
 
 Baron. I'll tell you what, Amelia; when you dream of 
 the pastor again, fancy him at the altar, and you with the 
 Count von der Mulde before him, exchanging the marriage 
 vow. What think you of this ? 
 
 Amelia. If you desire it, my dear father, I will obey 
 most cheerfully, 
 
 Baron. Zounds ! Ko. I don't desire it. But I want to 
 know whether you love him whether you feel sincere af-
 
 28 LOVEKS' V0\V5. Art I J. 
 
 fection for him. When we spent a short time in town lust 
 winter, you saw him several times at public places of 
 amusement. 
 
 Amelia. Should I feel an affection for all the men I see 
 at public places of amusement? 
 
 Baron. Amelia, don't be so stupid. I mean that the 
 Count von der JMulde flirted and paid attention to you, 
 danced a couple of elegant minuets with you, perfumed 
 your handkerchief with rau de. mille flcurs, and at the same 
 time whispered the Lord knows how many pretty things in 
 your ear. 
 
 Amelia. Yes, the Lord knows, as you say, father ; but I 
 em sure I don't ! 
 
 Baron. What ! have you forgotten them ? 
 
 Amelia. Jf it be your wish, I will endeavour to recollect 
 them. 
 
 Baron. No, no. You need not trouble yourself. If you 
 must endeavour to recollect them, you will bring them from 
 a corner of your memory, not from a corner of your heart. 
 You don't love him, then ? 
 
 Amelia. I believe I don't. 
 
 Baron. (Aside.) I believe so too. Eut I must tell 
 you what connexion there is between his visit and my in- 
 terrogatories. His father is a privy counsellor a man of 
 fortune and consequence Do you hear } 
 
 Amelia. Yes, my dear father, I hear this, if you desire it : 
 but our pastor always told me I was not to listen to such 
 things ; for rank and wealth, he said, were only the gifts of 
 chance. 
 
 Baron. Well, well ! our pastor is perfectly in the right; 
 but if it happen that wealth and rank are combined with 
 merit, they are to be considered an advantage. Do jou 
 understand me? 
 
 Amelia. Yes, but {zvith perfect simplicity.) 1= that the 
 case with thS Count von der Mulde?
 
 AcC II. LOVERS* VOWS. 29 
 
 Baron. (At a loss how to repli/.) Hera ! Why Hem ! 
 His father has rendered important services to the state. 
 He is one of my oldest friends, and assisted me in paying 
 my addresses to your mother. I have always had a sincere 
 regard for him ; and as he so much wishes the match be- 
 tween you and his son to take place, from a conviction that 
 you nil! in time feel an alYection for the young man 
 Amelia. Does he think so ? 
 
 Baron. Yes; but it almost seems you are not of the 
 same opinion, 
 
 Amelia. Not exactly. But if you desire it, my dear 
 
 father 
 
 Bai-on. Zounds ! I tell you thai in such case-i I desire 
 nothing. A marriage without affection is slavery. None 
 should be united, who do not feel attached to each other 
 by a congeniality of sentiments. 1 don't want to couple a 
 nightingale with a finch. If you like each other, why 
 marry each other. If you don't, let it alone. {In a calmer 
 tone.) Do you understand me, Ameli^i ? The whole matter 
 rests on this question : Can you love the Count? If not 
 we will send him home again. 
 
 Amti'ia. My dear father, I really don't feci as if I should 
 ever love him. I have so often read a description of love 
 in romances how strange and unaccountable are the sen- 
 sations 
 
 Baron. Pshaw ! Let me hear no more of your romances, 
 for tiie authors of them know nothing about love. There 
 are certain little symptoms of it, which can only be learnt 
 by experience. Come, let me ask you a few questions, and 
 answer them with sincerity. 
 Amelia. I always do so. 
 
 Baron. Are you pleased when any one speaks of the 
 Count ? 
 A.T.e'ia. Good or ill? 
 
 IJ3
 
 -0 i.fivi.ps' vcws. Aci 17. 
 
 Baron. Good, good. 
 
 Amelia, Oh, yes, I like to hear good of any one. 
 Baron. But do you not feel a kind of sympathy when you 
 hear him mentioned ? {She shakes her head.) Are you not 
 embarrassed ? (She shakes her head.) Don't yuu sonic- 
 times wish to hear him mentioned, but have not courage to 
 begin the subject r (She shakes her head.) Don't you de- 
 fend him, when any one censures him ? 
 
 Amelia. When 1 can, I certainly do; for our pastor 
 Baron. I am not talking about the pastor. When you 
 sec the Count, how do you feel ? 
 Amelia. Very well. 
 
 Baron. Are you not somewhat alarmed when he ap- 
 proa chrs you ? 
 
 Ameliu. No. (Suddenly recollecting herself.) But, yes: 
 I am sometimes. 
 
 Baron. Ay, ay. Now we rome to the point. 
 Amelia. Because he once trod upon my foot at a ball. 
 Ba7'on. Amelia, don't be so stupid. Do you cast down 
 your cyts \^hcn lie is present } 
 
 Amelia. I don't cast down my eyes in the presence of any 
 Bne. 
 
 Baron. Don't you arrange your dress, or play with the 
 end of your sash, when he speaks to you ? 
 Ainciut. No. 
 
 Baron. Does not your face glow when he pays you a 
 rompiimcnt, or mentions any thing which refers to love and 
 marriage } 
 
 Amelia. I dim't remember that he ever mentioned any 
 thing of the kind. 
 
 Buron. Ilem ! Ilem ! (After a fame.) Do you ever 
 yawn when he is talking to you ? 
 
 AmelUi. No, my dear father; that would be rude, 
 haro:t. Hut du you ever icei intliiKd to yawn on those 
 occasions r
 
 Act It. tC'VEhi:' VOWS, Si 
 
 Amelia. Yes. 
 
 Baron. Indeed ! There are but little hopes, then. Do 
 you think him handsome ? 
 
 Amelia. I don't know. 
 
 Baron. Don't you know what is meant by the term hand- 
 some ? Or, don't yoa feel what is meant by the term hand- 
 some? 
 
 Amelia. Yes, I do; but I never observed him with the 
 idea of discovering whether I thought him handsome. 
 
 Baron. This is bad, indeed. When he arrived last night 
 " how did you feel ? 
 
 Amelia. I felt vexed; fori was just walking with the 
 pastor to the romantic little hill, when the servant so un- 
 seasonably called me away. 
 
 Baron. Unseasonably ! Indeed ! But another question ! 
 Have you not to-day, without intending it, taken more pains 
 in curling your hair, and chosen a more engaging dress.? 
 
 Amelia. (Looking at herself.) This dross is not yet 
 dirty. I have only worn it yesterday and the day before. 
 
 Baron. (Aside.) Little consolation for the Count is to 
 be deduced from these replies. Therefore, my dear girl, 
 yo'j will have nothing to do with the Count, I suppose? 
 
 Amelia. If you command it, I will. 
 
 Baron. (Angrt/.) Hark you, Amelia. If you plague 
 me again with your damned desires and commands, I shall 
 I shall be almost inclined to command in reality. {In a 
 milder tone.) 1 o see you happy is my wish, and this can 
 never be effected by a command. Matrimony, my child, is 
 a di>cordant duet, if the tones do not properly agree ; for 
 which reason our great Composer has planted the pure 
 harmony of love in our hearts. I'll send the pastor to you. 
 He can explain these matters more clearly. 
 
 Amelia. (Delighted.) The pastor ! 
 
 Baron. Yes. He cm describe the duties of the married 
 D4
 
 JW tOVERS' VOWS. Act II. 
 
 state in better terms than a father. Then examine your 
 heart; and if you feel the Count to be the man towards 
 whom you can fulfil these duties why, Heaven bless you 
 both ! Till then, let us say no more upon this subject. 
 (Ca/&.> Thomas ! 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Go to the pastor, and request him to come hither for n 
 quarter of an hour, if his business will allow it. 
 
 [Exit Servant. 
 Amelia. (Calling after hirr.) ^Tell him I shall be glad 
 to see him, too. 
 
 Baron. {Looks at his zcatch.) The young Count seems 
 to employ plenty of time in dressing. Come, Amelia, pour 
 out the tea. (Amelia seats herself at the table, and attends 
 to the breakfast.) What sort of weather is it i Have you 
 put your head out of the window yet ? 
 
 Amelia. Oh, I was in the garden at five o'clock. It is a 
 delightful morning. 
 
 Baron. One may have an hour's shooting, then, I really 
 don't know what to do with this man : he tires me beyond 
 all measure with his frivolous remarks, Ha ! Our guest ! 
 
 Enter Coitnt. 
 
 Count. Ah, bonjour, mon Colonel. Fair lady, I kiss your 
 hand. 
 
 (Amelia curtsies, and returns no anszver.) 
 
 Baron. Good morning ! Good morning ! But, my Lord, 
 it is almost noon. In the country you must learn to rise at 
 an earlier hour. 
 
 Count. Pardonnez, mon Colonel. I rose soon after your 
 great clock struck six. But my homme de chambre was guilty
 
 Act ]T. lovers' vovvs. S3 
 
 of 1 betise, which has driven rae to absolute despair ; a loss, 
 vvhich pour le moment cannot be repaired. 
 
 Baron. I am sorry for it. 
 
 (Amelia presents lea to the Count.) 
 
 Count (A.I he takes it.) Your most obedient and sub- 
 missive slave ! Is it Ilebe herself, or Venus in her place ? 
 (Amelia moves rcith a smile.) 
 
 Baron. {Somewhat peevishli/.) Neither Venus nor Hebe, 
 but Amelia Wildenhain, with your permission. May one 
 know what you have lost ? 
 
 Count Oh, man clieu ! Help me to banish from my mind 
 the triste recollection. I am lost in a labyrinth of doubts 
 and perplexities. I am as it were, envelope. I believe I 
 shall be obliged to write a letter on the occasion. 
 
 Baroyi. Come, come ! It is not so very sad a misfortune 
 I hope. 
 
 Count. {As he nips his tea.) Nectar, I vow ! Nectar 
 positively, angelic iady. But, huw could I expect any thing 
 else from your fair hands? 
 
 Baron. This nectar was sold to me for Congo tea. 
 
 Amelia. You have s^till not told us what you have lost, my 
 Lord; 
 
 Baron. {Aside.) His understanding;. 
 
 Count. You command your slave obeys. You tear 
 pen the wounds wliich ev4?.n your fascinating society had 
 scarcely healed. My homme de chambre, the vaut rien ! 
 Oh, the creature is a muurnis sujet .' When he packed up 
 my clothes the day before yesterday, I said to him, " Henri, 
 in that window stands the little pot depommade." You com- 
 prehend me, lovely Miss Amelia ? I expressly said, "Don't 
 forget it : pack it up," I dare say I repeated this three or 
 four times. " You know, Henri," I said to him, " I cannot 
 exist without this pot depommade" For you must know, 
 most amiable Atftcua, this pomnnide cannot be iriadc ia Ger- 
 ' IK'S
 
 34 lovers' vows. Act 11. 
 
 many. The people here don't understand it. They can't 
 give it the odeui'S. Oh ! I do assure you it is incoi/iparahle ; 
 it comes tout droit from Paris. The manufacturer of it is 
 parfnmeur du roi. More than once, when I have attended 
 as dt^jour to Her Royal Ilia^hncss the Princess Adelaide, she 
 has said to me, "Mon dku, Comte, the whole antichunihie is 
 parfume whenever you are my dt-jour." Now only conceive^ 
 accomplished Miss Amelia only conceive, my I>ord com- 
 pletely forgotten is the whole pot de pommadc left in the 
 window as sure as I am a cavalier. 
 
 Baron. Yes, unless the mice have devoured it. 
 
 Amelia. (Smiling.) Unpardonable neglect ! 
 
 Covnt. It is, indeed ! The mice too! Helos ! roila, mon 
 Colonel, tine autre raisnn, for desespoir. And could you 
 conceive now that this careless creature, this Henri, has 
 been thirty years in our service? Thirty years has he hern 
 jprovided with every thing necessary for a man of his (x~ 
 traction, and how does he evince his gratitude .? How does 
 the fellow behave ? He forgets the pot de pommadc / leaves 
 it standuig in the window as sure as I am a cavalier, and 
 oh del! perhaps the vulgar German mice have swallowed 
 the most delicate parj'iim ever produced by France ! But it 
 was impossible to moderate my anger. Triable ! It was im- 
 ipossible therefore I discharged the fellow on the spot. 
 
 Baron. (Starting.) How! A man who had been 
 thirty years in the service iif your family ! 
 
 Count. Oh I don't be alarmed on mv account, mon c/ier 
 Colonel. I have another in petto a charming ralcf, I 
 nssure vou an homme cothirtc il faut He dresses hair like 
 a divinity. 
 
 Amelia. And poor Henry must be discharged for such n 
 triae ! 
 
 Count. Whnt do you say, lovely Miss Amelia ? A trifle ! 
 Can you call this a mere lugcttllc ?
 
 Act IT. lovers' V0W3. - 35 
 
 Amelia. To deprive a poor man of his subsistence- 
 
 Courit. Mais, mon dieu ! How can I do less? Has he nut 
 deprived me of my pommade ? 
 
 Amelia. Allow me to hitercede in his behalf. 
 
 Count. Your sentiments enchant me ; but your benevo- 
 lence must not be abused. The fellow has an absolute 
 quuntiti of children, who, in time, when they reach the age 
 mur, will maintain their stupid father. 
 
 Amelia. Has he a family too ? Oh, I beseech you, my 
 Lord, retain him in your service. 
 
 Count. You are aiinahle, ma cher Mademoiselle -crai- 
 ment, vons etes tres aimable. You command your slave 
 obeys, Henri shall come, and submissively return you 
 thanks. 
 
 Baron. (Aside, impatiently rubbing his hands.) No. 
 It cannot, shall not be. The coxcomb ! (Aloud.) 
 What think you, Count, of an hour's diversion in the field 
 before dinner ? Do you shoot? 
 
 Count. (Kissing the ends of his fingers.) Bravo, mon 
 Colonel ! A most charming proposition ! I accept it with 
 rapture. lively Miss Amelia, you shall see my shooting- 
 dress. It is quite a la mode de Paris. I ordered it expressly 
 for this tour. And my fowling piece. Ah, Monsieur le 
 Colonel, you never saw such a beauty. The stock is made 
 of mother of pear], and my arms are carved upon it. Oh ! 
 you have no conception of the gout displayed in it. 
 
 Baron. (Drily.) I asked you before, my Lord, 
 whether you were a shooter. 
 
 Count. I have only been out once or twice in my life, 
 and par hazard I killed nothing. 
 
 Buron. My gun is plain and old ; but I generally bring 
 my bird dcnvn. 
 
 B6
 
 36 lovers' vmv. Act J 7. 
 
 Enter a Seuvant. 
 
 Scr. The pastor begs permission- 
 
 Baron. Well, Count, be as quick as you can in putting 
 on your elegant shooting dress. I shall he ready for you in 
 a few minutes. 
 
 Count. I fly. Beauteous Miss Amelia, I feel the sccri- 
 Jice I am making to your father, when for a couple of hours 
 I thus tear myself from his fille aimahle. [^Exit, 
 
 Baron. Amelia, it is scarcely necessary that I should 
 speak to the pastor, or lie to you. But, however, as he is 
 here, leave us together. I have, indeed, other matters, re- 
 bpecting which I wish to have some conversation with him. 
 
 Amelia. (As she goes.) Father, I think I never can love 
 the Count. 
 
 Baron. As you please. 
 
 Amelia. {With great aff'ubiliti/ as she meets the pastor at 
 (U door.) Good morning to you, my dear Sir ! 
 
 Enter Pastor. 
 
 Pastor. By your dctirc, my Lord 
 
 Baron. No ccrrnutny. Forgive me, if my summons 
 arrived at an inconvenient time. Fll tell you in a few 
 words what I want to mention. I last night received a 
 most wretched translation from the French, which was 
 issued from the press about twenty years ago. I am myself 
 in possession of a very neat Gcrmrui original, of which, 
 without vanity, I am the author. Now, I am required to 
 rase my name from the work, and let it be bound with 
 this vapid trans. atioii. 1 tlierefcrc wish to ask you, as the 
 Kurrector of my book, what you think of this intended 
 combmatioa.
 
 Act II. LovtKs' vows. 
 
 Pastor. Upon my word I do not understand your alle- 
 gory, my Lord. 
 
 Baron. Don't you ? Hem ! I'm sorry for it. I wa3 
 inwardly complimenting myself upon the dextrous way in 
 which I had managed it. Weil, to be plain with you, the 
 young Count von der Mulde is here, and wants to marry 
 my daughter. 
 
 Pastor. {Starts, but immediately recovers his composure.) 
 Indeed ! 
 
 Baron. The man is a Count, and nothing else upon earth. 
 He is he is in short, I don't like hira. 
 
 Pastor. (Rather eagerly.) And Miss Amelia? 
 
 Barnn. (Mimicking her.) As you desire If you de- 
 sire What you desire. W'ell, well ! you have a better 
 opinion of my understanaing, I hope, than to suppose that 
 I should influence her on such an occasion. Were the fel- 
 low's head not quite so empty, and his heart not depraved, 
 I must own the connexion would have pleased me; for his 
 father is one of my most intimate friends ; and the matcli 
 is on many accounts desirable in other respects. 
 
 Pastor. In other respects ! In what respect can the al- 
 liance with a man be desirable, whose head and heart are 
 bad? 
 
 Baron. Why I mean with regard to rank and conse- 
 quence. I will explain to you ray sentiments. U Amelia 
 were attached to another, I would not throw away a re- 
 mark upon the subject, nor would I ask, " Who is the 
 man ?" But (pointing to hk heart) " is all right here ? 
 If so, enough Many each other You have my blessing, 
 and I hope Heaven's too." But Amelia is not attached to 
 any other, and that alters the medium through which I 
 consider this subject. 
 
 Pastor, And will she never be attached to any one ? 
 
 Baron. That is, to be sure, another question. Well, I 
 
 r f> ^ -': '^
 
 S8 Lovr.Rs' vows. Act IT. 
 
 don't menn I don't insist upon any thing of the kind. I 
 don't desire or command it, as Amelia says. I only wish to 
 act in such a way as that the Count voi\ der Mulde's father 
 shall not be offended if I don't honour the bill which he has 
 drawn upon my daughter, for he has a right to say rmlue 
 received, having conferred many civilities and kindnesses 
 upon mo. I wish, therefore, my worthy friend, that you 
 would explain to my daughter the duties of a wife and mo- 
 ther; and when she has properly understood this, I wish 
 you to ask her whether she is willing to fulfil these duties at 
 the side of the young Count. If she says no not another 
 word. What think you of this ? 
 
 Pastor. I to be sure I must own I am at your ser- 
 vice I will speak to Miss Amelia. 
 
 Baron. Do so. (Heaving a deep sigh.) I have removed 
 one burden from my mind; hut, alas ! a far heavier still 
 oppresses it. You understand me. How is it, my friend, 
 that you have as yet been unable to gain any intelligence 
 upon this subject.'' 
 
 Pastor. I have used my utmost endeavours but hitherto 
 in vain. 
 
 Baron. Believe mc, this unfortunate circumstance 
 causes me many a sleepless niglit. We are often guilty 
 of an error in our youth, which, when advanced in life, 
 we would give our whole fortunes to obliterate : for the 
 man who cannot boldly turn his head to survey his past 
 life must be miserable, especially as the retrospect is so 
 nearly connected witti futurity. If the view be bad be- 
 liind him, he must fierceive a storm before him. Well, 
 well ! Let us hope the best. I'^arewell, my friend ! I am 
 going to take a little diversion in the field. Do what you 
 have promised in the meantime, and dine with me at my 
 return. [Exit. 
 
 Pastor. (Alone.) What a commission has he ini-
 
 Act II. lovers' vows. 89 
 
 posed upon me ! Upon me ! ( Looking fear^fulh/ around.) 
 Heaven forbid that I sliould encounter Ameli;i before 
 I have recollected and prepared myself for the interview ! 
 At present I should be unable to say a word upon the 
 subject. I will take a walk in the fields, and otFer up a 
 prayer to the Almighty. Then will I return. But, alas ! 
 the instructor must alone return tlie man must stay at 
 home. [Exit. 
 
 END OF ACT II.
 
 40 tOVERs' VOWS Act III. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene, an open Held. JEn^er Frederick. 
 
 Fre. (Looking at a few pieces of money, nhich he holds in 
 his hand.) Shall I return with this paltry sum return to 
 see my mother die ? No. Rather will Isprin" into the first 
 pond I meet with. Rather will I wander to the end of the 
 world. Alas! I fee! as if my feet were clogged with lead. 
 I can neither proceed nor retreat. The sight of yonder 
 straw-thatched cottage, in which my mother now lies a prey 
 to consuming sorrow- -oh, why do my eyes for ever turn to- 
 wards it ? Are there not fertile fields and laughing meado" s 
 all around me ? Why must my eyes be so powerfully at- 
 tracted to that cottage, which contains all my joys and all 
 my sorrows? (With asperity, nhile surreyinf: the money.) 
 Is this your charily, ye men ? This coin was given me by 
 the rider of a stately steed, who was followed by a servant 
 in a magnificent livery, glittering with silver. This was 
 bestowed upon me by a sentimental lady, who was on her 
 travels, and had just alighted from her carriage to admire 
 the beauties of the country, intending hereafter to pulilish 
 a description of them. " Tlm.t hut," said I to her, and my 
 
 tears would not allow me to proceed " It is very ]iic- 
 
 turcsque and romantic," answered she, and skipped into the 
 carriage. This was the gift of a fat priest, in an enormous 
 wig, who at the same time called me an idle vagabond, and 
 thereby robbed his present of its whole value. (Much af- 
 fected.) This drcyer was given me by a beggar unsolicited. 
 He shared his little all with me, and blessed me too. Oh ! 
 this coin will be of great value at a future daj'. The Al-
 
 Act III. lovers' vows. 41 
 
 mighty Judge will repay tiie donor with interest beyond 
 
 earthly calculation. (A pause then again looJdng at I he 
 money.) Wliat can I attempt to buy witlv this? The paltry 
 sum would not pay for the nails of my mother's cottiu and 
 scarcely for a hiilcer to liang myself with. (Looking 
 towards ihe horizon.) Yonder I see the proud turrets of 
 the Prince's rej^ideuce. Shall I go thither, and implore as- 
 sistance ? Alas ! compassion does not dwell in cities. The 
 cottage of Poverty is her palace, and the heart of the poor 
 her temple. Ob, that some recruiting party would pass this 
 way! I would engage myself for five rix- dollars. Five 
 rix-dollars ! What a sum ! It is, perhaps, at this moment 
 staked on many a card. (Wipes the sweat from his fore- 
 head.) Father ! Father ! Upon thee fall these drops of 
 agony ! Upon tliee fall my despair, and whatever may be 
 its consequences ! Oh, mr\yst thou hereafter pant for par- 
 don, as my poor mother is now panting for a single glass of 
 wine. (The noise of shooters is heard at a distance. A gun is 
 fired, and several pointers cross the stage. Frederick looks 
 round.) Shooters ! Noblemen, perhaps ! Yes, yes ! 
 They appear to be persons of rank. Well, once more will I 
 beg. I beg for a mother. Oh, God ! grant that I may find 
 benevolent and charitable hearts. 
 
 Enter Bauox. 
 
 Baron. (Looking behind him.) Here, here, my Lord ! 
 
 Enter Couxt, out of breath. 
 
 That was a sad mistake. The dogs ran this way, but all the 
 game escaped. 
 
 Count. (Breathing tcilh difjiculty.) Taut mieux, tani 
 micu.r, man Cobnel. We can take a little breath then.
 
 42 lOVtKb' vov s. Acl III. 
 
 (Supports hbnself on his gun, uhile the Baron stands in the 
 back ground, observing the dogs.) 
 
 Fre. (Advancing totcards the Count, with reserve.) 
 Koble Sir, I implore your charity. 
 
 Count. -~( Meamring him from head to foot rcilh a look of 
 contempt.) VLov., rnon ami / You arc a very impertinent 
 fellow, let me tell you. Why you have the limbs of an 
 Ilercule, and shoulders as broad as those of Cretan Milo. 
 I'll venture to say you can carry an ox on your back or an 
 ass at least, of wliich there seem to be many grazing in tliis 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 Tre. Perhaps 1 might, if you. Sir, would allow me to 
 make the attempt. 
 
 Count, Our police is not vigilant enough with respect to 
 vagrants and idle fellows. 
 
 Fre. (With a significant look.) I am of your opinion, 
 Sir, (Turns to the Baron, rcho is advancing.) Noble Sir, 
 have compassion en an unfortunate son, who is become a 
 beggar for the support of his sick mother. 
 
 Baron. (Fvtiing his hand into his pocket, and giving 
 Frederick a trifle.) It would be more praiso-worihv in 
 you, young man, to work for your sick mother, than to Leg 
 for her. 
 
 Fre. Most wiiiingly will I do that; but to-day her ne- 
 cessities are too urgent. Forgive me, noble Sir ; vvliat you 
 have given me is not sufficient. 
 
 Baron. (With astonishment and a half smile.) Not 
 sufficient ! 
 
 Fre. No, by Heaven, it is not sufficient. 
 
 Baron. Singular enough ! But I don't chuse to give any 
 more. 
 
 Fre, If you possess a benevolent heart, give me a 
 guilder, 
 
 BuT'tn. Tor xhc tiisr time in my life, I am told by a bcj;- 
 gar h..i\v i.iuc'.. ] am to i-ivt- liuii.
 
 /cl ///. it'Vi Ks' vuwr;. 43 
 
 Fre. A guilder, noble Sir. You will thereby preserve a 
 fellow-creuture from despiiir. 
 
 Baron. You must have lost your senses, man. Conic, 
 Count. - 
 
 Count. AUons,mtm Colonel. 
 
 Fre. For Heaven's sake, gentlemen, bestow one guilder 
 on me. It will preserve the lives of two fellow-creatures. 
 (Seeing them pass on, he kneels.) A guilder, gentlemen ! 
 You will never as^aio purchase the salvation of a human 
 being at so cheap a rate. (Thei/ proceed. Frederick drawi 
 his side-arms, and furiously seizes the Baron.J Your puise 
 or your life ! 
 
 Baron. (Alarmed.Jllow I What? Holla! Help! 
 (Several Gamekeepers rushin, and dimrm Frederick. 2 he 
 Count in the mean time runs awat/.) 
 
 Fre. Heavens ! what have I done ? 
 
 BaroH. Away with him to the castle ! Confine him in the 
 tower, and keep strict watch over him till I return. Take 
 good care lest he should attempt to escape. 
 
 Fre. (Kneeling.) I have only to make one request, 
 noble Sir. 1 have forfeited my life, and you may do with 
 me what you please ; but, oh, assist my wretched mother, 
 who is fnliii!<]f a sacrifice to penury in yonder hut. Send 
 thither, I beseech you, and enquire whether I am telling you 
 a falsehood. For my mother I drew that weapon, and for 
 her will I shed my blood. 
 
 Baron. Take him to the tower, I say ; and let him live on 
 bread and water. 
 
 Fre. (Ax he is led azcaii hi/ the Gamekeepers. J Cursed 
 be my father for having given me being. [JE.rJf. 
 
 Baron. (Calling to the last of the Gamekeepers. _) 
 Francis! run down to the village. In the first, second, or 
 third house you will make it out enquire for a sick 
 oMiau; and it you find one, give her ihi? purse.
 
 44 LOVEHS' VOWS. Act II J. 
 
 Game. Very well, my Lord. [Exit. 
 
 Baron. This is a most singular adventure, on my soul. The 
 young man's countenance had noble expression iu it; and if 
 it be true that he was begging for his mother, that for his 
 mother lie became a robber Well ! Well ! I must investi- 
 gate the matter. It will be a good subject fur one of Meiss- 
 ner'a sketches. ' [Exit. 
 
 ScF.NF, a Room in the Caatle. 
 
 Enter Amelia. 
 
 Amelia. Why do I foel so peevish and discontented ? Na 
 one has done any thing to vex me. I did not intend to come 
 into this room, but was going into the garden (Site is 
 ualking out, but snddcnlj/ returns.) No, I think I'll stay 
 here. Yet I migiit as well see whether my auriculas are yet 
 in flower, and whether the apple-kernels, which our pastor 
 lately sowed, be sprung up. Oh, tiiey must. (Again tvrn- 
 ing round.) Yet, if any one should come, who wanted to 
 see me, I should not be here, and perhups tiie servant niiiiht 
 not find me. No. I'll stay here. But the time will pass 
 very slowly. (Tears a noscgui/.) Hark! 1 hear sonic one 
 at the front door. No. It was the wind. I must look how 
 my canary birds do. But if any one should come, and not 
 find me in the parlour But who can come.' Wliy do I at 
 once feel such a glow spreading o\er my face? (A pause. 
 She begins to u-crp.) What can I want? (Sobbing.) Why 
 ami tiius oppressed? 
 
 Enter Pastor. 
 
 (Approaching himzcith a friendly air, and uiping away a 
 tear.) Oh, good mornina;, my dear Sir. Kevcrcnd .Sir, I
 
 Act III. lovers' vows, 4S 
 
 should say. Excuse me, il' custona makes me sometimes say 
 clear Sir. 
 
 Fastor. Continue to say so, I beg. Miss Amelia. I 
 feel a gratification in hearing that term applied to mc by 
 you. 
 
 Amelia. Do you indeed ? 
 
 Pastor. Most certainly I do. But am I mistaken, or have 
 you really been weeping ? 
 
 Amelia. Oh, I have only been shedding a few tears. 
 
 Fastor. Is not that weeping ? May I enquire what 
 caused those tears. 
 
 Amelia. I don't know. 
 
 Fastor. The recollection of her Ladyship vour mother, 
 perhaps ? 
 
 Amelia. I could say yes, but 
 
 Pastor. Oh, I understand you. Ft is a little female 
 secret. I do not wish to pry into it. Forgive me. Miss 
 Amelia, if I appear at an unseasonable hour, but it is by his 
 Lordship's desire. 
 
 Amelia. You arc always welcome. 
 
 Pastor. Indeed! am I really? Oii, Amelia! 
 
 Amelia. My father says that we are more indebted to 
 those who form our hearts and minds, than to those who 
 give us mere existence. My father says this (casting down 
 her er/es.) and my iieart says so too. 
 
 Pastor. What a sweet recompence is this moment for my 
 eight years of attention ! 
 
 Amelia. I was wild and giddy. I liave, no doubt, often 
 caused you much uneasiness. It is but fair that I should 
 feel a regard for you on that account. 
 
 Fastor. (Aside.) Oh heavens !- (Aloud, and 
 
 stammering.) I I am deputed by his Lordship your 
 father to explain Will vou be seated? 
 
 Amelia. (Brings him a chair iiwuediatelt/.) Don't let 
 me prevent you, but 1 had rather stand.
 
 46 I.OVEKS' V0\V5. Act II) 
 
 Vaxtor. ( Pushdi tite chair auajj.) 'I he Cuuiit vou dei- 
 Mtilcic is arrived here. 
 
 Amelia, Yes. 
 
 Pastor-. Do you know for what purpose? 
 
 Amelia. Yes ; lie wanls to marry irie. 
 
 Vustor. lie does ! (SumewhuL eagerly. ) But believe me, 
 Miss Amelia, your father will not couipel you to marry him 
 against your inclination. 
 
 Amelia. I know he will not. 
 
 Pastor. But he wishes he wants to ascertain the extent 
 of your inclination; and has appointed me to converse with 
 you on the subject. 
 
 Amelia. On the subject of my inclination towards the 
 Count i* 
 
 Pastor. Yes Xo tf)wards matrimony itself. 
 
 Amelia. What I do not understand must be indifferent to 
 me, and I am totally ij^norant of matrimony. 
 
 Pantor. For that very reason am I come hither, Miss 
 Amelia. Your father has directed me to point out to you 
 fho pleasant and unpleasant side of the married state. 
 
 Ai'ielia. Lot me licar the unpleasant fast, then, my dear 
 >ir. I like to reserve the best to conclude with. 
 
 J'i:'<ti>r. 'i'he unpleasant ! Oh, INIiss Amelia, when two 
 EUlectionate coniitnial hearts are united to each other, ma- 
 trimony has no unpleasant side. Iland-in-hand the happy 
 couple pa*s throujih life. When thoy rind thorns scattered 
 on their piith, they carefully and cheerfully remove them. 
 When they arrive at a stream, the stronger bears the weaker 
 ihrouuh it. When they are obliired to climb a mountain, 
 the srrouLTc r supports the weaker on his arm. I'atience and 
 atlVttiou are their attendants. What would bt to one im- 
 possible, is to the two imited a Tuere trille; and when they 
 have renc bed the coal, the weaker v\ ipes the sweat from the 
 forehead of the stronsior. Joy or care takes uj> its abode 
 v\ith biul; at ihij sauiC time, lisc out never sbchers sorrow,
 
 Act III. lovers' vows, 47 
 
 while happiness is the guest of the other. Smiles play 
 upon the countenances, or tears tremble in the eyes, of both 
 at the same time. But their joys are more lively than the 
 joys of a solitary individual, and their sorrows milder; for 
 participation enhances bliss, and softens care. Thus may 
 their life be compared to a fine summer's day fine, even 
 though a storm pass over ; for the storm refreshes nature, 
 and adds fresh lustre to the unclouded sun. Thus they 
 stand arm in arm on the evening of their days, beneath the 
 blossomed trees which they themselves have planted and 
 reared, waiting the approach of night. Then yes then, 
 indeed one of them lies down to sleep and that is the 
 happy one ; for the other wanders to and tVo, weeping and 
 lamenting that he cannot yet sleep. This is hi such a case 
 the onlv unpleasant side of matrimony. 
 
 Anielia. I'll marry. 
 
 Pastor. Right, JMiss Amelia! The picture is alluring; 
 but forget not that two affectionate beings sat for it. ^^'hen 
 rank and equipages, or when caprice and levitv, have in- 
 duced a couple to unite themselves for life, matrimony has 
 no pleasnut side. While free, their steps were light and 
 airy ; but now, the victims of their own folly, they drag along 
 th*"ir chains. Disgust lowers upon each brow. Pictures of 
 lost happiness appear before their eyes, painted by the ima- 
 gination, and more allurin'i in proportion to the impossi- 
 bility of attaining them. Sweet eurhanting ideas for ever 
 h;amt them, which had this union not taken place, would, 
 perhaps, never ha\ e been realized ; but the certainty of 
 which is established, were they not coni'incd by their de- 
 tested fetters. 'I'hus they become the victims of despair, 
 when, in another situation, the failure of anticipated hap- 
 piness would but have roused their patience. Thus they 
 accustom tliemscUes to consider each other as the hateful 
 cauie of every K)i^;fortune which they undergo. Asperity
 
 48 LOVLRS' VOWS. Act HI. 
 
 is mingled with their conversation coldness with their ca- 
 resses. By no one are they so easily oft'cnded as by each 
 other. Wliat would excite satisfaction, if it liappened to a 
 stranger, is, when it happens to either of this wretched 
 pair, a matter of indifference to the other. Thus do they 
 drag on a. miserable life, with averted countenances, and 
 with downcast heads, until the night approaches, and the 
 one lies down to rest. Then does the other joyfully raise 
 the head, and, in a tone of triumph, exclaim, "Liberty! 
 Liberty 1" This is, in such a case, the only pleasant side of 
 matrimony. 
 
 Amelia. I won't marry. 
 
 Faslor. That means, in other words, that you will not 
 love any one. 
 
 Amelia. But yes T will marry for I will love I do 
 love some one. 
 
 Fastor. ( F.xlTanclij surprisedand alarmed.) The Count 
 von der IMulde, ttien ? 
 
 Amelia. Oh! no, no ! Don't mention that silly vain fool. 
 (Pulling out both her hands touards him zcith the moat 
 familiar confidence.) I love you. 
 
 Faslor. Miss Amelia ! For Heaven's sake 
 
 Amelia. I will marry you. 
 
 Pastor. Me ! 
 
 Amelia. Yes, you. 
 
 Fastor. Amelia, you forget 
 
 Amelia. What do I forget ? 
 
 Fastor. That you are of noble extraction. 
 
 Amtlia. Wliat hindrance is that ? 
 
 Pastor. Ob, Heavens ! No. It cannot be. 
 
 A-mclia. Don't you feel a regard for me.? 
 
 Foslor. I love you as much as my own life. 
 
 Amelia. W ill, then marry me. 
 
 Faster. Amelia, have compassion on me, I am a ui-i-
 
 Act III. lovers' vows. 49 
 
 nister of religion, which bestows on me much strength 
 yet still still am I but a man. 
 
 Amelia. You yourself have depicted the married state iii 
 the most lovely colours. I, therefore, am not the girl with 
 wh.)m you could wander hand-in-hand through this life 
 with whom you could share your joys and sorrows? 
 
 Paxtor. None but you would I chuse, Amelia, were I al- 
 lowed that choice. Did we but live in those golden days of 
 equality, which enraptured poets dwell upon, none but yoii 
 would I chiise. But, as the world now is, such a connexion 
 i bevond my reach. You must marry a nobleman. Ame- 
 lia Wildenhain was born to be the consort of a titled man. 
 Whether I could make her happy will never be asked. Oh, 
 Heavens i I am saying too much. 
 
 Amelia. Never will be asked! Yes ; I shall ask that 
 question. Have you not often told me that the heart alone 
 can make a person noble ? {La^s Iter hand upon his heart.) 
 Oil ! I shall marry a noble man, 
 
 Pastor. Miss Amelia, call, I beseech you, your reason to 
 your aid. A hundred arguments may be advanced in op- 
 position to such an union. But ^just at this moment 
 Heaven knows, not one occurs to me. 
 
 Amelia. Because there are none. 
 
 Pastor. There are, indeed. But my heart is so full 
 My heart consents and that it must not, shall not do 
 Imagine to yourself how your relatives will sneer at vou. 
 They will decline all intercourse with you ; be ashamed of 
 their plebeian kinsman; invite the whole family, except 
 yourself, on birth days ; shrug their shoulders wlien your 
 name is mentioned; whisper your story in each other's 
 ears ; forbid their children to play with your's, or to be on 
 familiar terms with them ; drive past you in chariots enw 
 blazoned with the arms of W'ildenhain, and followed by 
 footmen in laced liveries; while you humbly drive to 
 
 \ OL H. C
 
 so Lovr.ns' yo\v>. Acf 111 
 
 cburch ill a plain carriage, uitli a servant in a grey truck 
 behind it. Tiiey will scarcely seoin to remember you wiiou 
 they meet you ; or should they demean lliemselves so far as 
 to enter into ct)iiversatlon, they will endeavour, by everv 
 mortifyiug hint, to remind you that you are the parson's 
 wife. 
 
 Amelia. Ila ! lla! Ha! Will not that be to remind me 
 that I am happy ? 
 
 Faslor. Can you laugh on such an occasion? 
 
 Amelia. Yes, 1 can indeed. You must forgive it ; for 
 you have been my tutor seven years, and never supported 
 your doctrines and instructions with any arguments so fce- 
 bk; as those you have just advanced. 
 
 I'astor. I am sorry you thiuk so truly sorry, for 
 
 Amelia. I am very glad, for 
 
 Fastor. (Etfreinelj/ emharrasscd.) For 
 
 Amelia. For you must marry me . 
 
 Pastor. Never ! 
 
 Amelia. You know me. You know I am not an' ill- 
 tempered being; and when in your society, I always be- 
 come better and better. I will take a great deal of pains 
 to make you happy, or No, I shall make you happy 
 without taking any pains to effect it. We will live to- 
 gether so comfortably, so very comfortably until one of 
 us lies down to sleep, and then the other wiU wcej) But 
 that is far, far distant. Come ! Consent, or I shall con- 
 clude you don't feel any regard for me. 
 
 Fastor. Oh ! it is a glorious sensation to be a man of 
 honour ; but I feel, on this occasion, how ditlicult it is to 
 acquire that sensation. Amelia, if you knew w hat tortures 
 you inflict upon^mc No I cannot 1 cannot, 1 should 
 sink to the earth as if struck by lightning, were I to attempt 
 to meet the Baron with such a proposition. 
 
 Amelia. I'll do that myself.
 
 Act III. Lovms' vows. 51 
 
 Pastor. For Heaven's sake, forbear. To his kindness 
 and liberality am I indebted for my present comfortable 
 circumstances. To his friendship and goodness am I in- 
 debted for the happiest moments of my life. And shall I 
 be such an ingrate as to mislead his only child? Oh, God * 
 thou seest the purity of my intentions. Assist me in this 
 trial with thy heavenly support. 
 
 Amelia. My father wishes me to marry. My father 
 wishes to see me happy. Well ! I will marry, and bt; 
 happy^But with no other than you. This will I say to 
 my father; and do you know what will be his answer ? Ai 
 tlie first moment he will, perhaps, hesitate, and say," Ame- 
 lia, arc you mad?" But then he will recollect himself, and 
 add, with a smile, " Well, well ! If you wish it, God bless 
 you both !" Then I'll kiss his hand, run out, and fall upon 
 your neck. The vil!ager will soon learn that I am to bo 
 married to you. All the peasants and their wives will 
 come to wish rac joy; will implore Heaven's blessing on 
 us ; and, oh, surely, surely, Heaven will bless us. I was 
 ignorant before what it could be that lay so heavy on my 
 heart; but I have now discovered it, for the burden is rer- 
 moved. (Seizing his hand.) 
 
 Pastor. ( Withdrazting it.) Amelia, you almost drive 
 me to distraction. You have robbed me of my peace of 
 mind. 
 
 Amelia. Oh, no, no. How provokinu ! \ hear somebody 
 coming up stairs, and 1 had still a thousand tlnugs to say. 
 
 Enter CuaiSTiAN. 
 
 ( Ptevislih/.j- Is it you, Christian? 
 
 Chris. Yes, Miss Amelia. Christitm Le))recht Gold- 
 man 
 
 Ilaston'd hitiier unto you 
 Soon as he the tidings knew. 
 C2
 
 53 lovers' vow?. Act III. 
 
 Amelia. (Co)ifused.) Wliat tidings ? 
 
 Chris. Tidings which we all ciijov. 
 
 Pastor. (Alarmed.) You have been listening to our 
 conversation, then ? 
 
 Chris. Not I, most reverend Sir. Listeners liear no guod 
 of themselves. An old faithful servant, Miss Amelia, who 
 has often carried her ladyship yjur mother in his arms, 
 and afterwards has often had the honour of receiving a box 
 on the ear from her ladyship's fair hand, wisiies, on tliis 
 happy occasion, to wait on you with his congratu/atiou. 
 
 Sing, oh Muse, and sound, oh lyre ! 
 
 Amelia. My dear Christian, I am not just now inclined to 
 listen to your lyre. And what can you have to sing about 
 to-day more than usual ? 
 
 Chris. Oh, my dearest, sweetest young lady, it is im- 
 possible that I can be silent to-day. 
 
 Sing, oh Muse, and sound, oh lyre ! 
 Grant me more than usual tire. 
 Hither, hither, hither come, 
 Trumpet, life, and kettle drum ! 
 Join me in the lofty song, 
 Which shall boldly run along 
 Like a torrent 
 
 Amelia. It does run along like a torrent indeed, my dear 
 Christian. Pray, try to proceed in humble prose. 
 
 Chris. Impossible, Miss Amelia ! There has never been 
 a birth, a christening, or a wedding, since I have had the 
 honour to serve this noble family, and the noble family of 
 my late lady, which old Christian's ready and obedient 
 Muse has not celebrated. In the space of forty-six years,
 
 Act 111. lovers' vows. SS 
 
 three hundred and ninety-seven congratulations have flowed 
 from my pen. To-day I shall finish my three hundred and 
 ninety-eighth. Who kno\ys how soon a iiappy marriage 
 may give occasion for my three hundred and ninety-ninth ? 
 Nine months after which my four hundredth may perhaps 
 be wanted. 
 
 Amelia. To-day is Friday. That is the only remarkable 
 circumstance with which I am acquainted. 
 
 Chris. Friday ! \"ery true, Miss Amelia. But it is a day 
 marked by Heaven as a day of joy ; for our noble Lord the 
 Baron has escaped a most imminent danger. 
 
 Amelia. Danger ! my fatlier ! What do you mean .' 
 
 Chris. Unto you I will unfold 
 
 What the gamekeepers have told. 
 
 Amelia ( Impatiently, and uith (ireat anxiety.) Quick 
 then ! What is the matter.? 
 
 Chris. The Baron and the Count (good !ack !) 
 Were wand'ring on th' unbeaten track, 
 And both attentively did watch 
 For any thing that they could catch. 
 Tliree turnip-closes they had past, 
 When thty espied a hare at last. 
 
 Ai^fcUa. Oh ! for Heaven's sake proceed in prose. 
 
 Chris. Well, Ma'am, as you insist upon it, I will, if I can. 
 The Baron killed his h;irc, and a very fine one it is. I have 
 just had tiie honour of seeing it. Hi-> Lordship has wound- 
 ed it most terribly in the left forefoot. 
 
 Amelia^ (Impatiently.) Go on, go on. What happen- 
 ed to my father ? 
 
 Chris. A second hare had just been found, and the dogs
 
 /")4 j.ovi;us' vows. Art JIT. 
 
 were behaving extremely well, among which it Is no in- 
 justice to mention Ponto ; for a stauncher dog never went 
 into a field. Well ! their Lordships, the Baron and Count, 
 were suddenly accosted by a soldier, who implored their 
 charity. One of the gamekecjters was a witness to the 
 whole transaction at a distance. lie saw his Lordsiiip the 
 Baron, actuated by his charitable nature, di'aw a piece of 
 money from his pocket, and give it to the afore-mentioned 
 soldier. Well ! now, what think you? The ungrateful, au- 
 dacious villain suddenly drew his bayonet, rushed like a 
 mad dog at my master, and if the gamekeepers had not in- 
 stantly sprung forward, I, poor old man ! should have been 
 under the necessity of composing an elegy and an epitaph. 
 
 Amelia. (Affrighted.) Heavens ! 
 
 Pastor. A robber by broad day-light! That is singular 
 indeed. 
 
 Chris. I shall write a ballad in Biirgcr's style on the oc- 
 casion. 
 
 Faster. Is not the man secured ? 
 
 Chris. To be sure he is. His Lordship gave orders that, 
 till further investigation could be made, he was to be con- 
 fined in the tower. The gamekeeper, who brought the in- 
 telligence, says, the whole party will soon be here. (]Valks 
 to the xcindow.) I verily believe the sun dazzles my eyes 
 a little I verily believe they are coming yonder. 
 
 Sing, oh Muse, and sound, oh lyre ! \^ExH, 
 
 (Amelia and the Pastor ualk to the zcindorc.) 
 
 Amelia, I never saw a robber in my life, lie must have 
 a dreadful countenance. 
 
 Faster, Did you never see the female parricide in I.ava- 
 tcr's Fra'jmtut; r
 
 Act IIL LOVERfc' VOWS. 55 
 
 Amelia. Horrible ! A female parricide ! Is there on this 
 earth a creature so depraved ? But look ! The young man 
 comes nearer. What an interesting, what a noble look he 
 has ! That melancholy, too, which overspreads his coun- 
 tenance ! No, no ; that cannot be a robber's countenance. 
 I pity the poor man. Look ! Oh Heavens ! The game- 
 keepers are leading him to the tower. Hard-hearted men ! 
 Now they lock the door : now he is left in the liorrid prison. 
 What are the unfortunate young man's sensations ! 
 
 Pastor. (Aside.) Hardly more distressing than mine. 
 
 Enter B.4Kon. 
 
 Amelia. (Meeting him.) I- congratulate you on your 
 escape, most sincerely, my dear father. 
 
 Baron. Let me have no more congratulations, I beseech 
 you ; for old Christian poured out such a volley of them in 
 lyrics and alexandrines, as I came up stairs, that he has al- 
 most stunned me. 
 
 Pastor. His account is true, then ? The story seemed in- 
 credible. 
 
 Amelia. Is that young man wiili the interesting counte- 
 nance a robber ? 
 
 Baron. He is ; but I am almost inclined to believe that 
 he was one to-day for the first and last time in his life. It 
 was a most extraordinary adventure. The young man 
 begged for his mother, and I gave him a trifle. I might 
 have given him sometliing more, but the game just at that 
 moment occupied my mind. You know, good pastor, when 
 a man is in search of diversion, he pays but little regard to 
 the sufferings of his fellow-creatures. In short, he wanted 
 more. Despair was expressed in his looks, but I turned 
 my back upon him. He then forgot himself, and drew his. 
 C i
 
 A Lovr.i;>' vows. Act ill. 
 
 i tle-aniis ; but I'il bet my iile against your head-dress, 
 Amelia, that he is not accustoiiicd to such practices. 
 
 Amelia. Oh, I am sure lie is not. 
 
 Baron. He trembled when he seized me. A child miglit 
 liave overpowered him. I ahiiost wish I had suffered him 
 to escape. This affair may cost him his lire, and I might 
 liave saved the life of a fellow-creature for a guilder ! If 
 my people had not seen it But the bad example Come 
 witlj me into my room, good pastor, and let us consider 
 how we can best save this young man's life ; fui- should he 
 fall into the hands of justice, the law will condoum him 
 without mercy. [Going. 
 
 Amelia. Dear father, I have had a great deal of conver- 
 sation with the Pastor. 
 
 Huron. Have you r With respect to the holy state of 
 matrimony ? 
 
 Amelia. Yes, T have told him 
 
 Vastar. (Muck confused.) In compliance wiUi your 
 request 
 
 Amelia. He won't believe me 
 
 Pastor. I have explained to Miss Amelia 
 
 Amelia. And I am sure I spoke from my heart 
 
 Pastor, (Pointing to the door.) May I beg 
 
 Amelia. But his diffidence 
 
 Pastor. The result of our conversation I will explain in 
 your room. 
 
 Baron, What the deuce do you both mean ? You won't 
 allow each other to say a word. Amelia, iiave you forgot- 
 ten the common rules of civility r 
 
 Amelia. Oh, no, dear father ! But I may marry whom I 
 like? 
 
 Baron. Of course. 
 
 Amelia. (To the Pastor.) Do you hear ? 
 
 Pastor. (Suddenly puts his handkerchief to his face. ) I 
 beg pardon My nose i)leeds. [Eiit.
 
 Act JIT. lovers'" vows. 57 
 
 Bttrpn. (Calling after him.) I expect you, [Going, 
 
 Amelia. Stop one moment, clear tather. I have some- 
 thin" of importance to communicate. 
 
 Baron. (Laughing.) Something of importance ! 
 
 You want a new fan, T suppose. [Exit. 
 
 Amelia. (Alone.) A fan ! I ahiiost believe I do want 
 a fan. (Fans herself uith her pocket handkerchief.) No. 
 1 his is of no use. The heat which oppresses mc is lodo;ed 
 within nu' l)osom. Heavens ! Iiow my heart heats ! I reall/ 
 love the Pastor most sincerely. How unfortunate it was 
 that his nose shoukl just begin to bleed at that nmincr.t ! 
 No; I can't endure tfie Count. When Tlook at my father, 
 or the Pastor, I feel a kind of respect; but I only feel dis- 
 posed to ridicule the Count. If I were to marry him, whal 
 silly tricks I should play with him ! (Wulkfi to the uindozc.) 
 The tower is still shut. Oh ! how dreadful it jnust bes 
 to be confined in prison! I wonder whether the servants 
 will rememljer to take him any victuals, (Beckoning and 
 cnlling.) Christian! Christian! Come hither directly, 
 'i'he voung man pleases me, thoutrh I don't know how or 
 why. lie has risked his lifp for his mother, and no bad 
 raan wo aid do that. 
 
 Enter Christian. 
 
 Chrisri:iii. liave you civcn the prisoner any thing to eat ? 
 
 Chris. \f^, sweet Miss Amelia, 1 ha\e. 
 
 Ameliii. V\ hat have you given him ? 
 
 Chris. Nice r\e-bread and clear pump-water. 
 
 Amelia. For shame, Christian ! Go into the kitchen 
 directly, and ask the cook for some cold meat. Then fetch 
 a bottle of wine from the cellar, and tiike ti>em to the pri- 
 soner. 
 
 C5
 
 63 lovers' vows. Act III. 
 
 Chi-is. Most lovely Miss Amelia, I 
 
 Would you obey most willingly ; 
 But, for the present, he must be satisfied with bread and 
 
 water ; for his Lordship has expressly ordered 
 
 Amelia. Oh, that my father did at first, when he was in a 
 passion. 
 
 Chris. What he commands wVicn in a passion, it is his 
 servant's duty to obey in cold blood. 
 
 Amelia. You are a silly man, Christian. Are you grown 
 so old without having learnt how to comfort a fellow-creatnie 
 in distress ? Give me the key of the cellar. I'll go myself. 
 Chris. Most lovely Miss Amelia, I 
 
 Would you obey most willingly ; 
 
 But. 
 
 Amelia. Give me the key directly, I command yon. 
 Chris. (Presents the hei;.) T shall instantly go to his 
 Lordship, and exonerate myself from any blame which 
 may ensue. 
 
 Amelia. That you may. \JLxit. 
 
 Chris. (After a pause, shaking his head.) 
 Rash will youth be ever found 
 While the earth shall turn around. 
 Heedless, if from what tlicy do 
 Good or evil may ensue. 
 Never taking any care 
 I'o avoid the lurking snare. 
 Youths, if steady you will be, 
 Come, and listen all to me. 
 Poetry with truth shall chime, 
 And you'll bless old Christian's rhyme. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 FND OF ACT III.
 
 Act IV. lovers' vow*. 69 
 
 JCT ir. 
 
 ScF.NE, a Ti'ison in an old Tozicr of the Castle. 
 
 Frederick is discoxeied alone. 
 
 Fie. Thus can a, few poor moments, thus can a single 
 voracious hour swallow the whole happiness of a human 
 being. When I this morning left the inn where I had 
 slept, how merrily I hummed my mornins^ sonii, and jiazed 
 at the rising sun ! I revelled in idea at the table of joy, 
 and indulged myself in the transportiuii anticipation of 
 asain beholdinii my good mother. I would steal, thought 
 I, into the street where she dwelt, and stoop as I passed the 
 window, lest she should espy me. I would then, thought I, 
 gcitly tap at the door, and she would lay aside her needle- 
 work to see who was there. Then, how my heart would 
 beat, as I heard her approaching foot-steps as the door 
 was opened us I rushed into iicr arms ll-'arewc}, fare- 
 we!, for ever, ye beauteous airy castles, ye lovely and 
 alluring bubbles. At my return to my native country, the 
 first ob'iect which meets my eyes is my dying mother mv 
 fust habitation a prisf)n and my first walk, to the place of 
 execution ! Oh, righteous God ! have I deserved jny fate ? 
 or dost thou visit the sins of the father on the son ? Hold 
 hold ! I am losing myself in a labyrinth. To endure with 
 patience the afflictions ordained by Providence was the 
 lesson taught me by my mother, and her share of aftlictions 
 has been large indeed ! Oh, God ! thou wilt repay us in 
 another world for all the misery we undergo in this. 
 
 [Gces tou-ards Heaven zcitk uplifted hands^ 
 C 6
 
 60 lovers' vows. Act IV . 
 
 Enter Amexia, with a Plate of Meat and a Bottle of 
 Wi?ie, 
 
 (Turning to the side from ahence the noise proceeds.)- 
 Who comes? 
 
 Amelia. Good friend, I have brought you some refrc^li- 
 ment. You are hungry and tliirstv, 1 dare say. 
 
 Fre. Oh, no ! 
 
 Amelia. There is a bottle of old wine, and a little cold 
 meat. 
 
 F>'e. (Hastily.) Old wine, said you ? Really good 
 old wine ? 
 
 Amelia. I don't understand such things; but I liavc often 
 heard my father say tliat this wine is u real cordial. 
 
 Fre. Accept my warmest thanks, fair generous unknown. 
 This bottle of wine is to me a most valuable present. Oh, 
 hasten, hasten, gentle, benevolent lady ! Send some one 
 with this bottle to the ncighV)ouring village. Close to the 
 public-house stands a small cottage, in wln'ch lies a sick 
 woman To her give this wine, if she be still ali\ r. (lie- 
 turns the wine.) Away! Away! I beseech you. Dear 
 amiable being, save my mother, and you will be my guar- 
 dian angel. 
 
 Amelia. (Much affected.) Good man ! you are not a 
 villain, not a murderer are you ? 
 
 Fre. Heaven be thanked I still deserve that you, good 
 lady, should tlius interest yf>urself in my behalf. 
 
 Amelia. I'll go, and send another bottle of wine to your 
 motlicr. Keep this for yourself. [Going. 
 
 Fre. Alldw me but one more rjuestion. Who are you, 
 lovely, generous creature, that I may name you Jn my 
 prayers to the Almighty } 
 
 Amelia. My father ib Baron Wildenhaiu, the owner of 
 this estate.
 
 Act IV. lovers' vows. 61 
 
 Fre. Just Heavens ! 
 
 Amelia. What is the matter ? 
 
 Fre. (Shuddering.) And the man whom I attacked 
 to-day 
 
 Amelia. Was my father. 
 
 Fre. My father! 
 
 Amelia. He quite alarms me. [R?ins out. 
 
 Fre. (Repeating the words in most violent agitation.) 
 Was my father ! Eternal Justice ! thou dost not slumber. 
 The man against whom I raised my arm to day was my 
 father ! In another moment I might have been a parricide ! 
 Hoo ! an icy coldness courses through my veins. My hair 
 bristles towards Heaven A mist floats before my eyes. I 
 cannot breathe. (Sinks into the chair. A pause.) How 
 the dread idea ranges in my braiu ! What clouds and va- 
 pours dim my sight, seeming to change their forms each mo- 
 ment as they pass! And if fate had destined he should 
 perish thus, if I had perpetrated the desperate deed 
 whose, all-righteous Judge ! whose would have been the 
 guilt! Wouldst thou not thyself have armed the son to 
 avenge on his unnatural father the injuries his mother had 
 sustained ? Oh, Zadig ! (Sinks into meditation. A pause.) 
 But this lovely, good, angelic creature, who just left me 
 What a new sensation awakes in my bosom ! This 
 amiable being is my sister ! But that animal that cox- 
 comb, who was with my father in the field is he my bro- 
 ther? Most probably. He is the only heir to these do- 
 mains, and seems, as often is the case on sucL occasions, 
 a spoilt child, taught from his infancy to pride himself on 
 birth, and on the wealth he one day will inherit, while I 
 bis brother and my hapless mother are starving ! 
 
 Enter Pastor, 
 
 Faitor, Heaven bless you !
 
 62 lovers' vows. Act IV. 
 
 Fre. And you, Sir! If I may judge by your dress, you 
 are a minister of the church, and consequently a messen- 
 ger of peace. You are welcome to me in both capacities. 
 
 J^asfor. I wish to be a messenger of peace to your soul, 
 and sliall not use rcproaclies ; for your own conscience will 
 speak more powerfully than I can. 
 
 Fre. Right, worthy Pastor ! But, when the conscience 
 is silent, are you not of opinion that the crime is doubtful? 
 
 Pastor. Yes unless it lias been perpetrated by a most 
 wicked and obdurate heart indeed. 
 
 Fre. That is not my case. I would not exrliange uiv 
 heart for that of any pnnce or any priest. Foririvc me, 
 Sir; I did not intend to reflect on you by that declaration. 
 
 Pastor. Even if you did, I know that gentleness is the 
 sister of the religion which 1 teach, 
 
 Fre. I only meant to say that my heart is not callous ; 
 and yet my conscience does not tell me that my conduct 
 has to-day been criminal. 
 
 Pastor. Do not deceive yourself. Self-love sometimes 
 usurps the place of conscience. 
 
 Fre. No ! no ! ^^ hat a pity it is that I do not under- 
 stand how to arrange my ideas that I can otilv feel, and 
 am not able to demonstrate ! Prav, Sir, what was my 
 crime ? That I would have robbed ? Oh, Sir ! fancy your- 
 self for a single moment in my situation. Have you too 
 any parent ? 
 
 Pastor. No, 1 became an orphan when very young. 
 
 Fre. That I much lament; for it renders a fair decision 
 on your part impossible. But I will, nevertheless, describe 
 my situation to you if I can. When a man looks round, 
 and sees how Nature, from her h(n'n of plenty, scatters sus- 
 tenance and superfluity around ; when he beholds this 
 tpectacle at the side of a sick mother, who, with parched 
 sun^ue, is sinkn)g to her grave for want of oourishment;
 
 Act IV. lovers' vows. 63 
 
 when, after having witnessed this, he sees the wealthy, 
 pampered, noble pass, who denies him a guilder, thoii(;h he 
 is on the brink of despair, lest lest the hare should es- 
 cape then, Sir, then suddenly awakes the sensation of 
 equality among mankind. lie resumes his rights; for kind 
 nature does not abandon him, though fortune does. He in- 
 voluntarily stretches forth his hand to take his little share of 
 the gifts which nature has p\ovided for all. He docs not 
 rob but takes what is his due and he does right. 
 
 Pastor. Were such principles universally adopted, the 
 bands of society would be cut asunder, and civilized nations 
 iconverted into Arabian hordes. 
 
 Fre, That is possible; and it is also possible that we 
 should not, on that account, be less happy. Among the 
 hospitable Arabians my mother would not have been allow- 
 ed to perish on the highway. 
 
 Pastor; (Surju-ised.) ^Young man, you seem to have 
 enjoyed an education above your rank in life, 
 
 Fre. Of that no more. I am obliged to my mother for 
 this, as well as every thing else. But I want to explain why 
 my conscience does not accuse me. The judge decides ac- 
 cording to the exact letter of the law ; the divine should 
 not decide according to the deed itself, but well consider the 
 motives which excited it. In my case, a judge will condemn 
 me ; but you, Sir, will acquit me. Itiat the satiated epicure, 
 while picking a pheasant's bone, should let his neighbour's 
 rye-bread lie unmolested, is not to be considered meri- 
 torious. 
 
 Pastor. Well, young man, allowing your sophistrv to be 
 sound argument, allowing that your very particular situation 
 justified you in taking what anotlier would not give, does 
 this also exculpate you from the guilt of murder, which you 
 were on the point of committing? 
 
 Fre. It does not. I am willing to grant j but I was only
 
 64 LOVERS* VOWS. Act IV. 
 
 the instrument of a Higher Power. In this occurrence, you 
 but perceive a solitary link in the chain, which is held hy an 
 invisible hand. I cannot explain myself on this subject, nor 
 will I attempt to exculpate myself; yet cheerfully shall I 
 appear before the tribunal of justice, and calmly shall I 
 meet my fate, convinced that an Almighty hand has written 
 with my blood the accomplishment of a greater purpose in 
 the book of fate. 
 
 Pastor. Extraordinary young man, it is worth some 
 trouble to become more nearly acquainted with you, and to 
 give another turn, perhaps, to many of your sentiments. If 
 it be in your power, remain with me a few weeks. I will 
 take your sick mother into my house. 
 
 Fre. ( Embracing him.) Accept my warmest thanks for 
 your good intentions. To my mother you may he of ser- 
 vice. As to myself, you know I am a prisoner, and must 
 prepare myself for death. Make any use you think proper 
 of the interval, which the forms of law may perhaps allow 
 me. 
 
 Pastor. You are mistaken. You are in the hands of a 
 man whose sentiments are noble, who honours your filial af- 
 fection, compassionates your mournful situation, and sin- 
 cerely forgives what has happened to-day. You are at li- 
 berty, lie sent me hither to announce this ; and to release 
 you from confinement with the exhortation of a parent, 
 with the admonition of a brother. 
 
 Frc. What is the name oi" this generous man? 
 
 Pastor. Baron Wildenliain. 
 
 Fre. Wildenhain! (Affecting to call some circumstance 
 to mind.) Did he not formerly live in Franconia.^ 
 
 Pastor. lie did. At the death of his wife, a few weeks 
 since, he removed to this castle. 
 
 Fj-e. His wife is dead then? And the amiabe young lady 
 who was here a few minutes since, is his daughter, I 
 presume?
 
 Aci IK LOVEKs' VOWS. 65 
 
 Pastor. She is. 
 
 Ire. And the vouiig sweet-scented beau is his son ? 
 
 Faslor. lie has no son. 
 
 Fre. (K'JHiily.) ^Yes he has. (Recollecting him- 
 self.) I mean the one who was in the field with him 
 to-day. 
 
 Pastor. Oh ! he is not his son. 
 
 Fre. (Aside.) Tiiank Heaven ! 
 
 Pastor. Only a visitor from town. 
 
 Fre. I thank you for tiie little intelligence you have been 
 kind enough to communicate. It has interested me much. 
 I thank you too, for your philanthropy; but am sorry I 
 caimot make you an offer of my friendship. Were .we 
 equals, it might be of some little value. 
 
 Pastor. Does not friendship, like love, destroy all dispa- 
 rity (jf rank? 
 
 Fre. No, worthy Sir. This enchantment is the property 
 of love alone. 1 iiave now only to make one request. Con- 
 duct me to Baron W'ildcnhain, and procure me, if possible, 
 a private conversation wilii him. I wish to thank him for 
 his generosity, and will not trouble him many minutes; but 
 if he be in company, I shall not be able to speak so openly 
 as I wish. 
 
 Pastor. Follow rac. \^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene, a Px)om in the Castle. 
 
 The Baron is seated, and smoking a Pipe. Amelia is 
 standing at Ins Side, in Conversation with him. The 
 Count is stretched upon the Sofa, alternately taking 
 Snuff] and holding a Smelling-bottle to his Nose. 
 
 Baron. No, no, Amelia, don't think of it. Towards 
 evening, when it is cooler, we may, perhaps, take a walk to- 
 gether to see the sick woman.
 
 66 lovers' vows. Act IV. 
 
 Amelia. But as it is so delightful to do good, why should 
 it be done through a servant? Charity is a pleasure, and 
 we are surely not too high in rank to enjoy pleasure. 
 
 Baron. Pshaw ! who said any thing about rank ? That 
 was a silly remark, and I could be angry at you for it. I tell 
 you I have sent to the cottage, and the woman is better. 
 Towards evening, we will take a walk to the village, and the 
 Pastor, no doubt, will accompany us. 
 
 Amelia. (Satisfied.) Well, if you think so 
 
 [k?Prt^s herself, and begins to uork. 
 
 Baron. It will be agreeable to you too, Count, I hope ? I 
 dare say you will be gratified. 
 
 Count, Je n'en doute pas, man Colonel. Mademoiselle 
 Amelieh douceur &f honte d'ame will charm me. But I hope 
 the person's disorder is not epidemical. At all events, I am 
 in possession of a rinaigre incomparable, which is a certain 
 preventative. 
 
 Baron. Take it with you, then. Count; for I advise you 
 to go by all means. There is no better preventative ai^ainst 
 ennui, than the reviving sight of a fellow-creature grateful 
 for the assistance by which she has been rescued from death. 
 
 Count. Ennui, said you.? Ah, mon Colonel, how could 
 ennui find its way to a place inhabited by Mademoiselle Y 
 
 Baron. You are very polite, my Lord. Amelia, don't you 
 thank the Count? 
 
 Amelia. I thank your Lordship. 
 
 Count. (Bozoing.) Don't mention it, I beg. 
 
 Baron. But, Count, pray have you resided much in 
 France ? 
 
 Count. Ah, mon Colonel, don't refer to that subject I be- 
 seech you. My father, the barbare, was guilty of a terrible 
 sottise. He refused me a thousand louis dors, which I had 
 destined for that purpose. I was tlicre a few months to be 
 sure i have seen that land of ecstasy, and should perlinps
 
 Act IV. tOVERS' VOWS. 67 
 
 have been there still, in spite of le barbare mv father, had 
 not a disagreeable circumstance 
 
 Baren. (Sarcastlcal/j/.) An affaire d'honneur, I pre- 
 sume ? 
 
 Count. Poinf. dc tauf. A cavalier could find no honneur 
 in the country. You have heard of the revolution there. 
 You must for all Europe speaks of it. JvA hien ! Imaginez 
 coiis. I was at Paris and happened to be passing the palais 
 royal, not knowui<^ of any thing that had occurred. Tout 
 d'un coup, I found myself surrounded by a crowd of greasy 
 tatterdemalions ! One pushed me on this side another on 
 that a third pinched me a fourth thrust his fist into my 
 face. " What do you mean r" cried I. " How dare you treat 
 me thus.f The mob, man Colonel, grew still more unruly, 
 and abused me because I had not a cockade in my hat 
 tntendez voiis ? a national cockade. " Je suis un Comte 
 du Saint Empire I" cried I. What was the consequence ? 
 The fellows beat me, foi d'/ionnefe homme. They absolutely 
 beat me ; and a fdthy Poissarde gave me a blow on tlie 
 cheek. Nay, some began to shout " A la lanterne !" What 
 do you say to this, mon Colonel^ What would you have 
 done rt ma place '? I threw myself into my post-chaise, and 
 decamped as speedily as possible. Voila tout ! It is an 
 histoire fuchcuse ; yet still I must regret that I did not en- 
 joy more of the moments delicieuses which I tasted in that 
 capitale du monde. But this every one must say this every 
 one must allow, the savoir vivre, the formation, and the pli 
 which is observeable in me, are perfectly French, perfectly 
 a la mode de Paris. 
 
 Baron. Of that I am not able to form any judgment; but 
 your language is a good deal Frenchified. 
 
 Count. Ah, mon Colonel ! what a high compliment you 
 pay me ! 
 
 BiirO'i. I beg you will consider it sucli.
 
 68 lovers' vows. Act I V. 
 
 Count. All my care and anxiety, then, have not been a 
 pure pert e. For five years I have taken all possijile pains 
 to forget my native langue. For, Miss Amelia, is it not 
 altogether devoid of grace, and not siipportablk in any re- 
 spect, except when it proceeds from your^'lovejy lips? 
 What an eternal gurgling it causes in the .throat ! a tout 
 moment must one stammer and hesitate. Jt does not flow 
 in French meanders. Far example ; if I ^ant to make une 
 declaration d'amour, why of course I shoiiid wish to produce 
 a chef d'cevvre of eloquence, Enteftdcz imus ? Helas ! 
 Scarcely have I spoken a douzaine of words, when my 
 tongue turns here then there fiisst on this side then on 
 that. My teeth chatter pele mek against each other; and 
 in short, if I were not imn)cdiflitely to add a few French 
 words, in order to bring every thing into proper order, I 
 should run the risk of absolutely losing the faculties of 
 speech for ever. And ho\y can this be otherwise ? We 
 liave no genies celebres to refine the taste. To be sure, 
 there are Germans who pique tiiemselves on gout, on kc- 
 ture, on belles let ires. There's one Monsieur Wicland, w!io 
 has Acquired some degree of renommee by a few old tales, 
 which lie has translated from the mille & vne nnits, but 
 still the original is French. 
 
 BaniH. But Zf>unds ! Count, wliy are you every mo- 
 ment taking snuff", and holding ihat smelling-bottle to yi^ar 
 nose? and why, 1 should like to know, must you drench 
 your clothes, and my sofa with lavender water? You liave 
 so completely scented the room, tiiat a stranger might 
 imagine he was entering the shop of a French milliner. 
 
 Count. Vardonnez mon Cohmel; the smoke of tobacco is 
 quite insupportable. My nerves are most sensibly affected 
 by it, and my clothes must be exposed to the open air for 
 at least a month. I assure you, mon Colonel, my haiif, even 
 my hair, catciies the infectious vapour. It is a shocking
 
 Act IV. lovers' vows. 69 
 
 custom, hut we must forgive it in the messieurs de mi/itaire, 
 who can have no opportunity en campagne, of associating 
 witli the beau munde, and learning the manners of haut ton. 
 But really I find it impossible to endure this horrible smell. 
 Vous Tn'exfiiserez, 711011 Colonel. I must hasten into the 
 open air, and change my clothes. Adieu, jusqu' au revoir. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Barori. Well, heaven be praised, I have discovered a 
 method of driving this creature away, when I am tired of 
 his frivolous conversation ! 
 
 Amelia. Dear father, I should not like to marry him. 
 Baron, Nor should I like him to be my son. 
 Amelia. (Who evidently shews, that she has something on 
 ktr mind.) -I can't endure him. 
 Baron. Nor I. 
 
 Amelia. How can one help it, if one can't endure a man? 
 Baron. Impossible ! 
 Amelia. I.ove is involuntary. 
 Baron. It is. 
 
 Amelia. We arc very often ignorant "hy we either love 
 or hate. 
 
 Baron. We are so. 
 
 Amelia. Yet there are cases in'which inclination or aver- 
 sion are founded on substantial reasons. 
 Baron. Certaitdy, 
 
 Amelia. For instance, ray aversion to the Count. 
 Baron. True. 
 
 Amelia. And my inclination to the Pastor, 
 Baron. Rii;ht. 
 
 Amelia. (After a pause.) I must own I should like to 
 be married. 
 
 Baron. You shall. 
 
 Amelia. (After a pause.) Why does not our Pastor 
 marry ?
 
 70 LOVE us' vows. Act IV, 
 
 Baron. You must ask himself that question. 
 
 Amelia. (After another puu^e, during uhich she rivets lar 
 ei/es 071 Iwr work.) lie likes me. 
 
 Buron. I am olaci of it. 
 
 Avie/ia. I like liim, too, 
 
 i>ro.'*That is but just. 
 
 Amelia. (After another pause.) I believe, if you were 
 to olVer him my hand, he would not refuse it. 
 
 Baron That 1 believe COo. 
 
 Amelia. And 1 would obey you willingly. 
 
 Baron. ( Bci^inning to he more attentive.) IIow ! Ay>i 
 you ui earnest ? 
 
 Amelia. Yes. 
 
 Baron. Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! Well ! we will sec. 
 
 Amelia. (Cheerfully rai.Hug her head.) Arc you in 
 earnest, father ? 
 
 Baron. No. 
 
 Amelia. (Dejected. J No ? 
 
 Baron. iSo, Amelia, this cannot be. To play such 
 romantic tricks as Abelard and Eloisa, Saint Preux and 
 Julia; will nc\er do. Besides, our Pastor is too honourable 
 to have any such th()u:^hts. 
 
 Aineliu. You arc his benefactor. 
 
 Baron. At least he cslcenis me in that light. 
 
 Amelia. Surely, then, ii wiiuld be honourable to make the 
 dau!;hter of his bcncfactur happy. 
 
 }}(iron. I?ut suppose the dau^iner is a ciuld, \\1)0 to-d:iy 
 burns with dc^irc to possess a doll, uiucii loiiiorrow >!ie 
 uili throw awav wiih disiin^t? 
 
 Amelia. Oh, I am not such a child. 
 
 Baron. Amelia, lei me explain this. A hunflred fathers 
 would, in my situation, tell you, that, as you arc of noble 
 extraction, vou must marry a nobleman ; but I do not say 
 so. 1 will not sacrifice my i;hild to any prejudice. A wo-
 
 Jcf JF. LOVF.Rs' VOWS, 71 
 
 mail never can obtain uierit by rank, and has, therefore, no 
 rigiit to be proud of it. 
 
 A/iielia. Well, and therefore 
 
 Baroit. And therefore I siiould say, " Marry the Pastor 
 with all my heart, if you can't find among our young nobi- 
 lity any one whose mental and personal endowments cor- 
 respond with your ideas." But of these there are certainly 
 several perhaps many. You have as yet had no oppor- 
 tunities of seeing them ; but next winter we will remove to 
 titwn, and at some ball, or other place of amusement, you 
 will no doubt meet with one adapted to your taste. 
 
 Amelia. Oh, no. I must tirst become intimately ac- 
 quainted with a man, and may, perhaps, be then deceived : 
 but I know our Pastor well 1 have known him long: I am 
 as perfectly acquainted with his heart as with my cate- 
 chism. 
 
 Baron. Amelia, you have never yet felt the influence of 
 love. The pastor has been your instructor, and you mis- 
 take the warmth of your gratitude for love, not knowing 
 what it really is. 
 
 Amelia. You explained it to me this morning. 
 
 Baron. Did [ : \\'ell, and my questions.'' 
 
 Amtlict. Applied exactly to our Pastor. I could have 
 fancied you uere acquainted with every sensation of my 
 heart. 
 
 Baron. Indeed ! Hem ! 
 
 Amelia. Yes, my dear father, I love, and am beloved. 
 
 Baron. Belo\ ed ! Has he told you this ? 
 
 Amelia. Yes. 
 
 Baron. Shame on him ! lie has not acted a proper 
 part. 
 
 Amelia. Oh, if you knew how I surprised him 
 
 Baron. You him ! 
 
 Amelia. He came, by your command, to converse witfi
 
 71 lovers' vows. Act IV. 
 
 me respecting the Count, and I told him I would not marry 
 the Count. 
 
 Baron. But him ? 
 
 Amelia^ Yes. 
 
 Bar(m>. You are very candid, I must confess. And wliat 
 did he answer } 
 
 Amelia. He talked a great deal about my rank, my family, 
 and my duty to you. In short, he wanted to peruuade me 
 not to think of him any niorej but my heart would not be 
 persuaded. 
 
 Baron. That was noble in him. He will, therefore, not 
 say any thing to mo upon the subject. 
 
 Amelia. No. He declared he should find that impossible. 
 
 Baron, So much the better. I may, then, be supposed 
 to know nothing of the matter. 
 
 Amelia. But I told him I would mention it to you. 
 
 Baron. So much the worse! I am placed in a very 
 awkward situation. 
 
 Amelia. And now I have mentioned it. 
 
 Baron. You have. 
 
 Amelia. Dear father ! 
 
 Baron. Dear Amelia ! 
 
 Amelia, The tears come into my eyes. 
 
 Baron. (Turning away.) ."Suppress them. (Amelia, 
 after a panac, vines and stoops as if' in scanli of'somct/iin^.J 
 What are you seeking? 
 
 Amelia. I have lost my needle. 
 
 Baron. ( l-'ushes his chair back, and stoops to assist her.) 
 It cannot have flown far. 
 
 Amelia. (Approaches, and falls on his neck.) My good 
 father ! 
 
 Baron. \\ hat now ? 
 
 Amelia. This one request ? 
 
 Baron. Let me go. You make my checks wet with your 
 tears.
 
 Act IV. LOVEUS' V0W5. f 3 
 
 Aynelia. I shall never love any other man I shall never 
 be happy with any other nnan. 
 
 Baron. Pshaw ! Be a good girl, Amelia, and banish these 
 childish fancies. {Touches fie?- cheek.) Sit down again. 
 We will have some further conversation on this subject at 
 another time. You are not in so very great a hurry, I hope ; 
 for affairs of such moment require deliberation. The knot 
 of wedlock is tied in a moment, but the married state en- 
 dures for years. Many a girl, who shed a tear because she 
 might not marry the object of her affections, sheds a mill- 
 ion when she has surmounted all difficulties, and obtained 
 him. You have now shaken the burden from your heart, 
 and your father bears it for you for his beloved Amelia. 
 Time will.probably heal this slight scratch ; but if not why, 
 you yourself shall fix upon a surgeon. 
 
 Amelia. {Seats herself again, and resumes her u-ork with 
 the appearance of heartfelt gratitude.) My dear good 
 father ! 
 
 Baron. Ay, truly, if your mother bad been alive, you 
 would not have escaped so easily. She would have dwelt, 
 as usual, upon the sixteen people whom she called her iiu- 
 cestors. 
 
 Enter Pastor. 
 
 Baron, Ha ! I am glad you are come. 
 
 Pastor. In compliance with your dcsir-o, my Lord^ T have 
 released the young man from his prison. He waits in the 
 anti-chamber, and wishes to express his gratitude in person. 
 
 Baron. I am glad to hear it. I must not send him away 
 cmptv-handed. It would have the apjieurance of half a 
 kindness. 
 
 Fastor. lie begs to be allowed a piivate interview. 
 
 Baron. Private ! Whv .? 
 
 roi II. " D
 
 74 Lovrns' vow?. Jd IT. 
 
 Pastor. He says he shall be confused in tlic presence of 
 witnesses. Perhaps, too, he wants to make some discovery 
 which weighs heavy on his mind. 
 
 Baron. Well ! with all my heart ! Go, Amelia, and stay 
 Avith the Pastor in the anti-chamber. I wish to have a 
 little conversation with you both afterwards. 
 
 l^Exit Amelia, 
 
 The Pastor opens the door, beckons to Frederick tliat he viay 
 come, and exit. 
 
 Enter Fuedehick. 
 
 Go, yomigmau,and Heaven's blessing be with you ! I have 
 sent to your mother, and find she is better. For her sake 
 I pardon you ; but take care you do not again commit such 
 an offence. Robbery is but a bad trade. There is a louis- 
 d'or for you. Endeavour to earn an honest livelihood ; and 
 if I hear that you are sober, diligent, and honest, my doors 
 and my purse shall not be shut to you in future. Now go, 
 and Heaven be with you ! 
 
 Fre. (Takes the louis-d'or.) You are a generous man, 
 liberal in your charity, and not sparing of your good advice. 
 But allow me to beg another, and a still greater favour. 
 You are a man of large property and influence. Procure 
 me justice against an unnatural father. 
 
 Baron. How so ? Who is your father? 
 
 Fre. ( With great asperity.) A man of consequence ; 
 lord of a large domain; esteemed at court; respected in 
 town; beloved by his peasants; generous, upright, and 
 benevolent. 
 
 Baron. And yet allows his son to be in want ? 
 
 Fre. And yet allows his son to be in want. 
 
 Baron. Why, yes, for a very good reason, I dare say.
 
 Act IV. LOVBRS VOWS. 75 
 
 You have probably been a libertine, and squandered large 
 sums at a gaming-table, or on some mistress, and your fa- 
 ther has thought it advisable to let you follow the drun\ for 
 a couple of years. Yes, yes. Ihe drum is an excellent 
 remedy for wild young rakes; and if you have been one of 
 this description, your father has, in my opinion, acted very 
 wisely, 
 
 Fre. You are mistaken, my Lord. My father does not 
 know me; has never seen me; for he abandoned me while 
 I was in my mother's womb. 
 
 Baron. What? 
 
 Fre, The tears of my mother are all the inheritance he 
 bestowed upon me. lie has never enquired after mc ne- 
 ver concerned himself respecting me. 
 
 Baron. That is wrong (Confused ) very wrong. 
 
 Fre. I am a natural son. ]\Iy poor, deluded mother 
 educated me amidst anxiety and sorrow. By the labour of 
 her hands she earned as much as enabled her, in some de- 
 gree, to cultivate my mind ; and I therefore think I miglit; 
 be a credit to a father. But mine willingly renounces the 
 satisfaction and the pleasures of a parent, and his con-* 
 science leaves him at ease respecting the fate of his un- 
 fortunate child. 
 
 Baron. At ease ! If his conscience be at ease in such a 
 situation, he must be a hardened wretch indeed. 
 
 Fre. lla\ing attained an age at which I could provide for 
 mviclf, and wishing no longer to be a burden to my indi- 
 gent mother, I had no resource but this coat. I enlisted 
 into a volunteer corps for an illegitimate child cannot 
 obtain a situation under any tradesman. 
 
 Buj'on. Unfortunate young man ! 
 
 Fre. Thus passed my early years, in the bustle of a mili- 
 tary life. Care and sorrow are the companions of maturer 
 vears. To the thoughtless youth nature has granted plea- 
 .D2
 
 76 TOVEiis' vows. . , Act ir. 
 
 -sure, tliat lie mnj' strengtlien liiimelf l)y the enjoyment (jf 
 it, and thereby he prepared to meet the care and sorrow 
 which await him. But the pleasures of my youth have 
 been stripes; the dainties I have feasted on have been coarse 
 bread and clear water. Yet, what cares my father ? His 
 table is sumptuously covered, and to the scourge of con- 
 science he is callous. 
 
 Baron. (Aside.) His words pierce to my heart. 
 Tre. After a separation of five years fi-om my mother, I 
 returned to-day, feasting on the visions of anticipated bliss. 
 I found her a beggar on the highway. She had not tasted 
 food for four and twenty hours She had no straw to rest 
 her head upon no roof to protect her from the inclemency 
 of the weather no compassionate fellow-creature to close 
 her eyes no spot to die upon. But, what cares my father 
 for all this? He has a stately castle, and reposes upon 
 swelling beds of down ; and when he dies, the Pastor, in a 
 funeral sermon, will descant upon his numerous Christian 
 virtues. 
 
 Baron. (Shudders.) Young man, what is your father's 
 narp.e ? 
 
 I' re. That he abused the weakness of an innocent female, 
 and deceived her by false vows ; that he gave life to an un- 
 fortunate being, who curses him ; that he has driven his son 
 almost to the commission of parricide Oh, these are mere 
 tritles, which on the day of retribution may be paid for by 
 this paltry piece of gold. (T/irous the loiiis d'ur at the 
 Unron's feet.) 
 
 Baron. (Almost distracted.) Young man, what is your 
 father's name.^ 
 
 fVe. Bauox Wildenhain ! (The Baron sl?ikes his 
 forehead uith both hands, and stands rooted to the spot. 
 "^vcAenck proceeds in most violent agitation.) In this house, 
 perhaps in this very room, did you beguile my haplcsA
 
 Act IV^ tovERs' vows; ?f 
 
 mother of her virtue, and beget me for tlic sword of theex- 
 ocutioner. And now, my Lord, I am not free I am youc 
 prisoner I will not be free I am a robber. Loudly I pro- 
 claim I am a robber. You shall deliver mc over to justice. 
 You shall accompany me to tlie scaftbld. You shall hear 
 the priest in vain attempting to console me, and inspire my 
 soul with hope. You shall hear me, in the anguish of des- 
 pair, curse my unnatural father. You shall stand close to 
 me when my head is severed from my body, and my blood 
 your l)lood shall besmear your garments. 
 
 Baron. Hold ! Hold ! 
 
 Fre. And when you turn away with horror from this 
 spectacle, you shall behold my mother at the foot of the 
 scaffold, and hear her breathe her last convulsive sigh. 
 
 Baron, Hold, inhuman as thou art. 
 
 Enter Pastor hastUt/^ 
 
 Pastor. What means this ? I heard you speak with 
 violence, young man. Surely you have not dared 
 
 Fie. Yes. 1 have dared, worthy Pastor, to assume your 
 office, and make a sinner ivcmh\e.--{Pointi/ig to the Baron) 
 Look there ! Thus.after one and twenty years is licentious 
 conduct punished. I am a robber, Sir, a murderer; but 
 what I feel at this moment is ecstasy compared to his sensa- 
 tions. Look at him. Remorse and anguish rend his very 
 heart-strings. I go to deliver myself into the hands of 
 justice, and aj)peai- in auotiier world a bloody witness 
 against that man. [Exit. 
 
 I'astor. For Heaven's sake ! what means this? I do not 
 comprehend 
 
 Buron. He is my son ! he is my son ! Away, my friend ! 
 Lend me your aid at. this dreadful moment. Away 
 D 3
 
 7fl lOvuRs' vows. Act IV. 
 
 to the sick woman in the village ! Francis will direct jou 
 to the cottage. Hasten, I beseech you. 
 
 Pastor. But what shall I 
 
 Baron. Oh, Heavens ! your heart must instruct you how 
 to act {Exit Pastor.) Have I lost my senses}-- (}Io/(Hti<^ 
 his head.) Or am I dreaming r No, I have a son a 
 worthy, nobh youth, and as yet I have not clasped him in 
 my arms as yet I have not pressed him to my heart. 
 Matthew ! 
 
 Enter a Gamekef.peu. 
 
 Where is lie ? 
 
 Game. Who, my Lord ? The robber ? 
 
 Baron. Scoundrel ! The young man who but this mo- 
 ment left rae. 
 
 Game. He is waiting to deliver himself up ; and we have 
 sent for the constable, as he himself desired. 
 
 Baron. Kick the constable out of doors if he comes, and 
 let no one dare to lay a hand on the young man. 
 
 Gatne. (Astonished.) 'Very well, my Lord. [Going. 
 
 Baron. Holla! Matthew! 
 
 Game. My Lord ! 
 
 Baron. Conduct the young soldier into the preen cham- 
 ber over the dining room, and attend on him, if he be in 
 want of any thing. 
 
 Game. The Count von dcr Mukle occupies that chambcr> 
 ray Lord. 
 
 Baron. Turn the Count out, and send him to the devil. 
 -(The Gamekeeper stands in doubt hon' to proceed, vehilcthc 
 Baron walks to and fro.) T want no son-in>law, I have a 
 son a son, who shall possess my estates, and continue my 
 name ; a son, in whose arms T will die. Yos. I will repair 
 the evils I have caused. I will not be abharaed of recosT'
 
 Act IV. tOVERS* vows 79 
 
 niziug liiin. All my peasants, all my servants shall know 
 that, though I could forget, I will not abandon my child. 
 Matthew ! 
 
 Game. ]My Lord ! 
 
 Baron. Conduct him hither. Request him to come 
 hither, and let all my servants accompany him. 
 
 [Exit Gamekeeper. 
 How strange are my sensations ! My blood courses through 
 my veins so rapidly that I feel my pulse beat from head to 
 foot. How little do I deserve the bliss which is to-day ray 
 lot! 
 
 JEnicr Frederick, swrrowni/crfij/ a crowd of Servants. 
 
 He comes ! Quick let me press thee to my heart I 
 (Rushes tozcards him, and clasps him zcith fercour in his 
 arms.) j\Ty son ! 
 
 E.\'P OF ACT IV* 
 
 Di
 
 80 feuvtits' \o\N8i Act V. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 S( r.NE, the Room in the Collate as in the Suvnd Acf. 
 WlLHELMiNA, the CoTTAGLK and lus WuE Gvc (li^ico-jered. 
 
 Wil. Go to the door oiicc more, good man, and look if 
 he be not coming. 
 
 Cot. It will be of no use; I have just been to call on a 
 neighbour, and looked round on every side, but he is not to 
 be seen. 
 
 Wife. Have a little patience. Who knows ulicre he may 
 be staying? 
 
 Co^. Very true. lie is gone to the town, I dare say. 
 
 Wife. Ay, and little good will he do there ; for people are 
 hard-hearted enough there. 
 
 Wil. Good man, do look once more. He may, perhaps, 
 be coming now. 
 
 Cot. Well ! well ! I'll look. [Eri^ 
 
 Wife. If your son knew what Heaven has sent you since 
 lie left us, he would soon return, 
 
 Wil. I feel alarmed resj)ecting liim. 
 
 WiJ'e. Alarmed ! Pshaw ! She who has a heavy purse in 
 her pocket should be at case. I mean, if she obtained it 
 honestly. 
 
 Wil. Where can he 1 /iter thus? It is four hours since 
 he left us. Some misfortune must have happened to him. 
 
 Wife. Misfortune ! How can that be ? Why, it is broad 
 (lay-lig'l^ Come, come ! Cheer up ! We'll have a 
 licarty meal atnigiit. \Vith all that money you may live
 
 Act V. tOVERs' %'0W3. 81 
 
 comfortably for many a day. Oh, our Baron is a gdoJ^ 
 genprous man. 
 
 1T7/. Hon- could he learn I was here ? 
 
 Wife. That Heaven knows. ]Mr. Francis was so close 
 
 117/. (Half aside. )~~]lv^i he discovered who I am: Oh, 
 yes! Doubtless he knows ine, or he would not have sent 
 so much. 
 
 Wife. Don't say that. Our Baron is often charitable to 
 strangers, too. 
 
 He-enter Cottager, scratching his Head. 
 
 Wil. (Ax soon as she sees him.) Well .? 
 
 Cot. J can discover nothing, if 1 stare till I am blind,- 
 
 Wi/. Merciful Heavens ! \Yhat can this mean ? 
 
 Cot. Our Pastor just now came round the corner, 
 
 1177, Is he coming hither ? 
 
 Co'. Who knows but he may.? He generally gives us a- 
 call every three or four weeks. 
 
 Wife. Yes, he is very kind in his visits to all his parishion- 
 ers. He talks to them about their farms, and so forth. 
 Vt hen there are any quairels and disputes, he settles them. 
 When any one is in distress, he assis^^s them. Do you re- 
 member, husband, when our lame neighbour Michael's cow 
 died ? 
 
 Cot. Ay, he sent him another the best milch-cow he. 
 )iad. Heaven bless him for it ! 
 
 iri/e. Heaven bless him, say I too, with all my lieart. 
 
 Enter Pastor. 
 
 Fastor. God be with you, good people ! 
 Cut. and Vi'iJ'e. Good day to you, Sir ! 
 Do
 
 82 lovERs' vows. Act V. 
 
 Cot. We are glad to see you. 
 
 Wife. {Wipes a chair with her oy^ron.) Pray sit down. 
 
 Cot. It is a warm day. Sliali I fetch you a draught of 
 beer? 
 
 Wife, Or a couple of mellow pears ? 
 
 Pastor. I thank you, good people, but I am not thirstv. 
 You have a visitor, I perceive. 
 
 Cot. Yes, Sir, a poor woman, who is very weak and ill. 
 I found her on the high-road. 
 
 Pastor. Heaven will reward you for assisting her. 
 
 Cot. That it has already done. Sir ; for mv wife and I 
 never were more happy since we were married than we 
 are to-day. Eh, Rachel ? [Offeri)7g his hand. 
 
 Wife. Yes; that wc are, [.Phey shake hands. 
 
 Pastor. {To Wilhehnina.) Who are you, good wo- 
 man? 
 
 Wil. I ! Alas ! {In a nhisper.) If we wore 
 
 alone- 
 
 Pastor. (To Cottager.) Be so kind, hone"-! John, as to 
 let me have a little private conversation with tb.is good wo- 
 Hian. 
 
 Cot. To be sure. Do you hear, Rachel ? Come. 
 
 [Exeunt Cottager and Wife. 
 
 Pastor. Now, we are alone, 
 
 Wil. Before I confess to you who I am, and who I was, 
 allow me to ask a few questions. Are you a native of 
 this country ? 
 
 Pastor. No. I was born in Franconia. 
 
 Wil. Were you acquainted with the venerable Pastor 
 vvho was your predecessor ? 
 
 Pastor. No. 
 
 Wil. You are totally ignorant, thfii, of my unhappy story, 
 and mere accident has brought you hither } 
 
 Pastor. If in you I find tiie person whom I suspect, and
 
 Act V. lovers' vows. S3 
 
 whom I long have sought, your story is not quite unknown 
 to me. 
 
 Wil. Whom you suspect, and whom you long have 
 sought ! Who commissioned you to do this ? 
 
 Fastor. A man who sincerely sympathizes in your 
 distresses. 
 
 T17/. Indeed ! Oh, Sir, tell me quickly whom you sus- 
 pect to have discovered in mc. 
 
 Pantor. Wilhelmina Boetcher, 
 
 Wi/. Yes. I am tlie unfortunate, deluded Wilhelmina 
 Boetcher. And the man who sympathizes so sincerely in 
 my distresses is Baron Wildenhain; the man who robbed 
 me of my virtue, murdered my father, and for twenty years 
 has exposed me and his child to misery. All this he be- 
 lieves he can to-day atone for by a purse of gold. {Draws- 
 out the piu'&e.) Whatever may be your intention in coming 
 hither, Sir, whether it be to iiumble me, assist me, or send 
 me beyond the borders, that the sight of me may not re- 
 proach the libertine, I have but one request to make. Take 
 back this purse to him who sent it. Tell him my virtue was 
 not sold for gold. Tell him my peace of mind cannot be 
 bought with gold. Tell him my father's curse cannot be 
 rem'ived from me by gold. Suv that Wilhelmina, poor, 
 starving, and in a beggar's rags, still scorns to accept a fa- 
 vour from the hands of her seducer. lie despised my 
 heart I despise his money. lie trampled upon me I 
 trample upon his money. {T/irou:'; the purse on the earth 
 uith violence.) But he shall be left to revel as heretofore. 
 The sight of mc shall not be an interruption to his pleasures. 
 As soon as I have in some degree recovered my strength, I 
 will for ever quit this place ; where the name of Wildenhain 
 and the grave of my father bow me to the ground. Tcil 
 hin^, too, I knew not that he was returned from Franconia, 
 D 6
 
 84 i.ovF.Rs' vows. Act V, 
 
 and was in tliis neighbourhood ; for he may fancy I came 
 hither in search of him. Oh, let hira not fancy that ! 
 {Breathing with difficulty.) ^yiov.'. Sir, you see that your 
 presence, and the subject to which your visit led me, have 
 exhausted my strength. I know not what I can say more. 
 I know not, indeed, what more can be required of me by 
 him who sent you. {Wiih indignation.) But, yes : It may, 
 perhaps, have occurred to his Lordsiiip. tliat he once 
 promised me marriage; that on his knees he called the Al- 
 mighty to witness his vow, and pledged his honour to fulfil 
 i:. Ha! Ha! Ila ! Tell him not to discompose himself on 
 that account. I have long since forgotten it. 
 
 Pastor. I have allowed you to proceed without inter- 
 ruption, that I might learn your sentinieuts witli respect to 
 the Baron, and your general way of thinking. Unprepared, 
 as you must ha\e been, tor a conversation wilh me, your i'uli 
 heart has overflowed, and I am con\ iiiced you have not used 
 any dissiniuianon. I therefore rejoice to tind vou a noble 
 woman, wortiiy of every reparation which a man of honcmr 
 can make. I rejoice too, in being able at once to remove an 
 error, which, perhaps, has, in a great degree, caused the as- 
 periiy of your expressions. Had the Baron known that 
 the sick woman in this cottage was Wilhclmina ]3oetcher, 
 and hail I'.e tliea, instead of all consoiatitjii, sent hei- this 
 purse, he woiiid have dcserved^to ha^. c been murdered by 
 his own son. But, no. This was not the case. Look at 
 me. Mv ia-oft:.si)n demands confidence; but setting that 
 asiiie, 1 would nut utter a faiseliood. A mere accident 
 made you the oi-ject of his chaiity, which he imagined he 
 was exercising ti)vvard3 one unknown to him. 
 
 U'U. llow. Sir ! would you vonvince me that this present 
 was the eifoct of mere accident.? I'o one unknown to him 
 he might have sent a guilder, or n dollar, lut not a purse 
 of gold.
 
 Act V. lovers' vows. 85 
 
 Fast or. I grant that appearances are against my asser- 
 tion, but the accident was of a peculiar nature. Your 
 son 
 
 Wil. What of my son ? 
 
 Faslor. Compose yourself. The Baron was affected by 
 the wav in which your son implored his charity. 
 
 Wil. Charity ! Did he implore the Baron\ cliarity ? Hjg 
 father's charity ? 
 
 Paator, Yes, but they did not know each other ; and the 
 mother, therefore, only received this present for the son's 
 sake. 
 
 WiL They did not know each other ! Where is my 
 son ? 
 
 Funtor. At tlie castle, 
 
 Wil. And do they not yet know each other ? 
 
 Pastor. Tfiev do ; and I now appear here by command 
 of the Baron, who sent me not to a sick woman, but to 
 Willielmiiia Boetcher ; not with money, but witii a com- 
 mission to do as my heart directed, 
 
 WiL Your heart ! (Jh, Sir, do not lend that cruel man tlie 
 sensations of j,();/?' heart. But, yes be it so. I will forget 
 what 1 liave endured on his account, if he will console me 
 by his conduct towards Frederick. As a woman I will par- 
 don him, if he will deserve a mother's thanks. How did he 
 receive my boy? 
 
 Fastor. I left him in most violent agitation. It was tlie 
 very moment of discovery, and nothing was resolved upon. 
 But, d()ul)tless, while we are now in conversation, the son is 
 iu his father's arms. I am convinced by the goodness of 
 his hear*; 
 
 Wil. The goodness of his heart again ! Heavens ! How 
 can this man's heart be so suddenly altered? After having 
 been for twenty years deaf to the \ oice of nature
 
 58 lovers' vows. Act V. 
 
 Pastor. You wrong him. Listen to me before you de- 
 cide. Many an error seems, on a superficial view, most in- 
 famous ; but did we know every circumstance vvhicli tended 
 to excite it, every tntle wliicli had an imperceptible cfTcct 
 in producing it, our opinion would be very dit^ferent. Could 
 we accompany the offender from step to step, instead of 
 seeing, as in the present instance, only the first, the tenth, 
 and twentieth, we should often pardon when we now con- 
 demn. Far be it from me to defend the Baron's conduct 
 towards you, but surely I may maintain that a good man 
 by committing one bad action, does not, on that account, 
 entirely forfeit his claim to the title of a good man. ^Vhcre 
 is the demigod, who can boast that his conscience is as pure 
 as snow just fallen from the sky? If there be such a 
 bo.'xstcr, for Ilesvcn's sake place no confidence in him; lie 
 is far more dangerous than a repentant sinner. Forgive nic, 
 if r appear too talkative ; and let me now tell you, in a few 
 words, the story of the Baron since your separation. At 
 that time he loved you most sincerely; and nothing but the 
 dread of his rigid mother prevented the fulfilment of his 
 promise. But hv was sumnioncd into the field, where ho 
 was dangerously wounded, anil Uiade a prisoner. For a 
 your be was confined to his bed. lie could not write, and 
 received no intrlligeuce of you. 'Jlu^s did the impression 
 of your image on his mincl first bccumo weaker, lie had 
 been conducted from the field of battle to a neighbour- 
 i.;ig castle, the owner of which was a worthy nobleman, 
 who possessed a large fortune and a beautiful daugh- 
 ter. J his lady became enamoured of the young officer, 
 and seldom left his coucli. She attended on him with the 
 affection of a sister, and shed many tears for his fate, which 
 Were not unobserved. Gratitude knit the band, which 
 death rent asunder but a few mouths since. Thus the im-
 
 Act V. lovers' vows. 8T 
 
 pression of your image was erased from his mind. He did 
 not return to his native land, but purchased an estate in 
 Franconia, to the cultivation of which he devoted his time. 
 He became an husband and a father. None of the objects 
 which surrounded him reminded him of you, and thus the 
 recollection of you slumbered, till care, anxiety, and do- 
 mestic discord, awoke it, and embittered his existence : 
 for, when it was too late, he discovered in his wife a proud^ 
 imperious being, who had been spoilt in her infancy, who 
 always thwarted him, always insisted on being riglit, and 
 seemed only to have rescued him from death, in order to 
 have the pleasure of tormenting him. At that time an acci- 
 dent led me to his house. He became attached to mo, 
 made me the instructor of his daughter, and soon after en- 
 trusted me with his confidence. Oh, how often has he 
 pressed my hand in violent emotion to his heart, and said, 
 " This woman revenges on me the wrongs of the innocent 
 Wilhelmina" How often has he cursed all the wealth 
 which his wife had brought him, and sighed for a less splen- 
 did hut far happier lot in your avms ! When, at length, the 
 old Pastor of Wildenhain died, and he bestowed the bene- 
 fice on me, the first expression which accompanied the gift 
 was, " There, my friend, you will gain some tidings of my 
 Wilhelmina." Every letter which I afterwards received 
 from bim, contained this exclamation : " Still no account of 
 my WiUielmina." I have those letters, and can let you sec 
 them. It was not in my power to discover where vou 
 dxvelt. Fate had higher views respecting you, and prevent- 
 ed it until to-day . 
 
 Wit. Your description has excited in my breast emo- 
 tions, which my heart acknowledges to be conviction. But 
 how can this end ? What will become of me ? 
 
 Pastor. The Baron, I must own, has never told me what 
 he meant to do in case he ever found you : but your suffer-
 
 8S lovers' vows. Act V. 
 
 ings demand reparation ; and I know but one way in which 
 this reparation can be made. Noble minded woman, if 
 your streniitli will allow it, accompany me. The road is 
 good, and the distance short. 
 
 Wil. I accompany you ! Appear before him in these 
 rags! 
 
 Pastor. Why not ? 
 
 Wit. Do I wish to reproach him ? 
 
 Pastor. Exalted being ! Come to my house. My sister 
 shall supply you with clollies, and my carria<:e shall tjike 
 us to the castle, 
 
 VVil. And shall I see my Frederick again ? 
 
 Pastor. Rest assured yni v^ill. 
 
 Wil. (Bising.) Well ! For hi-; ^;ikc I will nndercro the 
 painful raectinL'. lie is the onlv hi anf h on n hirh mv hopes 
 still blossom all the rest are withered and destroyed. But 
 wiicre are the good Cottagers ? I must take leave of thciri 
 and thank them. 
 
 Pastor. (Takes up the purse and goes to the door.) 
 Neijjhbour John ! 
 
 Enter Cottager and his Wife. 
 
 Cot. Here T am. 
 
 Wife. Well, you can stand again, I see, thank Heaven. 
 
 Pastor. Yes, good people. I shall take her with me. I 
 can accommodate her better than you, though you have 
 done what you could. 
 
 Cot Why, to be sure, we can give her no more than we 
 have, and that is but little. 
 
 Wife. But she is very welcome to that. 
 
 Pastor. You have acted like worthy people. There ! 
 take that as a reward for your kindness. {Offers the purse 
 to the Cottager, uho puts his hands together lej'ore him,
 
 Act V. lovers' vows. 89 
 
 twirls hif thumbs, looks at the money, and shakes his head.) 
 Well ! won't you take it? {Offers it to his Wife, uho plays 
 zcith the strinf: of her apron, looks askance at the money, and 
 shakes her head.) What means this ? 
 
 Cot. Sir, dou't be otTcndcfl, but we don't chuse to be paid 
 for doing our duty. 
 
 Wife. (Looking furccrds heaven.) You have often told 
 us we should be paid hereafter. 
 
 Pastor. {Laying his hands on their shoulders, much affect- 
 ed.) You will. God bkss you ! 
 
 WiL You will not refuse my thanks ? 
 
 Cot. Say no more about the matter. 
 
 Wife. We assisted you with pleasure. 
 
 IVa. Faiewtli ! {The Cottager and his Wife shake hands 
 v.-iih her.) 
 
 Cot. Good bye ! take care of yourself. 
 
 Wfc. And when yuu come this way, let us see you. 
 
 (Willielniina ulpes her eyes, leans on the Pastor's arm, and 
 supports herself Oil the other side with a stick.) 
 
 Pastor. God be with you ! 
 
 Cot. (Taking off his cap, and scraping.) Good day to 
 you, Sir ! 
 
 ]Vif'(. We arc much obliged to you for tliis visit. 
 
 Both. And we hope wc shall soon see you again. (They 
 attend the Paster a)id Wilhehnina to the clour.) 
 
 Cot. (Prcseniing his hand to his Wife.) Well, Rachel, 
 how shall we sleep to night, think you } 
 
 ]Vfe. (Shaking his hand.) Like tops. 
 
 lExeunt. 
 
 Scene, an Apartment in the Castle. 
 
 The Baton in seated on a Sfa, cvhau^i'fi! by rarious Emo-
 
 90 tovERs' vows. Act V' 
 
 tions. Frederick stands leaning over hiw, und pressing 
 his Father^s Hand heizcecn his ozcn. 
 
 Baron. So you have really seen some service ? You 
 know the smell of gunpowder ? I'll stake my head against 
 a turnip, that if you had been Frederick von Wildenhain, 
 you would have been spoilt by your father and mother ; 
 but as Frederick Boetchcr, you are become a fine-spirited 
 lad. This has, to be sure, cost you many an uneasy hour. 
 Your juvenile days have not been very comfortable- 
 Well ! Well ! You shall feel an alteration for the better, 
 Frederick. I will legitimate you. Yes, my boy, I will 
 openly acknowledge you as my only son and heir. What 
 say you to this ? Eh .'' 
 
 Fre. And my mother ? 
 
 Baron. She shall be well provided for, too. Do you 
 think your father is poor ? Don't you know that Wildenhain 
 is one of the best estates in the country ? Yes, and but a 
 mile from it lies Wellendorf, another neat place ; and in 
 Franconia I obtained with my wife (Heaven rest her soul !) 
 ' three large manors. 
 
 Fre. But my mother ? 
 
 Baron. Well, I was just going to say that she may reside 
 where she chuses. If she will not live in Franconia, why, 
 he may remain at Wellendorf. There is a neat little 
 house, neither too large, nor too small ; an excellent gar- 
 den; a charming prospect; in short, the place is a little 
 paradise. She shall have every thing she wants, and a hap- 
 py old age shall smooth the furrows which the misfortunes 
 of youth have ploughed in her face. 
 
 Fre. (Retreating a few steps.) How ! 
 
 Baron. Yes, and I'll tell you what, my boy. It is but a 
 short distance from the cr.stle. If, when wc rise in a 
 morning, we i'ccl disposed to visit your mutlier, wc iic^d
 
 Aiit V, lovKns' vows. 91 
 
 but order a couple of horses to be saddled, and in an hour 
 we shall bo with lier. 
 
 i-'/'f. Indeed ! And what name is my mother to bear, 
 wlien she lives there ? 
 I Baron, (Kniliarrasned.) How ? 
 
 Fre. Is she to be considered as your housekeeper, or 
 your mistress ? 
 
 Baron, Pshaw ! Pshaw ! 
 
 JVe. I understand you. I will withdraw, my father, and 
 give you time to consider well before you finally resolve on 
 any thing. But one thing I must irrevocably swear by all 
 that is dear and sacred to me : My fate is inseparable from 
 that of my mother. Frederick von Wildenhain and Wil- 
 helmina von Wildenhain ; or Frederick Boetcher, and Wil- 
 liehnina Boetcher ! [Exit. 
 
 Baron. Zounds ! What docs lie want ? He surely does 
 not expect me to marry his mother. No, no, young man ; 
 you must not dictate to your father how he is to act. I 
 was flattering my self with the idea of having arranged every 
 thing very comfortable, was as happy as a king from having 
 relieved my conscience of a heavy burden, was breathing 
 more freely than for many years, when this boy throws a 
 stone at my feet, and wants to makejne stumble over it 
 again. No, no. Friend conscience, I tliunk Heaven that I 
 can address thee as a friend again. What thinkst thou 
 to this? Thou art silent. But no. Methinks thou art still 
 not completely satisfied. 
 
 Hater Pastoi;! 
 
 Ha ! my friend, you come most opportunely. My con- 
 science and I are involved in a suit, which roust be deter- 
 mined in the court wliere you preside. 
 
 Pastor, Your conscience is riuht.
 
 92" lovers' vows. Act V. 
 
 Baron. Hold ! Hold ! You are deciding before you know 
 the merits of the case. Your sentence is partial. 
 
 Pastor. No. Conscience is always right ; for it never 
 speaks until it is right. 
 
 Baron. Indeed ! But I am as yet ignorant whether it 
 speaks or is silent. On such occasions a divine has a quicker 
 ear than a layman. Listen to me. I will state the case in 
 a few words. (Laying his hand on the Pastor's shoulder.) 
 My friend, I have found my son, and a noble fellow he 
 is full of fire as a Frenchman, of pride as an Englishman, 
 and of honour as a German. That apart ; I mean to le- 
 gitimate him. Am I not right ? 
 
 Pastor. Perfectly. 
 
 Baron. And his mother shall enjoy peace and comfort 
 for the remainder of her life. I mean to settle my VVel- 
 Jcndorf estate upon her. 1 here she may live, alter it ac- 
 cording to her own taste, revive in the happiness of her 
 son, and grow young again amidst the gambols of her 
 grandchildren. Am I not right ! 
 
 Pastor. You are not. 
 
 Baron. (Starting.) How! What should I do, then? 
 
 Pastor. Marry licr. 
 
 Baron. Yes. That is very likely, to be sure ! 
 
 Pastor. Baron Wildenhain is a man who does nothing 
 without a sufficient reason. I stand here as the advocate 
 for your conscience, and expect you to produce your reasons, 
 after which you shall hear mine. 
 
 Baron. Zounds ! why, you would not wish me to marry 
 a beggar.? 
 
 Pastor. (After a pause.) Is tliat all you can advance ? 
 
 Baron. (At a loss.) No not exactly I have other 
 reasons several other 
 
 Pastor. May I beg you to mention them ? 
 
 Baron. (Very mmh ewbarrassrd.) I am a nobleman.
 
 Act V. LOVERS* VOWS. 93 
 
 Pastor. Pioceed. 
 
 Barov. The world will ridicule mc. 
 
 Pastor: Proceed. 
 
 Baron. My relatives will shua mc. 
 
 Pastor. Proceed. 
 
 Baron. And and (Very violentli/.) Zounds ! I can't 
 proceed. 
 
 Pastor. Then it is my turn to speak on the subject; but, 
 before I do this, allow me to ask a few questions. Did 
 Wilheliiiina, by coquetry or levity of conduct, first raise in 
 you a wish to seduce her ? 
 
 Baron. No. She was always chaste and modest. 
 
 Pastoi: Did it cost you any trouble to gain your point .^ 
 
 Ba!'on. Yes. 
 
 Pastor. Did you ever promiseher marriage. (The Baron 
 liesitates. The Pastor sui/s zvith great solemuili/) I repeat 
 Diy question. Did you ever proniise her marriage .'' 
 
 Baron. Yes. 
 
 Pastor. And summoned God to witness that promise.' 
 
 Baron. Yes. 
 
 Pastor. You pledged your honour that you would fulfil 
 this vow did you not ? 
 
 Baron. (With impatience.) Yes, yes. 
 
 Pastor. ^Vell, my Lord, tVom your own confession it ap- 
 pears that the witness you called upon was God, wjio be- 
 held you then, who beiiolds you now. The pledge you 
 offered was your honour, wiiicli you must redeem, if you be 
 a man of integi Ity. I now stand in your presence, impress- 
 ed witli the full dignity of my vocation. I shall speak to 
 vou as I would speak to the meanest of your peasants : for 
 my dutv commands it; and I will fulfil my duly, should I 
 even thereby forfeit your esteem. If in the days of gay 
 and thoughtless youth, (when a man lives, as it were, only 
 to ecjoy the present moment,) you seduced an inuoceut
 
 Oi I.OVFIiS' VOWS. Act V. 
 
 feiiiiilo, uirliout consicici-ii)<; u liat might be tlic consequence ; 
 and if, when more udvanced in years, you repented your 
 youthful indiscretion, and endeavoured to make every re- 
 paration in your po^ver, you are still a respectable man. But 
 if a licentious youth, by wicked snares, has plunged a guiltless 
 being into misery; has destroyed the happiness and innocence 
 of a female, to gratify a momentary passion ; has, while in- 
 toxicated with his happiness, pledged his honour,and sacrificed 
 his conscience, to his brutal desires ; can he imagine repara- 
 tion may be made by a paltry handful of gold, w hich chance 
 bestowed on him ? Oh, such a wretch deserves pardon my 
 warmth, my Lord. It might injure a good cause, though it 
 is on this occasion very natural. Ye good old days of 
 chivalry ! you have taken with you all your virtues, your 
 sense of honour, your respect for female delicacy, and have 
 left us nothing but your pride and broils. The conquest of 
 innocence is, in our degenerate days, an act of heroism, 
 which the conqueror glories in, while the helpless victim of 
 seduction curses the murderer of her honour, and, perhaps, 
 projects the murder of her infant which is in her womb. 
 Once more, my Lord, I say you must fulfil your promise. 
 You ought to do it, if you were a prince ; for a prince, 
 though he may be relcae^cd by the state from the fullilment 
 of his vows, will never be reloaded by his conscience. 
 Therefore, thank Ciod that you are not a prince. Thank 
 Ood that it is in your power to purchase at so cheap a rate 
 the most valuable of all treasures peace of mind, lure- 
 solving to marry Wilhehnina, you have not even any claim 
 to merit ; for this union will enhance your happiness. \\ hut 
 a pity it is that it does not cost you any sacrifice, that your 
 whole property is not dependant on it ! Then might you 
 have stept forth, and said, " I'll marry Wilhelmina. [,)o I 
 not act nobly?" But now, when she brings you a dowry 
 larger than any princess could bestow, your peace of uiiiui,
 
 Act V. LflvF.r>s' vows. 05 
 
 and an amiable son, now, you can do notliing bnt exclaim, 
 " Friend, wish me joy; I'll marry Wilhehnina." 
 
 Baron. (Who during Me Pastor's addrcsx, has alternate' 
 li/ zcalked up and dozen the room in most violent agitation, 
 and stood with his eyes fixed on the earth, at one tnonient 
 exhibiting marks of anger, at another of remorse, nozo ap- 
 proaches the Pastor uith open arms, and presses him to his 
 heart.) Friend, wish me joy. I'll marry W'ilhelmina. 
 
 Pastor. (Returning his embrace.) I do wish you joy. 
 
 Baron. Where is slie ? You have seen her ? 
 
 Pastor. She is in that room. That I might not excite 
 curiosity, I conducted her thither through the garden. 
 
 Baron. Well, then you shall marry us this very dav. 
 
 Pastor. That cannot be. The union must not take place 
 90 soon, and must not be so private. All your tenantry- 
 witnessed Wilhelmina's disgrace : they, therefore, ought to 
 witness the restoration of her honour. On three successive 
 Sundays I will publish the banns. Do you agree to this ? 
 
 Baron. With all my heart. 
 
 Pastor. We will then celebrate the nuptials; and the 
 whole village will participate in your happiness. Do you 
 agree to this? 
 
 Baron. Yes. 
 
 Pastor. Is the suit, then, at an end ? Is your conscience 
 silent? 
 
 Baron. Still as a mouse. I only wish the first interview 
 was over. I feel as much ashamed of first meeting Wilhel- 
 mina's eve, as a thief when obliged to appear before the 
 person whom he has defrauded. 
 
 Pastor. lie at ease. Wilhelmina's heart i.s the judge. 
 
 Baron. And (why should I not confess it r) prejudices 
 resemble wounds, which, tliough as nearly healed as pos- 
 sible, smart when any alteration takes place in the weather. 
 I I am ashamed of confessing all these circumstances
 
 ?6 Lovnr.s' rows. Act V. 
 
 to my daughter to the count to my servant?. I wish it 
 were over. I should not like to see Wilhehnina I should 
 notlike to resign myself entirely to joy, till I have explained 
 every thinjj to Holla ! Francis ! 
 
 Enter a Gamekeeper, 
 
 Where are my daus^hter and the Count? 
 
 Game. In the dining-room, my lord. 
 
 Baron. Tell them I shall be glad to see them here. 
 
 [E.vit Gamekeeper. 
 Stay with me, my worthy friend, lest the Count's insipidity 
 should put mo out of humour. I will tell him clearly and 
 briefly what my opinion is, and if his senses be not eniircly 
 destroyed by the follies of France, he will order his horst-s 
 to be put to the carriaj^c, and he may then drive with aU 
 Lis boxes u{ ptmuide to the devil. 
 
 Enter Amelia and the Colnt. 
 
 Cou'iit. Kous Toifa a t'o.s ordres, inon Colonel. We have 
 been e\\]oy\n<^ ix promenade delicicuae. Wildcnhain is a pa- 
 radise on earth, and possesses an Eva, who resembles the 
 mother of mankind. Notliinj: is wanting to complt:te this 
 garden of F.dcn, except an Adam, who, as we are told by 
 m>/tliologie, accepted with rapture the apple of death itself 
 from her fair hand and this Adam is found yes, m} Lord, 
 lliis Adam is found. 
 
 Baron. Who is tbund? Frederick, but not Adam. 
 
 Count. Frederick ! ^Vho is he ? 
 
 Baron, ^ly son my (.>nly son. 
 
 Count. Comuient Y \ our son ! ^lon pire assured me you 
 liad no children except Madtaioisellr. 
 
 Baron. Your jicrc could not know I had a son, because
 
 Act V. lovers' vows, 97 
 
 till witliin a few minutes I was myself ij^iioiaut of tlie cir- 
 cumstance. 
 
 Count. Voiis parlez dcs enigmes. 
 
 Baron. In short, the young man who attacked us this 
 morning in the field. You remember him, for you ran 
 a'vay from him quickly enough. 
 
 Count. I have a confused recollection of having seen him. 
 But proceed. 
 
 Huron. Well, that %'ery young man is my son. 
 Count. He your son ? Impossible ! 
 Baton. Yes, he. (Apart to the Pastor.) I am really 
 asliamed of confessing the truth even to that coxcomb. 
 
 Pastor. A man like you ashamed of such an animal as 
 that ! 
 
 Baron. (Aloud.) He is my natural son. But that is 
 of little consequence; for in two or three weeks I shall 
 marry his mother, and shall break any man's bones who ri- 
 dicules me for it. Yesi Amelia, you may stare. The boy 
 is your brother. 
 
 Amelia. (Delighted.) Are you joking, or serious ? 
 Count. And who is his mother, man Colonel? Is she of 
 good extraction ? 
 
 Baron. She is (To the Pastor.) Pray answer him. 
 Pastor. She is a beggar. 
 Coi/ II I. ( Smiling.) Vous badinez. 
 
 Pastor. If you particuliarly wish to know her name, it is 
 ^^'ilhelmina Roetcher. 
 
 Count. Boetcher I The family is quite unknown to me. 
 Baron. Very likely. She belongs to the family of honest 
 people, and that is unfortunately a very small one. 
 Count. A niesalliancc then ? 
 
 Paslor. Generosity and integrity will be united with 
 alTcction and fidelity. You may call that t?iesatliance if you 
 please. 
 
 \..i.H. F-
 
 98 lovers' vows. Act T . 
 
 Count, It really requires an (Edipe to unravel this mys- 
 tery. Unjils iiaturel y A la bonne hcnre,nion Colonel / I 
 have two natural children. There are vioinens in which in- 
 stinct and a tempting girl are irresistible In short, such 
 things happen every day. Mais, man Dku ! What attention 
 should be paid to such creatures? Let them learn some 
 business or other, and they are provided for. Mine shall 
 be both friseurs. 
 
 Huron. And mine shall be a nobleman, as well as heir 
 to all the estates I possess. 
 
 Count, Me voila stupefuit, Mi- Amelia, I must 
 plead in your behalf. You are on the point of being 
 ecras'ce, 
 
 Amelia. Don't trouble yourself, my Lord. 
 Count. Lajille unujue ! L'unique heretiere ! 
 Amelia. I shall still possess and inlicrit the affection of 
 ray father. 
 
 Baron. Good Amelia ! Right, my dear girl ! Come 
 hither and give me a kiss. fAmelia Jlirs info hii anns.)^ 
 Count, you will oblige me by leaving us for a few moments. 
 We may, perhaps, have a scene here, which will not suit 
 your disposition. 
 
 Count. De tout mo)i ca-ur ! We understand each other. 
 It isclairde lune, and I hope you will therefore allow me to 
 return this evening to town. 
 Baron. As you please. 
 
 Count. A dire vrai,mon Cvlonrl ! I did nor come hither 
 in search of a rolcur de grand chcinin for my brother-in-law, 
 or a gurufic for my mother-in-law. [Skijipiiig auay.) 
 Henri ! Henri ! [Erit 
 
 Baron. (Still holding Amelia in liis arms.) I breatlie 
 more freely. Now a word with you, my dear Amelia, 
 Twenty years ago I basely seduced a poor girl, and gave 
 life to a child, who, till to-day, has been a prey to povcrt;
 
 Act V. LOVtHS* vosvs. 9? 
 
 and distress. The circumsttince has wciirhed on my heart 
 like a rock of granite. You have often observed, that on a 
 dreary eveiiin'^, wlien I sat in my arm-chair with my pipe in 
 my mouth, and my eye fixed on tlie floor, 1 did not attend to_ 
 you, when you spoke to me, smiled at me, or caressed me. 
 I was then overpowered by the accusations of conscience, 
 and felt that all my riches, that even you, my child, could 
 not restore to me the blissful sensations of an honest man. 
 Thanks be to Heaven, those sensations are restored to me 
 the causes of their absenc e, my wife and son, are 
 i-cstored to me. This worthy man feels (Pointing to the 
 Pastor J antl I feel (pointing to his heart) it is my 
 duty to acknowledge them as my wife and son. What think 
 you ? 
 
 Amelia. (Caressing him.) Can my father ask ? 
 Baron. Will the loss be no affliction to you, if your 
 father's peace of mind be purchased with it ? 
 Amelia , What loss? 
 Baron. You were my only child, and all ray estates 
 
 would 
 
 Amelia. {Gently ?-eproring him.) Hold, my father! 
 Baron. You lose some valuable manors. 
 Amelia. For which my brother's affection will requite 
 me. 
 
 Baron. And mine. {Clasps her uith fervour in his 
 arms.) 
 
 Baslor. (Turning aicay.) And why not mine ? 
 Baron. (To /At' Pastor. J My friend, I am obliged to 
 you for the cunriuest over one prejudice, to myself for the 
 Cfinquest (jver another. A man who, like you, is the friend 
 and supporter of virtue, raises his profession to the highest 
 pitch of human excellence of human rank. If all your 
 brethren rtseuioied you, Cliristianity might be proud in-
 
 100 tOVERS' VOWS. Act V. 
 
 deed. You are a noble man I am but a vuhleman. If I 
 be on the point of becoming more, I am obliged to you for 
 the promotion, I owe you much. Amelia, will you pay 
 the debt for me ? 
 
 (Amelia gazes for a moment at her father, in doubt how to 
 understand his words. He releases her hand, after leading 
 her towards the Pastor, into whose arms she immediately 
 flics.) 
 
 Pastor {Astonished beyond all measure.) Heavens ! my 
 Lord! 
 
 Baron. Say not a word on the subject. 
 
 Amelia. [Kissing him.) Silence ! I know you love me 
 {The Pastor releases himself from her embrace. Tears gush 
 from his eyes. He attempts to speak, but is unable. He then 
 approaches the Baron, seizes his hand, and is about to p7'ess it 
 to his lips, whenthe Baron zvithdraws it, and clasps him in his 
 arms. Amelia looks at them, and says) How happy do I 
 feel ! 
 
 Baron. {Beleasing hiinselffro^n iAe Pastor.) Zounds! I 
 shall begin to shed tears. Let me endeavour to compose 
 myself. A scene awaits me which will affect my heart still 
 more than this. Well, ray dear son, in a few moments all 
 will be at an end, and the last beams of the setting sun will 
 smile upon the happiest beings in nature's wide extended 
 empire. Where is Wilhehnina ? 
 
 Pastor. I will bring her hither. [Going. 
 
 Baron. Stop ! How strange are my sensations ! Let 
 me have another moment Let me compose myself. 
 {Walks to and fro, breathes zcith difficulty, and looks several 
 times towards the room into which the Pastor said he had con- 
 ducted Wilhelmina.)^She will come from that room ! 
 That was my mother's bed-room ! Often have I seen her
 
 Act V, lovERs' vows. ' 161 
 
 come from it. Often have I feasted on her fascinating 
 smile. How shall I be able to endure her care-worn look ? 
 Frederick shall intercede in my behalf. Where is he ? 
 Holla ! 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 Where is my son ? 
 
 Ser, In his chamber, my Lord. 
 
 Baron. Tell him he is wanted here. {To the Pastor,) 
 Go, then. My heart throbs most violently. Go, and con- 
 duct her hither. \^Exit Pastor. 
 
 {The Baron looks towards the room which the Pastor has en- 
 tered, and all the muscles of his countenance are contracted.) 
 
 Enter Wxlhelmina, led by the Pastor. 
 
 Baron. (Rttshes into her arms. She sinks into his, and 
 nearly swoons. He and the Pastor place her in a chair, and 
 he kneels before her with his arm round her waist and her 
 hand in his own.) Wilhelmina ! Do you remember my 
 voice ? 
 
 l-TiV. ( Jtt a weak and tender tone.) Wildenhain ! 
 
 Baron. Can you forgive me ? 
 
 Wil. Can I do. 
 
 Enter Frederick, hastily. 
 
 Fre. My mother's voice ! Ha ! Mother ! Father ! 
 {Throws himself on his knees at the other side q/" Wilhelmina, 
 and bends affectionately over both. The Pastor gratefully 
 raises his eyes towards Heaven, while Amelia reclining on his 
 shoulder, wipes her eyes. The curtain falls.) 
 
 THE END. 
 
 3
 
 ,-^ 

 
 ADELAIDE OF WULFINGEN 
 
 A TRAGEDY, 
 
 IN FOUR ACTS. 
 
 ^Exemplifying the barbarity which prevailed during 
 the thirteenth century.) 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF 
 
 AUGUSTUS VON KOTZEBUE, 
 
 Benjamin Thompson, Esq. 
 
 3Br0nDon : 
 
 rRINTED FOR VERNOR A"ND HOOD 
 Ko, 31, Poultry, 
 
 1805.
 
 Sir lltT.o oi- Wti.n.NOEN, a Ktu^ftt ofihc llolif Ow* 
 
 against the SutacfHs, 
 Sir TuEOBAiD of Wti.FiNGr,N, Ktiig/il of the llvlif 
 
 Cross against the Pomeranians and Vumktls Son oj 
 
 Sir Hugo. 
 Wi LI B A LD, 7 Sons of Sir Thcobal d, siv and seven years 
 Ottomar, S old. 
 Bertram, an old Boor. 
 Cyrillus, an Abbot of the Pranonstrantcs. 
 MrsTivoi, Chief of a Heathen tribe. 
 A Monk. 
 A Child. 
 Adelaide, Tf'j/c f/ Sir Theobald. 
 
 Squires, Followers, tVc <Sc.
 
 ADELAIDE OF WULFINGEN. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 TliP Stage represents an open place in a Heathen Village. 
 Jn the back ground is an Idol overturned, and near it, on 
 Gil eminence, a Cross erected. On hoik sides are the re- 
 mains of Huts, some plundered and burning, others still 
 smoking and ha/f demolished. 
 
 Sir Theobald or WrLriNCEx and his Squire are discovered 
 making their uay over the ruins. 
 
 Theobald. (Jleturns his suord into the scabbard, and 
 throics himself breathless upon a hillock.) Enough ! Enough 
 of toils anrl cania'j;e ! Sound my herald ! Sound a retreat 
 to yon merciless mob ! I commanded you to fight, and ye 
 have murdered. I pointed your swords against the breasts 
 of men in arms, and ye have plunged them into the hearts 
 of sucking babes Oh God, whose all-seeing eye lias brood- 
 ed with an avveful gloom over the horrors of last night, 
 here do I stand before the rising sun, the image of thy 
 majesty -. Here do I stand, and, with self-acquitting con 
 science swear, that sacred to me have ever been the duties 
 of my order. Blood lias stained this sword, yet may every 
 drop which has issued from the breast of a woman or a 
 child, fall on my soul in liquid fire ! Ah ! what distant cries 
 E5
 
 106 ADELAIDE OF WULFINGEN. Act I. 
 
 of anguish strike my ear ! The shrieks of women ! the 
 screams of infants ! Away, Bevys ! I too have a wife. I 
 too have children. Away, Bevys ! thunder to the cowards 
 to cease the carnage of defenceless people : and let thy niace 
 fell to the earth him who dares to disohcy. [Exit Squire. 
 Oh ! suffering Redeemer ! There amidst the carcases of 
 the vanquished, have thry fixed thy cross. The blood of 
 the slain still trickles down the hill. True, 'tis but the blood 
 of heathens, yet surely the blood of men. And can thc^e 
 smoking ruins be an acceptable sacrifice in thy sight! I\fy 
 heart expands. An irresistible voice calls loudly to mc; : 
 ** I'hey were all thy brethren." 
 
 A Child, uilh tattered clothes and dishevelled hulr^ is nm- 
 7iing affrighted past. 
 
 Child. My motlier ! where's inv mother ? 
 
 Theobald. (Starts.) Boy ! whom scek'st thou ? 
 
 Chilli. (Cri/ing.) ]My mother ! my mother ! 
 
 Theolxild. Heavens ! 
 
 Child. Oh ! they've killed my father and my little sister. 
 Wy youngest brother lies yonder bleeding to death. \\'here's 
 niv mother ! Where's my mother ! 
 
 Theobald. Come to my arms, poor w retch ! 
 
 Child. There stood our hut. All is gone. Oh ! how it 
 burns ! Our little garden is covered with ashes. \\ here can 
 I go ? Mother ! mother ! (Runs au-ai/, and is still heard at 
 a distance calling in a tone of distress J'or its mother.) 
 
 Theobald. How my whole frame shudders ! How my 
 bristling hair raises liie helmet from my head ! Boy ! Boy ! 
 cease thy cries. Thou criest the courage from my heart. 
 What is this courage ? Boldness to f:ncounter, or patience 
 to endure ! Perhaps both, and here both forsake me ! Oh I 
 what then is courage, if a whining child can thus unnerve a
 
 Act I. ADELAIDE OF WULFINGEN 107 
 
 hero's arm ? My knees totter when I catch a f;ulin<: eye, 
 and the sro;iiis of the dving make a very woman of uie. 
 Tis well t!ie buttle is over. I could not fight now. 
 
 lie-enter Squ'ue. 
 
 S./uirc. All is silence. The streets are covered with car- 
 cases of men, women, and children. The honour of the 
 Almij;hty is avenged. The sanctuaries of the idols are de- 
 molished. The holy cross is seen on every side. But few- 
 heathens have escaped ; some hundreds, with the chief of 
 their tribe, are our prisoners. Our band returns triumphant, 
 and laden with rich booty. 
 
 Theobald. Booty didst thou call it .? Call it pillage, pil- 
 lage which I do not wish to share. 
 
 Squire. Not far from the village, too, I found the Monk, 
 who accompanied us upon our expedition. I could not but 
 Lm:^h at the ^oud innn. In the heat of battle he had 
 cliinhed the hi^iicst oak, and was slily peeping through the 
 branches, till I told liim that the danger was all over, when 
 he descended from his covert, and is following close at my 
 heels. 
 
 Theobald. Fierce as a boy to blow the blaze, and fear- 
 ful as a boy to skulk into a corner when it spreads around, 
 has ever been their way. How strange are niy sensations ! 
 An invisible hand tears away the cloud of artifice, and truth 
 already dawns in the horizon. Would I were at home with 
 the partner of my soul ! 
 
 Enter Monk. 
 
 Monk. Praise be unto God ! Ilail noble knight ! The 
 Lord was with your sword. Fallen are the proud heathens, 
 and demolished their abominable idols. My eye is mois 
 E6
 
 108 ADELAIDE OF WVLFINGEX. Act 1, 
 
 tened with a pious tear a tear of heavenly joy, when I he- 
 hold the emblem of the holy cross, erected by your valiant 
 arm. 
 
 Theohnld. Give me then your testimony that I have ho- 
 nourably fulfilled my vow. You well know how your ab- 
 bot, by the pious zeal which flowed from his lips, by papal 
 bulls, by absolution, and promises of blessing, persuaded 
 me (o tliis excursion. Ci\e me your testimony, in his pre- 
 sence, tliat I have fulfilled the word of a khight. 
 
 Monk. That will I. I will relate to him what miracles 
 of valour you performed in our holy cause before my eves. 
 Theobald. (In a tone of derision.) Pardon me, good fa- 
 tlicr ! 'Tvvas beneath your eyes. 
 
 Monk. And he shall double your absolution, shall extend 
 it to your children, and bless you through a thousand gene- 
 rations. 
 
 Theobald, 'Tis well. Then I shall be blest enough. Now, 
 M-Ith the hand of a knight, take the irrevocable oath, that, 
 as long as this arm can wield a sword or lance, it never shall 
 again contend for the church, or for God, as you call it. 
 Monk. Sir knight, sir knight, you forget yourself. 
 Theobald. I do not little as I ever shall be able to forget 
 tjie scenes of horror, which last night I witnessed. I hold 
 you at your word. Did you not give your testimony that I 
 had fulfilled my vow ? Have not I, have not my ancestors 
 yet done enough ? Have you forgotten that, for three and 
 twenty years, I have been fatherless? that Hugo of Wul- 
 fingen went to the holy land, against the Saracens, and 
 tlure, probably, found iiis grave } 
 
 Monk. A blessed martyr, if his blood flowed for thcglory 
 of God ! 
 
 Theobald. Yet my tears, and the tears of my mother, 
 flowed for him.
 
 Act I. ADELAIBE OF WULFINGEN, 109 
 
 jHohIc. Pearls in the crown of the just. 
 
 Theobald. Fine words you have at command, good father^ 
 
 Monk. The words of the church's servant, his testimony 
 and his blessing hear the soul aloft, as upon the beams of 
 light, to heavenly bliss. Shielded by them, no angel will; 
 obstruct your way. But if your choleric valour cannot brook 
 empty words 'lis well, sir knight, to you belong deeds. 
 Arise ! Fight for the honour of our God ! Is your arm 
 already weary ? Is your sword already gorged } Behold, 
 ail the tribes which dwell upon the coast, arclost in careless 
 indolence, and where perchance one fugitive escaped your 
 arm, he has poured dismay and terror into every trembling 
 heart. Arise ! Ilally your followers ! Away to fresh 
 victories ! 
 
 Theobald. Spare your lungs, good father; I abide by my 
 oath. Of what avail can these base conquests be to God, 
 to you, my country, or myself.'' God needs no champion. 
 I could once have reckoned among my foliowers, many a 
 valiant warrior to wield the sword or battle-axe. What are 
 thoy now ? Robbers, who spare neither age nor sex, and 
 then cast lots for plunder. 
 
 Enter a follouer of Sir Theobald. 
 
 Follower. Sir knight, we are conducting to your presence 
 the ciiief of the tribe, which we have conquered. Here is 
 his banner. (Presents a long stuff, on the point ofuhich is 
 fixed the image of a bear.) A proud and stubborn man. 
 
 Monk. Has he blasphemed .? 
 
 Follouer. Not so. He speaks but little, yet each word 
 is a command. His impressive tone, his hoary locks, and 
 his dignified mien, constrain the most stubborn to submis- 
 sion. He comes.
 
 110 ADELAIDE OF WfLrrXGEX. Acfl 
 
 Enter Miht ivoi, gtiarded, <ind in chaina. 
 
 Mistivoi. \^'liilher will you lead me ? Wiiy do you driig 
 me over the boilies of my brethren, and the smoking ruins of 
 uiy former dvvellmgs ? Is it not alike to you where I die ? 
 Slay me. I'll go no further. 
 
 Guard, Bend thy knee before that cross. 
 
 Mistivoi. iS ever ! 
 
 Man!:. How ! Darcst tliou insult our God ? 
 
 Jllistivoi. Never did I insult your God, nor should I, had 
 I been your conqueror. Never did I bend my knee before 
 your God, nor will I, though I am your slave. 
 
 Monk. Hear, Sir knight ! He attacks the honour of God. 
 At the foot of the holy cross, let his blood, drop liy drop 
 
 Theohtdd. Reverend father, I heard no attack. ( Hctlj 
 aside.) Old man, I venerate thy pride. 
 
 Monk. Sir knight, 1 command you in the name of God 
 
 Mistivoi. Is this your knight.? Is this he, who, like a 
 dastard, falls, when it is dark, on a defenceless tribe ? Is 
 this your knight ? Is this lie, who only draws his sword to 
 plunge it in the hearts of infants ? 
 
 Thcohald. (Giasjing Itis suord.) ]Man ! But tliy 
 chams protect thee. 
 
 Mistivoi. \^ hy her^itate ? 'Tis but one murder more. 
 Or dost thou think it a less honourable deed to butcher an 
 infirm old man, than a poor helpless babe ? 
 
 Theobald. Rude man, thou dost mistake me. 
 
 Mistivoi. Oh ! I know thee well. The groans of the 
 dying too plainly told me who thou art. How they all stare at 
 me ! Some with scorn, others with compassion. Stare at 
 me still, but with scorn, not compassion. Scorn I can re- 
 turn: compassion hurts me. 
 
 Theobald, Take off his chains, and leave us. ^Guards 
 bei/.)
 
 Acl I. ADELAIDE OF WULFINGEN. Ill 
 
 Mistivoi. I know not, knight, is tills benevolence ? Have 
 you thus rid me of my fetters, that I n\ay die at liberty ? 
 Then, take my thanks. Or is it mockery ? Wilt thou make 
 me feel, that, even when free from chums, my arm can 
 do no more. Then woe he on thy head ! 'i he first fire- 
 brand, vvliich I seize, shall hurl thee to destruction, 
 
 Theobald. I meant to dive into thy soul. I wished to 
 converse coolly with thee. 1 wanted to find means to calm 
 thy boiling blood. For this I took away thy chains. 
 
 Mistivoi. Coolly ! Art thou mad ? I had seven sons 
 they are all fallen, I had three daughters thy villains have 
 defiled and murdered them. I had a wife a wife who, for 
 forty years had shared my joys and sorrows there she lies, 
 weltering in her blood. Coolly ! Coolly ! I was chief of 
 this tribe, revered and loved. Young and old- assembled 
 round me on festivals, and called nie father. Even last 
 night, I stood in the circle of my friends, and hailed the 
 setting sun. To-day I stand alone bereft of children be- 
 reft of wife. Coolly ! Coolly ! I had a peaceful dwelling, 
 fertile fields, and thriving flocks. My house is now a heap 
 of ruins, my fields are all laid waste, my flocks are bleating 
 for their sheplierd. 
 
 Tkeobald. (Extremely agitated.) Hold ! 
 Mistivoi. (Aj'te?- a pause, during zchich he observes him 
 cl.oseh/.) Young man ! Thy outward fashion seems assum- 
 ed ; it is, perhaps, imposed. What had I done to thee ? 
 We had never seen each other. I had ne\cr injured thee. 
 Why didst thou fall on me and mine, when we had lost our 
 cares in sleep? Hast thou too children ? Hast thou too a 
 heart ? (Theobald is abashed and silent.) 
 
 Monk. We took arms by command of our God, toer^ct 
 his holy cross among the heathen, to conduct the blind into 
 the path of light, to convert wolves into lambs, and unite 
 them to the flock of the Lord.
 
 112 ADELAIDE OF WULFINGEN. Act 7, 
 
 Mistivoi. Then should ye have approached our lonely 
 huts, with the palm of peace in your hands, and the honey 
 of persuasion on your lips. Then should you have preached 
 the word of truth, and sent conviction to our hearts. Had 
 ye done this, perhaps wc had willingly followed your in- 
 structions. 
 
 Jkfo/r. Dost thou not acknowledge, then, our God's omni- 
 potence, and your idol's nothingness? Behold ! There in the 
 dust it lies ! The holy cross is reared on high. 
 
 Mistivoi. Shallow boaster ! Mortal hands have formed 
 that image : Mortal hands have formed this cross. Mor- 
 tal arms have levelled that with the earth, and planted this 
 upon the hill. Why talk, oi thy God and of our God .? We 
 have but one God. And must the blood of hundreds then 
 be shed, because one chooses a cross, another a lion's face, 
 as the symbol of the Invisible ? 
 
 Monk. Hear, Sir Knight ! Tie blasphemes. 
 
 Theobald. Peace, monk ! Revere hrs age. 
 
 Monk. If thy heart pay less regard to God's honour than 
 to his, 'tis well. Think then, at least, of all the dreadful ra- 
 vages, which, for a long train of years, have been committed 
 on our lands, by these rude barbarians, ever since Henry 
 the Lion, and Bernard of Ascania were no more. Think of 
 the poor christians, who have been forced by them to bear 
 the galling yoke of slavery. Think of the wives and children 
 wliom they have made widows and orpiians. 
 
 Mistivoi. 'Tis false. Never has my little tribe, since I 
 have governed it, advanced beyond its peaceful limits. 
 Never liavc my subjects gained subsistence by plundering 
 their fellow-creatures. Never liave christians languished in 
 our dungeons. 1 myself possessed but one. He was old 
 and more my friend than slave. Nor did I either force or 
 betray him hither. I bought liim of my neighbours.
 
 Ad T, A581AIBE OF WUtPJNeiJf. 113 
 
 Monk, A christian! Merciful God! Where is he? 
 Whither has this sheep stra^'ed ? Has it not heard the 
 voice of the shepherd? 
 
 'flteo(iukL( Who, throughaut this scene, has appeared to 
 huTC bt'en dfcplj/ immersed in tktnght, now approaches the old 
 viftn nith exulted ifct timorous mien, and offers his hand,) 
 Cmi'st thou furtive me ? 
 
 Mistivoi. (Throrring Imck his hand.) Never! Thou 
 hnst rohbcd lue of uU, uud were I now to forgive thee, thou 
 would'sl fill up tiie ujeasure of thy cruelty ^Thou would'st 
 grant nic life. 
 
 TheohthL But if I repair all that I am able to repair, if I 
 replace thee in thy rights, collect thy scattered subjects 
 round thee, release the prisoners, lay the bloody booty at 
 thy feet, rebuild thy huts 
 
 Mistivoi. (Raising his ei/cs towards AearCH.J Oh ray 
 ^vife, my children ! 
 
 Theobald. (Stands as if struck dwnb. A solemn pause 
 ensues. Then ?<<//( tcannth.) Oh that the departed breath 
 of life would but obey my voice! Yet thou, old man, 
 whose silver locks inspire my soul with reverence unutter- 
 able, thou wert not merely a husband and a father; thou 
 wcrt the head of a far larger family. On thy lips hung 
 doctrines of wisdom and of peace. To thee thy tribe was 
 indebted for ease and comfort ; without thee it must have 
 perished. Take buck this staff, this ensign of thy dignity. 
 Still make thy little people good and happy, and become a 
 member of our church. 
 
 Mistivoi, Young num, in thy eye beams the goodness of 
 thy heart. I understand thee. This was not thy cruelty. 
 (With a gUince towards the Monk.J ^Thou wert but the 
 instrument. (Presenting his hand.) ^I forgive thee. The 
 blood of tlie slain be not on thee nor on thy children. I take 
 back the staff drenched in the gore of my friends. I take
 
 114 ADELAIDE OF WULflXCEX. Act I. 
 
 it, to do good, while my weary foot still rests upon the 
 brink of the yawning grave. But my faith 1 never will re- 
 nounce. I am old. 3Iy days can be but few. Already 
 is the potter kneading the clay, from which my urn is to be 
 formed. In the faith of my fathers have I lived : in the 
 faith of my fathers will I die. 
 
 Monk. Hear, sir knight ! lie blasphemes. 
 
 Mistivoi. But to thee be full permission granted, to send 
 men into my territories, who may peaceably announce those 
 "doctrines, of which they affirm themselves possessed. To 
 my people, too, be full permission granted, to adopt those 
 doctrines. If they but fulfil their duty towards me and 
 their brethren, I shall be silent. 
 
 Theobald. I am satisfied. But one condition more. 
 Thou hast mentioned the purchase of a christian slave. 
 IVIy duty, as a knight, forbids me to leave him among hea- 
 thens. 
 
 Mistivoi. I go in search of him. But, ere I leave thee, 
 stranger, give me thy name. 
 
 Theobald. Theobald of Wulungcn. 
 
 Mistivoi. And he with whom thou speak'st is old Mis- 
 tivoi, and as a proof tliat he no longer feels resentment, he 
 divides this ring. (Diaus a ring from his finger, breaks it, 
 and gives half oj' it to I'iwohakl,) Take this, and if ever 
 thou again approach these dwelUngs, thou, or thy son, or 
 randson, let him send it to me. Then will I acknowledge 
 the bond of hospitality now made between us, and receive 
 Jiim in my hut when I again possess one. (After a puuae 
 of heartfelt sensibility.) Farewel ! 
 
 Theobald. (Rushes into his arms.) Farewel ! Be my 
 fritnd. 
 
 Mistivoi. I am thy friend. The blessings of thy God 
 and of mine be showered upon thee ! Trust me, youth,
 
 Act, T, AfiELAIDE Of Wt'LFIXGl.X. 1 lo 
 
 such men as wc shall meet aiiain, whether before the throne 
 ot Jehovah, or in the blissful habitation of Iladegast. 
 
 Evif. 
 
 Theohald. (Leans monrnfuJh/ a<:tdnst a trce.j Be nut 
 ashamed of such a tear. Let it flow unchecked. 'Tis a 
 tear, that well becomes a knigiit. What virtue, but may 
 be found in this heathen ? I took his all and he forgave 
 inc. Blush christian, blush ! 
 
 Monk. Sir kniii;ht, be on your guard. A heathen's virtue 
 is but mere hypocrisy. 
 
 Theobald. ( Peevishh/,) Psliaw ! Mutter thy litanies, 
 and count thy beads. Thou shalt not subdue ray faith in 
 Imman nature. 
 
 Monk. This is the language of ihe tempter. Son of the 
 church, steel thy heart ! Armour of the Lord, shrink not 
 from thy faith ! Have you then, sir knight, forgotten the 
 oath, which you swore before our pious abbot, at the altar r 
 Have you forgotten tiic solemn protestation, that you would 
 exterminate this cursed race.' And yet live many iiundred 
 prisoners. Yet lives the proud imperious Mistivoi. 
 
 Theohald. Yes, and shall live. I have fulfilled the dread- 
 ful vow ; of this you have yourself given testimony. Not 
 one more drop of guiltless blood shall now be shed. 
 
 Monk. Is this the language of a christian hero .'' Will 
 you not rather restore their idols, and oiler sacrifice to them, 
 even at the foot of the holy cross .? 
 
 Theobald. Beware of derision, reverend father. Do you 
 wish the propagation of the gospel ? Well ! This too is 
 provided for. You heard the agreement made between 
 Mistivoi and myself. 
 
 Mo)ik. An agreement with a heathen ! A bond between 
 Christ and Belial ! You promised to save all that could be 
 saved. You promised to return the costly booty, which 
 was destined for our pious abbot and the church. Where
 
 116 AOEtAIOE OP WULFINGEN. Act I. 
 
 tljcn are all your raighty plans? You would clothe our al- 
 tar. You would melt the impious ornaments of all their 
 idols into golden chalices, silver censers, images of saints. 
 
 Theobald, I understand you, reverend father. The booty 
 shall be valued, and the loss made good from my own pro- 
 perty. 
 
 Monk. Sir knight, I thank you in the church's name, 
 but 
 
 Theobald. No more, lest I repent, that the cross upon 
 my mantle was received from the hands of your abbot. 
 But yesterday, as I was arming for tlie expedition but yes- 
 terday, my zeal began to cool, my resolution wavered. 
 
 Monk. To cool and wavered ! You see, sir knight, how 
 busy Satan 
 
 Theobald. Satan had nothing to do with it, good father. 
 
 Monk. How so, sir knight, liow so ? By what means 
 
 Theobald. By what means ! Why should I be ashamed" 
 of the eonfession ? By the tears of my wife. My Ade- 
 laide gazed at me with such anxiety, followed me so mourn- 
 fully through every passage, heaved such deep sighs from 
 her bosom and when the servant entered witli my armour, 
 she burst into a flood of tears when I braced on my corse- 
 let, sorrow quite overwhelmed her she threw licr arms 
 around my neck 
 
 Monk. Sir knight, can you be led away by the toying of 
 a woman ? 
 
 Theobald. No, good father. I know my Adelaide. 'Tis 
 true I raised her from the hun^ble cottage, to make her the 
 companion of ray life ; but in her veins fiw s as noble blood 
 as if her ancestors had been a race of heroes. Never has 
 one ihought, unworthy of her present rank, reminded me of 
 what she was. How often, when I have been summoned to 
 the field, has she, with her own hands, buckled on my har- 
 ness, and with cheerful mica gone with me to the castle-
 
 Act I. ADELAIDE OF WULFINGEV. 117 
 
 gate ! But yesterday, unaccountable presages seemed to 
 labour in her breast. Her parting kiss was bathed in tears, 
 and, with a voice of heart-felt sorrow, she bade me to spare 
 the unfortunate, but most to regard myself. 
 
 Monk. To spare ! Truly she was mighty generous. Are 
 not these the very heathens, who, some eight years ago, in 
 one of their excursions, dragged her father into bondage ? 
 
 Theobald. True, and Adelaide has mourned his loss, but 
 not by renouncing her humanity. The mean sensation of 
 revenge is foreign to her. 
 
 Enter aj'olloaer ofSm Theobald, uith Bertram. 
 
 Fol/oncr. Sir knight, this is the christian slave sent by 
 ^Mistivoi. 
 
 Theobald. Come nearer. How long hast thou been a 
 prisoner? 
 
 Bertram. Eight years. No but five years. The three 
 last, spent in Mistivoi's hut, have not been years of bon- 
 dage. 
 
 Theobald. Tell mc from what part of our country thou 
 earnest, that I may return thee to thy master. 
 
 Bertram. I am a boor in the demesnes of Wulfingen. 
 My master is Sir Hugo of Wuliingen. 
 
 Theobald. Whose son now stands before tlicc. 
 
 Bertram. Then you must be Sir Theobald. Heaven 
 bless you, noble Sir ! 
 
 Theobald. Thy name ? 
 
 Bertram. Bertram. 
 
 Theobald. (Starts.) Bertram ! Heavens ! Hadst thou 
 n daughter ? 
 
 Bertram. (Alarmed.) A daughter ! No Yes 
 
 Theobald. Is Adelaide thy child ^
 
 118 ADELAIDE OF WULriXGEX. Act I, 
 
 Bertram. (Extremely agitated.) Adelaide ! Yes 
 that is my dauiiliter's name. Is she alive ? 
 
 Theobald. (Clasps him in his arms.) Adelaide is my 
 wife ! 
 
 Bertram. (Thundevslruch.) Your wife ! 
 
 Theobald. My good, my inucli-loved wife! 
 
 Bertram. God of Heaven ! How is that possihle r 
 
 Theobald. To virtue and to beauty all is possible, I, one 
 day, found her at a well. 'Twas not long after the hcaihc iis 
 had carried thee off. She was weeping. I asked her the 
 reason of her grief. " I am an orphan," answered she. 
 " Ere I could lisp, I lost my mother, and, but a few d;iys 
 since, the Vandals robbed me of mv father." Her words, 
 her tears, sunk deep into my lieart. I went and 1 return- 
 ed. I saw her oft, yet never saw her enough. i\Jy uncle 
 had fixed upon a lady of high birth to be my wife but all 
 in vain ! Already was I bound in the soft chains of love. 
 I laughed at ancestry, and led my Adelaide to the altar. 
 Thanks be to Heaven, I ne\er, for a moment, have re))cnt- 
 cd such a choice ! Come, old man, thou shalt be a witness 
 of our happiness. Thou shalt see grandchildren. 
 
 Bertram. (Ahcat/s ff/(/;7?;r(f.J (irandchiidren ! 
 
 Theobald. T\\o sweet lads, if I be not blinded by a fa- 
 ther's fondness. But wliv ddst thou thus tremble ? Why 
 dost thou thus wildly roll thy eye? aroiuid ? Has the voke 
 of bondage made thy heart insensible of joy ? Or how ? 
 Dust thou think thou shalt be less my father, because blind 
 late has nsride thy son-in law a knight, and thee a boor .' 
 I'ear it not. Thou art the father of niy wife. I will revere 
 thee. My children will revere thee. 'J'liou shalt pass the 
 remainder of thy days in undislurl.'.d tranrjuillity. 
 
 Bertram. I thank you, sir knight. Allow another ques- 
 tion. 
 
 T'icobald. Call me son.
 
 Jet I. ADELVrDE OF WULFrXGEX. 119 
 
 Bertram. Is your father yet returned from Palestine? 
 Theobald. Alas ! No. Why dost thou dash this worm- 
 wood in my cup of joy ? For twenty years I have had no 
 account of him. Doubtless he fell a sacrifice to the fury 
 of the infidels, with many another knight, who went into 
 the iioly land. Thousands of tears have I shed for him, as 
 a child, on the lap of my mother; as a youth, on the grave 
 of my mother : and as a man, on the bosom of tiiy daugli- 
 ter. Let us quit the subject. Be the rest of this day dedi- 
 cated to joy. Heavens ! ^^"hat a full measure of deliL'ht 
 awaits my Adelaide ! How much was she deceived by all 
 her frij^htful omens ! I go to sound an immediate retreat. 
 Hold thyself in readiness. In a few minutes we bend home- 
 ward. [Goes with the Monk. 
 Bertram. What have I heard ? Wretch that I am ! 
 Shall I, then, be reconducted to my brethren, only to plunge 
 an atTectionate couple into irrecoverable misery ? Has God 
 prolonged my days, only to involve me in a contest the most 
 horrible, between religion and humanity? With a single 
 word, I crush four innocent fellow-creatures, drive them 
 into wretchedness, and bring down the ban upon their 
 heads. No. I xcill be silent. I'll tear my tongue from 
 
 my mouth. Adelaide ! My dear good Adelaide ! Oh ! 
 
 Why was I not allowed to die here in peace ? (The soimd 
 of a trumpet is heard at a diatance.) The signal of retreat ! 
 But ere I go, another tear upon the neck of generous JMis- 
 tivoi. Would it were the last that I am doomed to shed 
 on earth ! [Staggers over the ruins, leaning on his stick. 
 
 Scene, a room in the Castle of' Wulfingen. 
 Enter Cyrilli.'?. 
 
 Cj/rillus. (Tx>oks around.) Not a mortal to be seen. 
 For ever locked in her chamber, for ever kneeling to her
 
 1?0 ADELAIDE OF WUI.FINGFN. Acil. 
 
 crucifix, or among her maids, with loom and spindle, or in- 
 structing her two boys ! Is this virtue ? or is it her hu- 
 mour ? Perhaps botli. Perhaps too, neither. The title of 
 noble lady has inflamed the daughter of a l)oor. She has 
 somewhere heard of such a word as honour, a glittering tov, 
 of which she shortly will be tired. Could 1 but arrive so 
 far as to discover that the language of my eyes was no 
 longer unintelligible, that when I gazed at her with melt- 
 ing tenderness, she no longer looked at me with such how 
 sliall I express it such stupidity, such apathy ; could I 
 arrive so far as to see her eyes cast upon the earth, when 
 in my presence, then my game were won. If the knight 
 allow me but suflicient time, if father Benjamin will but 
 obey my orders, in kindling his breast with enthusiasm, in 
 dragging him from one nation to anotiier, from one contest 
 to anotlicr; in holding heaven before his eyes, whenever 
 liis zeal flags; and if, in spite of all bis intrepidity, some 
 lucky heathen spear at last should reach his heart Ha! 
 what a golden opportunity ! To console the mourning wi- 
 dow. To creep into her heart bcncalli the mask of pity ! 
 But Ixjld ! Who comes? I was almost ttio loud. 
 
 Wn iKAT D <m(/ OttomaI! /ioj) iufit [In room. 
 
 Milihald. (iod bless voii, father abbot. 
 Otttnnar-. God bless yon. 
 
 CyrilJnx. T thank you, clulcircn. \\'!iei'e is your moslier? 
 IVUiha/d. I don't know. 
 l)ttomar. (C(isci]iic)ilit:/li/.) But T do. 
 Cyrillus. Well, let us hear then, my little fellow. 
 Ottomar. But what will you give me, if f tell you? 
 Cyrilhis. Are you so covetous r ^\ ill you do nothing 
 unless paiJ for it ?
 
 Art I. ADELAIDE OF WULFINGEN. 1^21 
 
 Ottomar. O yes, to poor people. But my father says you 
 are rich, and have more than you want. 
 
 Ci/iillus. Does he say so ? It seems, then, T must bribe 
 you. 
 
 Wilihalil. Bribe ! Fie, brother ! 
 
 Ottomar. How can I help it, if he calls it so? 
 
 Crjrillus. Look, Ottomar ! what a pretty picture. 
 
 Ottomar. (Grasjn eagerly at it.) Who is that man 
 with a great key ? 
 
 Ci/rillus. St. Peter. 
 
 Ottomar. ^Vhat can he do with that key ? 
 
 Ci/rillm. He can open the gates of heaven. Now, tell 
 me where your mother is. 
 
 Willbald. You've taken a bribe. Now you must tell. 
 
 Ottomar. No. There, father abbot, take your picture 
 back. My mother is gone to the village, to draw water 
 from the well. 
 
 CijrilliLS. She lierself ! Could she not send any of her ser- 
 vants ? Are there not springs close to the castle gate .? You 
 must be lying, boy. 
 
 Ottomar. Do you know what I did lately, when great 
 Bevys, my father's squire, told me I lied ? 
 
 Ciirillus. Well ? 
 
 Ottomar, I struck him on the face, 
 
 Ci/rillu?. And what did great Bevys do ? 
 , Ottomar. He ran to my father, and told him. But my 
 father was not angry. [Runs away. 
 
 Wilibald. And my father was right. 
 
 [Runs after Jiis brother, 
 
 CyrUlus. Like parents, like children ! 
 
 Enter AoELAinr, zcith trco n-ater pilehcrs. 
 
 ITravcn blr'>? yon, noble ladv ! 
 Vol, H. ' ' V
 
 I'J' ADr.i.Aior. OF wui.FrN'Gry, Act T. 
 
 Aihht'ule. And yon. roxerond al)ljf>r. 
 
 Ci/rilli(s. Is it, tiicii, truer 1 thoui^lit that Ottom^r hud 
 told nic a falsehood. 
 
 Adelaide. I'liat he dare not, even though in jest. What 
 was it that you would not credit ? 
 
 Ci/ri'lui!. ( I^iin'i'ii: al the pitchers.) Your descent to 
 the employment of a menial. 
 
 Adetnidr. Docs this surprise you, rrvrrend ahhot .-' You 
 may, perhaps, miitukc it for ostentation, since I iiavc so 
 many servants, and an industrious wife mav he employed 
 to better purpose, than in bringing water from the well. I 
 will explain it. To you my birth is not a secret. Ti'jilit 
 years are on tins day elapsed, since I went down with thc-p 
 same pitchers to yonder well. I\Iy tears \\cre mingled with 
 the water; for, you may remember, at tiiat time the \'a;i- 
 dals had just robbed me of my father, the oiily prop of mv 
 poor helpless youth. Sir Theobald saw me, loved me. and 
 made nie the happiest of women. Shall I not celebrate 
 this day? Long as I live, these pitchers shall retain their 
 jjlacc among my bridal ornaments. Never do I fail, upon 
 this dav, as soon as I have finished my morning prayer, to 
 vi-it yonder well. My reason tells uie that it is to re- 
 collect mv former lowliness. INIy heart tells me that it is to 
 ctiU to mv remembrance t!ie first words, the fu'st looks, of 
 nty dear Theobald. 
 
 C>jriUu%. This is commendable, noble lady. But beware 
 lest your affection should become idolatry. 
 
 AdeluiJr.. Oh that my affection were capable of increase ! 
 Am I not indebted to him for every thing.? Without him 
 what bad I been ? A deserted orphan, turned out into the 
 wide world, and exposed to every violence. The tears of 
 sorrow flowed into these pitchers, and for eight years I have 
 shed none but tears of joy. Oh that my affection were ca- 
 pable of increase ! Oh that this heart could love more fer- 
 vently.
 
 Act I, ADELAIDE OF WCLrrNGEN. 123 
 
 Ct/ril/us. (Aside.) ^Torture ! 
 
 Adelaide. (Depressed.) For the first time, in all these 
 liaj)py years, he is absent on this day. Bat, he is fighting 
 for our hoi}' church, and therefore I submit. What think 
 you reverend father ? May he soon return from this excur- 
 sion 1 
 
 Ci/rillus. As it iiappens, noble lady. lie swore to me 
 tliat he would level to the earth the heathen villages which 
 lav Ijcyond the Elbe, and destroy the inhabitants with fire 
 Hiid sword. If he should find the wretches unprepared, he 
 may witli ease at once annihilate them. If not, the days 
 may be prolonged to weeks. 
 
 Adelaidf. (luiising /ler hands and ei/es.) Pi'Otect him, 
 Gud of battles ! 'lis thy holy name for which he fights. 
 Cover him, ye angels, with your wings. Conduct him back 
 victorious, to the bosom of his affectionate wife, to the arm* 
 of his children. 
 
 Ci;rillus. (Aside.) Here am I again alone with her, 
 and not a single syllabic comes forth at my command. 
 
 \\'iLiEALD runs into the room. 
 
 Wdibuld. ^lother ! The guard upon the tower has blowH 
 Lis horn. 
 
 OrroMAR appears. 
 
 OUoinar. Mother! What a many men on horseback! 
 They make a dreadful dust. 
 
 Adelaide. Has not the ccntinel discovered who they are? 
 
 Wilibuld. TiieyVe too far off. 
 
 Adelaide. Go then, children, climb upon the turrets, and 
 when they are ncHrer, come to me again. 
 
 ['/7;e h(>)/s run uuay . 
 
 r 2
 
 124 ADELAIDE OF WfLnXGEN. Acl I. 
 
 Cijrillus. (So)newhat afraid.) Tis not one would 
 hope any hostile surprise, 
 
 Adelaide. Oh fear it not, reverend abbot. INIy husband 
 has no quarrels with his neighbours. Perhaps tliey may be 
 guests ; then 1 am only sorry Sir Theobald is abroad. Per- 
 haps, too, they may pass on the left to Ermersdorf. 
 
 Re-enter Wilibald arid Ottomar, uith a shout of joy. 
 
 Both. Mother ! Mother ! My father's coming ! My fa- 
 ther's coming. 
 
 Adelaide. My Theobald ! (Rushes out,folloued hy Wili- 
 bald and Ottomar.) 
 
 Cyrillus.-(As if thunderstruck.) Ten thousand devils ! 
 Father Benjamin ! Father Benjamin ! This is unpardon- 
 able. 
 
 end of act I.
 
 Act IX. ADELAIDE OF WULFINGE.N, 125 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 The Stage represents a place in front of the Castle o/' Wulfin- 
 gen. In the back ground is apart of the Castle, surrounds- 
 ed hy a moat, over which is a drazc-bridge that falls when 
 the curtain rises. 
 
 AcEtAiDE, Cyrillus, Wilibald, and Ottomar, pas$ 
 swiftly from the castle gate, over the bridge. 
 
 Adelaide, Oh that I may not be deceived ! 
 
 Wilibald. No, mother, no I The guard on the tower 
 knew my father's armour perfectly, and the white crest upon 
 his helmet; and father Benjamin was trotting behind him 
 on the mule. 
 
 Cyrillus. I congratulate you, noble lady. 
 
 Adelaide. Revereiid abbot, I thank you. Run children. 
 Climb up the hill, and tell me when they approach. 
 
 Both. (Running up the hill.) Huzza! My father's 
 coming ! My father's coming ! 
 
 Cyrillus. (Concealing his vexation beneath a smile.) 
 What transport these children feel. 
 
 Adelaide. Oh ! Mine is not more sedate. Willingly 
 would I run with them over every stone, were it but becom- 
 ing in a wife. And why should it not ? Custom and Fash- 
 ion are fell tyrants, and they impose their bondage even 
 upon love and tenderness. Children, can you distinguish 
 nothing ? 
 
 F3
 
 1S6 jkPyjAirK OF ^vutIl^GrN. Act II. 
 
 Wilihali/. (Holding Im hand above his f;;cs, )'l\\c sun 
 dazzles me. 
 
 Ottomur.(Baising hiimeffupon his toa.) Ouomui's so 
 little, iTiotber. 
 
 Cyrillvs. CIn a tone ofderisim.) It would seem as if 
 the knight had hut been paying a familiar \ibit. 
 
 Adelaide, (Emphaliculh/,) lie has, I cannot doubt it, 
 done his duty, and tiiat ho has done it in so short a time, de- 
 serves your thanks as the author of the expedition, and 
 mine as the expectant wife. Wilibald, can you sec nothing? 
 
 Wilibuld. Dust, dear mother, a great deal of dust, and 
 amongst it soracLliing glitters like arms. 
 
 Ct/rilliis.-^^ln a tone of derision.) If they rai^jc as much 
 dust on their return, as at their departure, 'tis a happy sign 
 that no one can hav lost his life in the excursion, 
 
 Adelaide, 1 know not, reverend abbot, what inference I 
 nm to draw from your remarks. Do you mean to attack 
 the honour of Sir Theobald ; or, why do you insult my ear 
 with such discourse ? 
 
 Cyrillus. Not so, noble lady 
 
 Adelaide. Not so, reverciid al'bot. I am not disposed 
 for any interruption to my joy. Wilihald, can you still dis- 
 cover nothing ? 
 
 Wilihald. {daps hi'i hands.) Tluzza, dear mother ! It is 
 my father ! It is my father ! I know his grey horse ; aiul 
 great Bcvys is riding behind him, and father Benjamin uj)ou 
 the mule, 
 
 Ottomav. I see them all, too, mother, 
 
 Adelaide. I thank thee, oh God, that thou iiast listened 
 to my fervent prayer, and thrown my dark presages to the 
 winds ! 
 
 Ci/rilliix. Presages, noble lady ! Have you ever felt their 
 influence ? 
 
 Adelaiie, Presages, or nervous terror call the sensation
 
 Act II. ADELAIDE OF WVLPINGEX, I'^cT 
 
 what you will. With fearful heart I always have surveyed 
 the steed, which was to bear my husband to the heat of bat- 
 tle. But never have I felt what yesterday oppressed me. 
 Mcthought, a world was laid upon me ! INItthought a gulph 
 divided me from my beloved Theobald ! Heaven be 
 praised ! 'Twas but ideal. iMy imagination catches such 
 quick alarm. 
 
 Cipillus. Be not so quick in your conclusions. Presages 
 are the warnings of the Almighty. 'Tis true your husband 
 now returns in health. For tliis we render thanks to God 
 and to Saint Norbert. Yet is there nothing but life, for 
 which you tremble ? I know, full well, fair lady, that strict 
 fidelity lies nearer to the heart of one, who loves like you. 
 ilovv if (which heaven forefend, but our tempter is ever 
 cu the watch) how if Satan, in an enticing moon-light 
 night, should have availed himself of some fair heathen, to 
 ensnare the pious knight. I have seen the;e fiery dames. 
 Lust is their idol. Modesty can tind no satictiiary v\iih 
 them; and Sir Theobald, as tliey say, inherited warm blood 
 from old Sir Hugo. 
 
 Adelaide. (Sii'iin^.) ueverend abbot, if yon would not 
 mistalce the jest, I should freely tell you, tint you bear poi- 
 son on yoin- tongue. But hark ! I hear tlie sound of 
 
 horses' hoof^i already echo through the valley. Come, 
 ciiildrcn ! (^uick to nicer your father ! (Rum uilh \Vi!i- 
 bald Liitd ()iron\;ir to iht'sidc ti/itie '1 hcuh.ild unproachts.) 
 
 Ci/! iilns. (Aiidc.) Davunution ! She is ai-nied on 
 every sitle. 
 
 Enter Sir Tueotjald, the Moxic, REuriiA^r, 6:c. &c. 
 
 Adelaide. (Tkioving her arms /'ovok/ Theobald's jiecl;.) 
 My husband ! So soon returned !
 
 I'iS ADELAIDE OF WLLH.VOE.V. Acl JJ. 
 
 Theobald. ( Rallj/iiig.) Not too soon I hope? 
 
 Adelnide. Bantercr ! I could almost answer, yes. 
 
 Ctfrillus. (Aside.) And I could almost burst vvitli vex- 
 ation. 
 
 Theobald. Never have I made so good an expedition ! 
 Heaven bless you, reverend Abbot ! I bring thee, Ade- 
 laide, a present, more valuable far than all thy jewels. 
 
 Adelaide, Yourself. 
 
 Theobald. Would'st thou make me vain ? I have long 
 been thine. No. I restore to ihce a stolen treasure, wliich 
 has cost thee many a tear May that and I for ever share 
 thy love ! Look round. Does thy henrt guess nothing ? 
 
 Adelnide. (Espies Bertram, who till noze- has been stand- 
 ing, full of terror, among the attendants, and Jiies into his 
 arms.) My father ! 
 
 Bertram.<^( lieturns her embrace, but sorroic and confusion 
 overspread his countenance.) My dear daughter ! 
 
 Adelaide. Oh ! This is more than all my warmest hopes. 
 Almighty Providence ! I have no words to thank thee. 
 Grant me tears ! Oh grant me tears ! And is it really you, 
 whom I thus fold in my arms ? Alas ! I feared that you 
 had long since sunk beneath the weight of age and grief. I 
 cannot look at you enough. You are just the same, except 
 that your hair is somewhat more grey. Oh God ! I have 
 HO words. My thanks are swimming in these tears. Dear 
 father, I am married. These arc my children. Come hither 
 Wilibald and Ottomar. Tliisisyour grandfather. Embrace 
 his knees and beg his blessings. CWilibald and Ottomar 
 kneel before Bertr.im.J 
 
 Bertram. (Caressing them bi/ turns, and raising them.) 
 Rise ! Ilise ! If the blessing of an old man who loves 
 you as his children can have any influence with the Al- 
 mighty I bless you. God shield you from every misfor- 
 tune or give you strength to bear it !
 
 Act IT. ADEtAIDE OF WULFINGEN. 129 
 
 Adelaide. How can misfortune enter into your thoughts 
 at such a happy hour ? All my wishes are fulfilled. 
 
 Wilibald. Dear grandfather, kiss me. 
 
 Ottomur. And me too, dear grandfather. 
 
 Bert mm. (Kissing tliem.) Sweet boys! ( MournJ'ul- 
 hi.) Poor good children ! 
 
 Theobald. Why this tone, honest Bertram.? Wliat is 
 wanting to their happiness ? Reverend abbot, such a 
 scene as this might draw down angels from the throne of 
 God. 
 
 Cyrillus. Fie, Sir knight ! To compare such earthly joys 
 to the blissful contemplation of the Highest. 
 
 Theobald. Pardon a layman, to whom the entlmsiasm of 
 relii^ion has n'ot yet lent wings to soar ' into tlie third 
 Heaven. 
 
 Ci/iillus. F.iithubiasin, do you call it i* You heap levity 
 on levity. But I purcion you, for the sake of that good 
 work wliich you have done. Your return wsis very sudden. 
 Doubtless you have rooted out lise heathen tribes, over- 
 turned their altars, abulislied their idols, autf brouj^ht their 
 gold and silver chalices for the service of the church. 
 
 Theobald. I have dcjne all tiiatlcould : I have done more 
 thau I ought. My oath, as a knight, bound me, wiih fire 
 and sworil to exterminate the heathen idols, and erect the 
 holy cross among them. I'alher Benjamin can testify I 
 have fulfilled my oath. 
 
 Cyrillus. 'Tis well. But as the angel of the Lord assu- 
 redly was with your arms, why did you not proceed to all 
 the neighbouring tribes, spreadmg destruction throughout 
 the heathen territories r 
 
 Theobald. Because hear it once for all, reverend abbot 
 because my sword shall never fall again on those, wlio 
 never injured me. If they be sheep, which wander in the 
 F5
 
 130 ADELAIDE OF WL'tFIKCEN. Ad IT. 
 
 desert, let the right path be pohued out to them, but let 
 them not be led to slaughter. I, at least, have no desire to 
 be the butciier. 
 
 Cyrillus. Knight ! 
 
 Theobald. Abbot ! 
 
 Cyrillus. Do you pretend to dictate to tlic church ? 
 
 Theobald. Oh no, reverend abbot ! I know my duties, 
 and fulfil them.' But, will you not participate our joy ? 
 Look round, and read, in every eye, the wish to spend in 
 pure tranquillity a day, which Heaven has so singularly 
 marked. 
 
 Adelaide. What can be the matter, my dear father ? You 
 seem uneasy. 
 
 Bertram. I am not well. 
 
 Adelaide. Come in. You want rest. To-dav, so many 
 different sensations have crowded on each other 
 
 Bertram. True ! True ! 
 
 Adelaide. Come, then. I,ean on me, that I may take you 
 to a quiet chamber. 
 
 Bertram, l^ot in this castle, my dear Adelaide. I am 
 not used to live within huge walls and tow ers. Let me re- 
 turn to my old hut. 
 
 Adelaide. Your hut is in ruins, uninhabited, and exposed 
 to every blast. Allow me the pleasure of attending cm 
 you. 
 
 Bertram. (With forced achnowlcdnmcnt . ) I must be 
 left alone or I shall die at your feet. I will have no other 
 dwelling than my former hut. 
 
 Theobald. Your will is to your children a command. I 
 will instantly disp-atch my people to repair your hut, and 
 provide it with every convenience. l\Ieanwhile,use the best 
 chamber in my castle, and let a cheerful meal complete the 
 pleasure of this day. lleverend abbot, is it your pleasure 
 to follow us ?
 
 Act IT. AFELAIDE OF WULFrXGEN. 131 
 
 Ci/rU!us. When I have fulfilled the duties of my ollicc. 
 
 Theobald. Till then farewel ! [Exeunt Theohald, Ade- 
 laide, Bertram, Wilibald, Ottomar, ^c 
 
 Ci/i-Ulus, {Looking at the Monk, wllk extreme graxiiij.) 
 VVell, father ? 
 
 Monk. (With great humility.) What does iny worthy 
 sujierior coir.mand ? 
 
 Cyrillus. Yes! Pretend that you have executed all my 
 plauj, and justilied my confidence in you. 
 
 Alouk. Aiy conscieace acquits nie. 
 
 Ci/rilJns: Indeed ! Then [ wish you joy of an easy cnn- 
 Pcicuce. You know not, I presume, how much I wished 
 for time, how much I wished to plunge Sir Theohald from 
 danger into danger, if possible to cause his death, at least 
 his absence for many weeks. You knew not that these 
 were my only reasons for promoting the excursion ; 
 Speak ! 
 
 ]]lo/ik. How can I he ignorant that such were your inten- 
 tions? Yet have 1 done every tiling to proloui: the expedi- 
 tion. T have not been content v^iih empty words, 1 seized 
 as'.vord, I plunged into tlie throng, and often was besmear- 
 ed with hostile l)l(jo(i. 
 
 CjiriUnti. Yes, forsooth ! You have done so much, tliat 
 nothmg now remains t'or me to do, and I perhaps may wait 
 in vain whole years, forsucii an opportunity. Will von not 
 retire to rest after your numerous fatigues? You will 
 scarcely recognize your cell 'tis so long since you forsook, 
 it. [Exit. 
 
 Monk. I must follow, and endeavour I:o appease him, hj 
 proving I have done my duty. [Exit. 
 
 Sir Hugo of Wulfingen, /// the huhii of a jnliirini, appears 
 upon the siumidt of the hill, uhivh is opposite to- the 
 atstk. F 6
 
 132 ADELAIDE OF WVLriXGEX. Act II. 
 
 Hugo. Ha ! Tliere it is ! There is Wulfingen ! Huil, 
 castle of my fathers ! Ilail, ye moss-grown towers ! In 
 blooming manhood I forsook you. In drooping ;ige I now 
 again behold you. I left these gates, accompanied by a 
 hundred valiant warriors : The swords of the Saracens 
 have slain them, and I return alone. (Descends the hill, 
 <nid,for a fcic )>io)nents,survci/s t hf castle 7cUJi great emotion.) 
 ^All is as I left it. No stone is broken : no tree is fallen. 
 I could almost fancy that the swallows' nests against the 
 wall were still the same. There, in tlie shade of yonder 
 towering oak, I, for the last time, pressed to rav heart niv 
 weeping wife, and blessed the child, that hung upon my 
 knee. There, beneath the roof of vonder straw-thalchrd 
 cottage, I, for the last time, held the infant in my arms, the 
 olTspring of my crime, the source of my never-ceasing an- 
 guish. Alas! What a crowd of sensations, which have 
 slept for three and twenty years, wake in this solemn mo- 
 ment ! Great God of Heaven ! I thank thee, that thy 
 angel, through so many perils, has thus brought me to the 
 habitation of my fathers, were it but to lay mysaplets bones 
 with theirs. How my heart beats! even more than at the 
 storm of Ptolemais. Each tree, each stone could I ask, is 
 my wife, and is my son alive? The windows of the castle 
 are forsaken: the bridge is down : no reaper in the field. 
 Here peace must reign, or the plague must liave exhausted 
 its fury. Tliou guardian angel of my latter days ! Whisper 
 to me whether joy awaits me in this castle: Or, shall I 
 return again to Palestine, and seek some heap of earth 
 where the poor pilgrim may repose in peace for ever.? 
 
 WiLiBALD and Ottomar come J'lvm the castle. 
 
 Otlomar. Come, brother ! I'll shew you the nest, that I 
 found yesterday.
 
 Act II. ADELAIDE OF WULFIXGEN. 1S3 
 
 Wilibald. Is it high? Must one climb ? 
 
 Ottomar. No. It's only in a low bush. 
 
 Wilibald. Then I don't want to see it. 
 
 Ottomar. Why not? 
 
 Wilibald. Where there is neither trouble nor danger, 
 there can be no pleasure. 
 
 Hugo. Two sweet boys ! iNIy heart throbs. 
 
 Ottomar. Look, brotlier, at that man with a long beard. 
 Let us go. 
 
 WilibaJd. No. We'll speak to him. 
 
 Ottomar. I'm afraid. 
 
 Wilibald. Then go, and look for your nest. {To Hugo.) 
 Who are you, old man ? 
 
 Hugo. A pilgrim O'om Palestine. 
 
 Wilibald. From Palestine ! Do you bring any news of 
 my grandfather ? 
 
 Hugo. Your grandfather ! Who is your grandfather ? 
 
 Wilibald. (With pridt.) The valiant Sir Hugo of 
 Wulfmgcn. Have you ever lieard of him r 
 
 Hugo. (Scarcely able to contain himself.) I believe I 
 have. 
 
 Wilibald. (Contemptuously.) You believe you have ! 
 You have not lieard of him, or you would not have forgot- 
 ten it. 
 
 Hugo. (Turning aside, and trembling zcith jot/.) Oh ! 
 God ! Wliat a boy is this ! And this is my blood ! Com- 
 pose thyself, old man. Thy liour is not yet come. 
 
 Ottomar. (To his brother. ) Wixat is he muttering to 
 himself ? 
 
 Wilibald. 1 believe he's thinking of some lie. 
 
 Hugo. Allow mc to ask a question, my dear boy. Who 
 is the knight that dwells in yonder castle ? 
 
 Wilibald Sir Theobald of Wulfingen,my fatlicr.
 
 184 ADELAIDE OF WITLFINGEX. Acl II. 
 
 Oltomar. (Raining liis voice above WilibaKl's) And ?/.j/ 
 father too. 
 
 Hugo. (Turning aziai/ zcith the utmost pasf^ibh: rnergi/.) 
 God of Heiiveii ! I thasik thee. (Jne qiicitioii more. 
 You spoke of voiir graiidtathcr, who went to Talestine. 
 (With tremulous utterance.) Have you then still a grand- 
 mother ? 
 
 WiUhald. No. She has loii;^ been dead. 
 
 Hugo. (Trembles and slouUj repeats the rcords.) lias 
 long been dead! (Aside, sorroafu/lj/.) 3Iargarctta! 
 (Endeavours to conip'tse /nmse/f.) Dear diildrcn, I am 
 taint and weary. Dare I heg a crust of bread, and a cup 
 of wine .'' 
 
 Bot/i. Directly ! (They are running to the castle.) 
 . Hugo. And if your faJier would allow me a nichi's 
 lodging in the castle 
 
 Wilibald. I'll ask niy inotlier. ]\Iy father's just returned 
 from battle, and asleep. I daren't wake him. (Jtton:;;r, 
 stay here till I conic back. 
 
 Ottoinar. (linnni'ig utter him.) I won't stav alone 
 witii that long-bearded man. 
 
 \F.reunt Wilibald </Hr/()trom;ir. 
 
 Hugo. Oh God ! IIa\ e then the sufierin<:s of three aiiil 
 twenty years at last appeased tlice ? Is it tlicn true, that I 
 shall yet find happiness ? Hast ihou, too, forgiven nu-, Oh 
 Margarctta, my acknowh'dLied wife .? Diilst thou not (piit 
 this world with a curse noon my head r Yes. I am un- 
 wortliy of the bliss which now awaits me. Let me but have 
 happy tiding'; of my Adelaide, and Angels may en\y mv 
 old age. What boys ! Scarcely could 1 refrain from f(;l(i- 
 in^r them in my arms. Of what race may their moilicr be ? 
 llarly has she sown the seed of love and honour hi ilu ir 
 hearts. God reward her for it ! iliiiht glad I am. that no
 
 Aet II. ADELAIDE OF WULriXGEX. 13j 
 
 one here can recognize me. The hearts of iny son and 
 daughter-in-law will lie open to nic. I shall try their kind- 
 ness and their hospitality. I sliall see whether Theobald 
 still reinenibcrs his old father, whether he wishes his return, 
 whether he will shed a tear for his death. What a sccne^ 
 if all should happen as I wish ! Let me only be upon my 
 guard, lest a father's heart too soon betray itself. 
 
 JS/eT Adelaide, Wilibald, a7idOTTOMAR. 
 
 The Bot/s. There he is, mother ! There he is ! {T/uy 
 run to him with the cup of icine and crust of bread.) 
 
 Hugo. Heaven reward you, nolile lady ! And you too, 
 good children ! 
 
 Adelaide. Vou are welcome, old man. If my boys have 
 understood you properly, you are come direct from Pak'S- 
 tinc. 
 
 Hugo. Noble lady, it is true. I have passed through 
 Greece, T')ulu;aria, and Hungary. For five long months I 
 have contended against hunger, thirst, and all the hardsliij)S 
 ofthislil'e. (Jft has Heaven been my roof, and the cold 
 earth my bed. Oft have I sought whole days, in vain, a 
 spring wiiere I might quench my thirst, a hut where I 
 might beg a piece of bread. 
 
 Adelaide. What, at your age, could induce you to at- 
 tempt so long a journey? 
 
 Hugo. My earnest wish to see ray native country once 
 again, to die where I was born, to have my eyes closed i;y 
 the hands of my children. 
 
 Adelaide. Have you children too ? Oh '. How will they 
 rejoice ! 
 
 Hugo. So says a father's heart. 
 
 Adelaide. Each day of absence, when friends nieet asraiii, 
 is a fresh drop in the cup of joy. Be thankful to Heaven,
 
 136 ADELAIDE OF WULFINGEN. Act II. 
 
 old man, for such bliss as yours is dealt witli a sparing hand. 
 My husband also had a father, who, more than twenty vears 
 ago, followed our emperor to the holy land. There proba- 
 bly he perished. Have you, in your travels, never heard 
 the name of Sir Hugo of Wulfmgen ? 
 
 Hugo. Sure have I, noble lady. Still more, I bear a mes- 
 sage from him to his son. 
 
 Adelaide. ( With extreme eagerness.) Indeed ! Speak ! 
 Is he alive ? 
 
 Hugo. He is. 
 
 Adelaide. And your message ? 
 
 Hugo. I can confide to none but to Sir Theobald. 
 
 Adelaide. Enter then with me. 
 
 Hugo. Pardon me, noble lady, I have made a vow 
 never to enter house or castle till the sun has set, 
 
 Adelaide. Run, then, children ! Wake your father, and 
 tell him instantly to come here. {They ohrj/.) May I be 
 a witness of your conversation? 
 
 Hugo. I request it. 
 
 Adelaide. At length our fervent prayer is heard. Oh 
 that we still may ho[)e to sweeten liis declining days ! 
 
 Hugo. Pardon my curiosity, fair lady. It arises not from 
 forwardness. Dare I ask from what race Sir Theobald 
 chose his worthy wife.? 
 
 Adelaide. {Somewhut confuaed.) Dare I answer you 
 from womankind ? 
 
 Hugo. T do not understand you. 
 
 Adelaide. I mean, that if domestic virtues flourish but in 
 one generation, I can liave no pretensions to them. My 
 ancestors possessed no castles : their names were never 
 known in heraldry. But, if fidelity, piety, and virtue, have 
 any claim upon a knigiit's afl'ections, I will not change my 
 heart for that of any noble lady. 
 
 Hugo. [Svinaihut struck.) Then you are not of noble 
 O'i in ?
 
 Ad II. ADELAIDE OF WVLFINGEN. 1S7 
 
 Adelaide. No, old man yet not on that account ignoble. 
 I am but the daughter of a boor. My father has no other 
 title than an honest man. 
 
 Hugo. {Aside.) Now, old fool ! Again stumbling over 
 childisli prejudice! After being twenty years in search of 
 wisdom, on the first, the happiest occasion reverting to thy 
 nurse's whims ! 
 
 Adelaide. My declaration seems to have surprised you. 
 Perhaps you are acquainted with Sir Hugo's sentiments upon 
 this subject. Will he think me unworthy to be called his 
 daughter? 
 
 Hugo. Fear it not, noble lady. As far as I can answer 
 for him, he is incapable of such injustice. At first it may 
 have some effect, and cause a frown upon his forehead; for 
 you know not how difficult it is to shake off the prejudices 
 of our childhood. Proud, and assured of having trod them 
 under foot, still they will often rise again. Yet sure I am, 
 Sir Hugo's forehead will be clouded for one moment only ; 
 and when he sees and hears that you, by stedfast love, de- 
 serve your husb'and's heart ; that you fulfil, with dihgent 
 attention, the duties of a mother, he will not deny his bless- 
 ing on the union. 
 
 Adelaide. Your consolation crowns my happiness. Yes, 
 the purest tenderness once joined our hearts, and for eight 
 years it never has been interrupted. 
 
 Hugo. (Almost forgetting himself.) Then may Heaven 
 pour its choicest blessings, on you ! {Recollecting himself'.) 
 This I may freely beg in Hugo's name. 
 
 Adelaide. (With uplifted hands.) Oh all ye host of 
 Heaven ! Conduct him to our arms, quick as our wishes. 
 How happy will I make liis latter days ! With what care 
 and tenderness will I watch over him ! How will my prat- 
 tlers hang upon his knees, play the dull hours away, and 
 read his smallest wishes in his eyes !
 
 138 ADELAIDE OF WL'LFINCEN. Act II. 
 
 Hugo. (Aside, dcep/i/ affected.) Oh God ! Dash from 
 my lips this teeming cup of joy, lest in my intoxication [ 
 forget iny gratitude to thee ! 
 
 Adelaide. There comes my husband. 
 
 Hugo. (Aside.) Be steadfast, old man. 
 
 Enter Sir Theobald, Wilibald, and Onoy.xR. 
 
 Theobald. Whore is tlie pilsrini, who lias named mv fa- 
 ther .' Welcome '.vith this hand ! 'J hou art the nics5cni:cr 
 of God. 
 
 H'jgo. Sir knight, I greet you. llio Lord he with y(ju, 
 and with your liouse. 
 
 Theobald. Thou hast known my father ! Speak ! My 
 heart yearns to hear thy message. 
 
 Hugo, For more than twenty years, Hugo of Wiililngen 
 has been my friend. I have fougiit at his si ie in Parthia, 
 Media, ]\''esopotamia, and Persia. Oft, with fraternal care, 
 we bound each others wounds, inflicted by the sabres of 
 our enemies. Qft, with fraternal love, vve shared t!ic last 
 dry crusr, the last poor draught; un'.il t!)e \M\vward chance 
 of war divided us. For when the emperor Frederick died, 
 he went towards As!;elon with F.nglish Richard, surnamed 
 Ca'ur de Lion. "Jhere was the battle between Sahvdin 
 and us. Fierce and bloody was the contest. Many a va- 
 liant knight was left upon the held. Among tlie re^t y.iuv 
 father was supposed (o have fallen, and I spent many tedious 
 years in vain cirjuiries after him. At lengtli, we.iry with 
 toil, I, eight months since, resolved (m my return to this my 
 native land, when, unexpectedly, 1 found old Hugo ami;iig 
 the sultan's prisoners in Babylon. 
 
 Adelaide and TluoUdd. A prisoner ! 
 
 Hugo. Thus it is, sir knight. He pines away in grievous 
 thraldom. How was his visage altered ! Scarcely Cijuld I
 
 Act II. ADELAIDE OF WrLFINGEX. 139 
 
 recollect tlic features of my friend. Ills cheeks were sal- 
 low his eyes sunk his beard long and kiiotfed. With 
 tears he threw his arms and chains around my neck, la- 
 menting that he saw no end to his miserable days. He 
 showed me his bed : It was a stone A potsherd filled with 
 water was his drink A little rice was all his meagre diet. 
 
 TheobakL O my unhappy father ! 
 
 Huso. " Alas," said he, " dear Robert, thou see'st the 
 base condition in whicli I hmguish, the chains that call my 
 hands and feet. But how my body is exhausted by the 
 ii;)on-tide heat, and labours to which I am not enured ; how 
 the blood gushes from my back upon my keeper's whip; 
 how the cold clews, and the unwholesome damps of night, 
 rob me of sleep, of health, and peace, this, friend, tiiou 
 dost not see." 
 
 Theohald. Hold, T besecclj thee, hold ! Each word is a 
 da2>j,er to my heart. (Adelaide iceep^.) 
 
 Hugo. " Tliou," contiiuicd he, " tiiou happy man, art; 
 now retaining to thy native country. May the Almighty 
 be thy guide ! But, shouid'st thou ptss my castle, commend 
 me to my wife, if she be still afivc, and my son Tlicobald. 
 Paint to them ail that my age is forced to suffer. Awake 
 in their boson^s the feelings of a wife and son, that tliey 
 may quickly gather all that Heaven has given them, and 
 hasten to reiieve from cruel blindage, a husband and a fa- 
 ther. Meanwhile, farcwcl ! I shall count the days of thy 
 pilgrinviire, and on this stone will I pray, during the long 
 long nights, tiiut angels may direct thee on thy way." 
 
 TheobcJd. Thanks, worthy old man, thanks for thus faith- 
 fully fulniiing ids directions ! Quick! \Vhat is his ransom ? 
 
 Hugo. (Shrugging his sh:)ul(Jers.)^Tcn thousand gold 
 bizantines. 
 
 Theobald, 'Tis much : 'Tis very much. But God will 
 lend his assistance. Wc must soil our castle, my dear wife,
 
 140 ADELAIDE OF WULFINGEIf; Act II. 
 
 we must convert every tiling into money, and do the utmost 
 we are able. 
 
 Adelaide. With all ray heart, dear Theobald ! This mo- 
 ment I will bring my jewels, golden clasps and bracelets. 
 
 Wilibald. And you shall have my dollar too. 
 
 Ottomar. ( Sorrozcfulli/.)llAve I nothing to give ? 
 
 Hugo. (Aside.) My heart will break. 
 
 Theobald. [Embracing Adelaide.) I thank thee, my good 
 wife. I thank you, children. This moment binds my heart 
 to you for ever. 
 
 Hugo. (Aside.) And mine too. 
 
 Theobald. We will retire to a cottage, and till the earth. 
 Bread we shall never want, and instead of luxuries, let us 
 feast on the delightful expectation, that we shall liberate 
 my poor old father, I hasten to the abbot. He has long 
 coveted my demesnes. When he knows my wants, he will 
 pay but niggardly. It matters not, if he will only give us 
 what we want directly. 
 
 Hugo. {Aside.) I can refrain no longer. 
 
 Theobald. Enter, old man, and refresh yourself with what 
 my castle contains. My wife will let you want for nothing, 
 See ! Here comes Bertram let him be a partaker of our 
 joyous hopes. 
 
 Hugo. (Aside.) True, 'tis Bertram. Oh that I durst 
 but call to him : " Where is my daughter?" 
 
 Enter BERTRAM^/wn the castle. 
 
 Bertram. You have left me quite alone. 
 
 Theobald. Come hither. Grieve and rejoice with us. 
 This pilgrim brings an account of Sir Hugo, my father. He 
 is a slave in Babylon. But this day I'll sell my castle and 
 demesnes, cast all at the Sultan's feet, and conduct my fa- 
 ther back in triumph.
 
 Ad IT. ADELAIDE OF WULFIXGEN. 141 
 
 Bertram. (Fixes his eyes attentively on Hugo.) How is 
 this ? Sure I am' not deceived ! Those features 
 
 Hugo. Thou art not deceived. I am he. 
 
 Bertram. (Throzcs' himself with a loud cry at Yiago^sfeet.) 
 Sir Hugo ! My master ! 
 
 (At these words all start, utter broken sounds of joy, 
 astonishment, and admiration, and surround the old man. 
 Theobald and Adelaide hang upon his neck, while Wilibald 
 and Ottoman embrace his kness. The curtain/alls.) 
 
 EXD OF ACT II.
 
 H2 ADELAIDE OF M'ULriNGFN. Act IIT. 
 
 JCT III. 
 
 A sahion in the cas'/c, 0;i the rcdlh hat/f; ei^ht juctures, 
 hir;.c as life, ihc anceilora of the iccc of Wnfn^en. 
 
 T.nicr Sin Ilcno, ehid in urmour, and BrRxr.AM. 
 
 IIus'\ Ilr.KE \vc are secure, lleir we shall not be o\er- 
 hcard h\ niouks or womr.n. Come nearer ! Answer me ! 
 Head the question in my eyes. 
 
 Bertram. (Wi'h fearful heAilaliGn.) You wish for in- 
 formation of your d;ini;iter? 
 
 Ih/g!K Tedious babliler ! IIow can this f hmate make 
 these inon so cold ? Speak ! ''peak ! Be not so sparin;^ of 
 thy words. 
 
 Pier train. Ah ! 
 
 Hhl'o. a bii^h I I iiiuLrstand thee. She i= dead Ano- 
 ther soul is jjone, to denounce vengeance against mC; at the 
 throne of CJod. 
 
 Jkrfram. Would to God tlnit siic were dead ! 
 
 Hu^o. \Miat say'st thon ? Is siie di-!ionourcd ? 
 
 F.ertmn'. Sir Unigh.t, jjrepnre yourself for a recital To 
 you t!)C world is nr)t unknown. Yon a>T v. el! aware uliar 
 chance f.ite Oh Cod! ily tongue denies its ofiice. Your 
 liair will bristle to'>var(Js Heaven, your blood congeal with 
 liorror in your veins. 
 
 lli'Sio. 'Vo v.hom dost tliou say this .? I have lived full 
 sixty years. I'or f\e and thirty, 1 Iiavc ijccn a knisiht. 
 Since I fors ok ihcciadlc 1 have been the sjiort of fortune,
 
 Act HI. ADELAIDE OF WCLFIXGEX. 143 
 
 liave learnt to distinguish trutli from error. If she be not 
 disiionoured, speak! I am prepared fur all. 
 
 Bertram. For fifteen years, your daughter was educated 
 as my own. She increased in stature, beanty, worth. She 
 enchanted every youth, attended on ray age, and managed, 
 at my wife's decease, mv little household. Never did any 
 one suspect her to be other than the real daughter of old 
 Bertram. My wife carried the secret with her to the grave. 
 I alone v. as able to solve the mysteiy of her descent. I 
 knew your sentiments, sir knight, I resolved never to with- 
 draw the veil, which covered what was past; and, as she 
 vj)\\ had reached a proper age, I cast my eyes around, jn 
 search of some good lad, who would promote her liappi- 
 r.ess. 
 
 Hugo. Ilight, old man ! Such was my ivisli. 
 
 Jiertram.'Yhe inscrutable designs of Providence have wil- 
 led it otherwise. Once, on a festival, in honour of our 
 euardian saint, the villagers proceeded early to the abbey, 
 leaving behind them only the old people. I granted my 
 dau:;hter permission to accompany her friends, as I myself 
 was unable to attend her. The neighbouring Vandals had 
 V aited for this moment, when all our strength was absent. 
 They fell upon our village, where not more than fiftv per- 
 soiis were left, plundered our dwellings, drove away our 
 cattle, and took the old men prisoners, who had staid be- 
 hind among the rest, myself. Eight years passed away. 
 I was a slave among the heathens : My^ daughter dead to 
 me, and I to her. But this morning (Oh ! why have I 
 survived it?) but this fatal morning, I was released from 
 bondage by your son. I came, and found your daughter 
 in tlifi arms of her brother. 
 
 Hugo. (Slarts like a man, who sudJenli/ espies a phanto)Jt, 
 tint hds courage enough to run towards it, and unmask it. 
 The muscles of' his face for scnne moments, express an inward
 
 144 ADELAIDE OF WULriXGF.N-. Act IIT. 
 
 struggle, which, however, soon subsides. That serenity, which 
 ever accompanies firmly-rooted principles, resumes its place iti 
 his countenance, and he turns to Bertram.) Well ! Proceed. 
 
 Bertram. (Astonished.) Proceed ! Pardon me, sir 
 knight. Anguisli has robbed you of your senses, or you 
 have not understood me. 
 
 Hugo. Nor one, nor the other. I still am waiting for the 
 dreadful story, which will cause my iiair to bristle towards 
 Heaven, 
 
 Bertram. Blessed virgin! Is not this dreadful enough? 
 Your son, the husband of your daughter your grandsons 
 sprung from incest your family subjected to the churcii's 
 ban ! 
 
 Hugo. Is Adelaide faithless .? Is my son a robber ? Are 
 my grandsons villains .? 
 
 Bertram. Oh no, no ! There lies all the misery. They 
 love each other with such sincere atTection, and yet must 
 part for ever. They have children too, who resemble an- 
 gels, and these little innocents they must resign to scorn 
 and infamy. 
 
 Hugo. INIust ! Aiul who shall force them .'' 
 
 Bertram. Heavens ! Can you ask, sir knight ? Are you a 
 christian, and would suffer this abomination ? 
 
 Hugo. Why not? Old man, thy scruples I can pardon. 
 Papal superstition has instilled them, ignorance of the world 
 has nursed them, and custom given them gigantic strength. 
 But, let us view, a little closer, the shadow which so much 
 startles thee. AMiat mischief can ensue from this con- 
 nexion ? Two hearts attached by a double tie, what increase 
 can their love, their happiness admit ? A mother by a bro- 
 ther, are not the children still more precious ? Are not the 
 parents still more amiable ? 
 
 Bertram. All true, sir knight. But 
 
 Hugo. Hold ! The picture is not half complete. I have
 
 Jit III. ADELAIDE OF WULFIXOEN. 145 
 
 hut painted them within the castle : Let us now look with- 
 out. Can a good father and a tender husband be a bad 
 ncii^hbour ? Can he covet liis neidihour's property, who, 
 with this wife, and these children, thinks himself far richer 
 than a prince ? 
 
 Bertram. Just and true, sir knii;ht. But the sin 
 
 Hugo. Sin ! Whom does it affect ? 'Sot me. Perhaps thee^ 
 Be easy, old man. This phantom too I dare be sworn I 
 can dissolve. Yet, there are higher duties, thou wilt say, 
 than I have mentioned, duties towards God. 
 
 Bertrarri. Alas ! There it rests 
 
 Hugo. Hold aijain ! Will he pray less fervently? And 
 mark ! His prayer is not the urjient and insatiable coveting 
 of riches and of honours. Tis gratitude, which streams 
 from a contented heart. Will he fight less bravely for his 
 country and the church, than ihe vai:;abond, whose courage 
 is not fired by any thought on wife and child? Will he with 
 less piety receive the holy sacrament, when he beholds the 
 conijjanion of his life devoutly kneeling by his side? Will 
 the pangs of conscience, in his last hour, assailhim, be- 
 cause, true to the impulse of nature, he has given to his na- 
 tive land two useful citizens, to the world two honest men 
 to Heaven two angels? No ! No ! No ! W'ith joyful assur- 
 ance will he appear, accompanied with his wife and children, 
 before the throne of the Almighty, receive his sentence 
 without ti-cmbling, and join his voice to tije Hallelujahs of 
 the blessed. 
 
 Bertram. But God's absolute commandment that we 
 should not 
 
 Hugo. I know what thou would'st say. God's first com- 
 mandment was the happiness of us, his creatures. This com- 
 mandment is as old as the creation. It extends lo every na- 
 lion, every religion. Wha God, through the mouth of Mo- 
 ses, established for the welfare of a single state, what pcr- 
 
 VoL. H. G
 
 .146 ADELAIDE OF WULFIXGEX. Jcl III. 
 
 haps, may really promote the welfare of every state, rmist, 
 at least, be subject to exceptions, and never was a case more 
 worthy of exception. Here then, old man, c;i\ e uic thy hand 
 with confidence, and let this secret be concealed for ever. 
 StiU let Adelaide be Bertram's daughter. Rtjoice witii nic 
 at the happiness of our children. Rejoice with me, and be 
 silent, 
 
 hertrum. As God may have mercy on mc in my dyini^ 
 hour, I cannot, sir knight, I cannot. That inward consci- 
 ousness of an aveii<;ing God rises in opposition to your argu- 
 ments. You ha\'e addressed my senses : They arc weak. 
 Address my heart, and I will iisttn to you. 
 
 Hugo. Thy heart ! Shall I paint the misery, which thou 
 bring'st upon us all ? Shall I describe the horrible distresses 
 of my children, and my grandchildren the despair of thy 
 old master? Shall I (unwillingly I do it,) shall I remind 
 thee of the many kindnesses, which I poured first on thy old 
 parents, and since on thee? 
 
 licrtrcmi. (Fulling and emhracing hU hncrs.) Oh no, 
 dear sir ! To you I am obliged for all. ' r is written in my 
 heart. But pay more reverence to God than man. Sdcri- 
 fice the temporal rather than risk the eternal. Gh ! Could 
 you tccl the pangs of hell, which rage within me, you would 
 have compassion on me. Oh that I could erase the tale of 
 horror from my recollection ! At least, let me shake the bur- 
 den from my heart at the confession chair. Our reverend 
 abbot 
 
 Hugo. (With griji>fh-ocili/.) Peace ! Tistcn to me, for 
 the last time. If the misery of my children, the distresses 
 of their boys, the despair of thy benefactor, cnn have no 
 effect upon thee, hear this solenm oath, which, on tlie word 
 and honour of a knight,! pledge in the ear of the Almighty. 
 If, with a single look, a syllable, or sign, thou darcst to hint
 
 Act 111. adklaide of n\ t i.hngkn'. 147 
 
 at this our secret, with my own haii.l I'll plunge my sword 
 into t!iy lie:irt. 
 
 Bertram. Do with your servant as may be your will, 
 ]My last breath siiail bless you. But my troubled conscience 
 orders me, in terms more dreadful tlian your oath, to en- 
 sure the salvation of my soul. As yet your children niaj 
 do penance for their sin, and through temporal misery as- 
 cend to S| iritual })libs. But tell me, what can I answer, 
 when your son appears before the dread tribunal of the 
 Judsie, and thus accuses me? "This man was privy to it. 
 He concealed the impious secret. He robbed me of the 
 only means by which my soul could have been rescued from 
 damnation." 
 
 Bi/co. Hear me, Bertram. Wilt thou be easy, if my 
 son, when told of all, should think as I do .-' 
 
 Bertram. (Seri!])u'ouslj/.) Then perhaps I might 
 H>'i.'0. Go then, and send him hither, 
 Bertram. How ! Would you 
 
 Hi/^o. I will myself disclose the secret to him; but, at 
 fiist without a witness. Be thou at hand, and wait till call- 
 ed. 
 
 Brrtrari. ("As lie leiirea the saloon.) Oh all ye saints ! 
 Have pity on a pour old man, bendiiig beneatlj die vvei'^ht 
 of conscience ! [Gne^i. 
 
 Hugo. Sach are the ctirsec! fruits of superstition ! But 
 what must I expect in this approaching liour ? Iheobald 
 must be tried, ere I venture the discovery. Should he he 
 60 vveaii as to piofer the dogmas of a monk to the everlast- 
 ing law ol' ;v;turc should his head a:id heart too be swayed 
 by bigotry, let my tongue be silent, and let Bertram die. 
 'Tis heitcr i';:it one, already on the brink of the grave, 
 should be a vic;im to his bhodness, thin that my whola 
 race should fall a sacriilce to prejudice, and sink for ever. 
 
 G 2
 
 148 ADELAIDE OF WtlI.Fr^Gr.^. Act III. 
 
 Enter Sir Theobai.d. 
 
 Theobald. You Iiave sent for me, my fatlier. 
 
 Hugo. My son, come nearer. We arc alunc. I have 
 much to ask of thee, and much to siiy to thee. I left ihte 
 a boy, occupied in climbing among the wood, and stripping 
 the hazel of its nuts. Thou art now become a man, and 
 thy amusement is to break a lance in combat, llast thou 
 Required fame at any tournament.? 
 
 Theobald. Twice, my father. At Worms and Regens- 
 burg. Both times in presence of our Emperor. 
 
 Hugo, 'TIS well. Hast thou ever been engaged in ho- 
 nourable quarrels, and settled them as well becomes a 
 knight ? 
 
 Theobald. Thrice for my friends, and for myself but 
 once. 
 
 Hugo. Why that once, and against whom ? 
 
 Theobald. Against Conrad of Rudolsheim. His servants 
 had been guilty of disorders in a neighbouring village, had 
 seized a woman and destroyed a house, and he refused re- 
 paration. 
 
 Hugo. When did'st thou make peace with him ? 
 
 Theobald. When he was conquered. 
 
 Hugo. Tis well. Hast thou never lost thy shield ? 
 
 Theobald. Never, my father. 
 
 Hugo. Tis well. Hait thou any wounds ? 
 
 Theobald. Five. ""^ 
 
 Hugo. All on thy breast ? 
 
 Theobald. (Rather hurt.) All, my father. (With ex- 
 alted heat.) In the abbey of Ermersdorf hangs a hostile 
 banner. I placed it there. 
 
 Hugo. *Tis well. Who instructed thee io arms ? 
 
 Theobald. My uncle.
 
 Act IIL ADELAIDE or WVLriXGESr. t4(? 
 
 Hugo. Who conferred knighthood on thee ? 
 
 Theobald. Duke Henry, the Lion, of Brunswick. 
 
 Hugo. Tis well. Thus far 'tis all right well. Embrace 
 me. 
 
 Theobald. {Embracing him.) And now, my father 
 
 Hugo. Hold ! Our account is not yet settled. How long 
 is it since thy mother died ? 
 
 Theobald. Nine years. She expired in my arms, and wa 
 buried with the bones of our fathers. 
 
 Hugo. (Turning away.) Margaretta ! {To Theobald.) 
 Did she die calmly ? 
 
 Theobald. Calmly and full of hope. She died as she had 
 lived. She blessed yourself and me. (Extremely mooed.) 
 Oh my father ! Will you open all my wounds afresh ? 
 
 Hugo, 'Tis well. Who gave thee instructions in re- 
 ligion ? 
 
 Tlieobald. Father Bernard, a monk of the Premon- 
 strantes. 
 
 Hugo. This is not well. Which of thy duties is to thee 
 most sacred ? 
 
 Theobald. My father, I have not considered this. To me 
 they are all sacred. 
 
 Hugo. Right, my son, but not all of equal weight. Duty 
 towards God is the first duty next honour then love 
 and then the church. Or, mukest thou no distinction be- 
 tween God and church? 
 
 Theobald. The church is in the place of God. 
 
 Hugo. But is not always the mouth of God. Hear me, 
 my son. Receive and ponder my discourse. After sixty 
 years of cool experience, a father now addresses his only, 
 his beloved son, whose happiness will ever be his warmest 
 wish. To-day, or to-morrow, I may be gone. With a lie 
 upon ray tongue I durst not look into eternity. Hear me* 
 OS
 
 J50 ADEi.AiPF OF s^-i iirxcrN. Jet J II. 
 
 j'e spirits of my ancestors ! You I summon, as witnesses 
 of" the truth. Strike me wiili icy nuuibnes;:, and spit sliarp 
 venom oil mc, if this last branch receive destructive doc- 
 trines from me : (Knee's doun.) and Tiion, ]''tcrnal 
 Being, whom I worship, take from n'.e the hiturncss of this 
 hour, and let it overtake me on my deatli-bed ! Praise be 
 nnlo thoe tliat I have found him an intrepid knisht : but let 
 me fird him likewise rtst/hitely steadfast with a heart equal 
 to his courace. Let nie find him iron towards prejutlice, 
 wax towards lo^e and honour. 
 
 Theobald. Your discourse, dear father 
 
 Hugo. My son, more than three hundred years are passed 
 away, since Hans of Wulfingen built this castle. He was 
 the first of all our race, whose own valour girded on his 
 loins the sword of knighthood. Our en^.peror Conrad the 
 first dubbed him in the year nine hundred and twehc, upon 
 the very field where he had shed his blood, in fighting for 
 bis native country against Hungary. He married VVulf- 
 hild of ^ickingcn, and from love towards her, be called this 
 castle \V ul ingen. He was slain in a quarrel for an image 
 of St. Pan!, which bis attendants bad secretly suffered to be 
 stolen. Tl)is, his son, (Foinfing to the second picture) 
 Eglert of VVulfmgen, was accused of having murdered one 
 Count Baldwin. The sacred tribunal, before which he was 
 tried, obliged him to attest his innocence by the sword. He 
 was slain; but his last breath atfiruu d tl)e accusation to be 
 false and villanous.' (Falniiag to the third picture^ His 
 son, Maximilian of Wuliiiigen as^-rted, at some jovial ban- 
 quet, tliat tlie image of the Virgin Mary, which worked mi- 
 racles at Emmerick, was a pious fraud. He was, in conse- 
 quence, secretly assassinated by the instigation of the 
 monks. (Foiiiiing to the fourth picture.) His son, Henry 
 of Wulfiugen, not profiting by the example of his father, 
 dared to utter some unmeaning words against the pope's au-
 
 Act 111. ADELAIDE OF V CtrrNGEX. 151 
 
 thority, was subjected to the ban, and fovsaken by his 
 friends, died broken-hearted. {Pointing to the ffth pic- 
 ture.) Ilis son, Albert of Wulfingen, fearful and weak, 
 from the example of liis fathers, and the education of a 
 monk, gave half his fortune to the cloisters, endowed the 
 church with many of liis best demesnes, died with arelique 
 in his hand, and was almost canonized. {Pointing to the 
 sixth picture.) His son, Herman of Wulfingen, went on an 
 excursion to convert tiie heathens to our christian faith. 
 His heart betrayed him. He became attached to a fair 
 heathen, and was compelled to leave her, because she con- 
 tinued faithful to the idolatry of her forefathers. He mar- 
 ried Maria of Siramern, who bore one son, but ill supplied 
 to him the place of the good heathen. He arrived at a dis- 
 contented old age, and died. {Pointing to the seventh pic- 
 ture.) My grandtVtther, Otto of Wuliingen, from some long 
 smothered resentment, was assaulted by three viilains of 
 the house of Leiningen, as he was returning, somewhat 
 weary, from the chaee. They slew him, and took refu ',e in 
 a Benedictine cloister, where, for a sum of monev, they 
 were pardoned in the name of God, and not a m n-\ ^\ dared 
 to bring an accusation. {Pointing to the eighth picture.) 
 My father, Francis of WuHuigen, wisliing to re\eni;e his 
 father's death, and eiiraged in a just cause, struck a lay- 
 brotiier of t!ie Bene iic'^iics, was subjected to the ban, ex- 
 communicated, and died in mi'^cry. Well can I recollect 
 the grief of ni" prxjr uiotiier ! But of that no more. I my- 
 self, my son, I myself !'.a\e completed this number of un- 
 happy beiiigs, whom superstition has plunged into destruc- 
 tion. I am nnt ashamed to tell thee, that, for one moment, 
 I have been a villain and what man is without such mo- 
 ments ? One only wicked deed has been to me the source 
 of endless agony. Thy naother was a good woman, though 
 G4
 
 158 ADFLAlbif. OF WliriNKE)?. Actllf. 
 
 beauty was not her inheriiance. She loved mo, while I was 
 but her friend. It %vas not in my power to press her with 
 ardour to my bosom, lor her I seldom felt desire, iiiid often 
 avoided her embraces. Whether she \veree\er conscious 
 of what passed within me, I am ignorant. She herself 
 (God reward her for it!j she herselt never uttered one harsh 
 word to me, never received me with a frown, and forced 
 from me my whole respect. But this was all. My love 
 (Slttmmcrs.) I must disclose it as a warning to my son- 
 nay love was oft bestowed on prostitutes, and every woniim 
 but my wife inflamed my passions. Once, on a parching 
 summer's day, I met a lovely creature in the lirld. Her 
 name was Rosamond. She was an orphan. She had nothing 
 left in this wide world, except her honour and of that X 
 robbed her. ^I'hou stai-t'st ! Thou shudder'st ! Right my 
 son ! Let this moment never be erased from thy remem- 
 brance, lleaven is my witness 1 had ever been an upright 
 man except in this one instance. Dost thou see the tear 
 that starts into my eye.' Of these I have shed millions, 
 yet eacli still scalds ray soul as if it were the first. 1 he poor 
 creature bore a girl in secret, and expired. 1 entrusted the 
 unhappy fruit of my transgression to an honest boor, whose 
 wife had lately been delivered of a ilead child. He swore 
 eternal secresy, and reared the forsaken being as his own 
 daughter. My peace of mind was gene. In motion, or on 
 my pillow, the pallid image of my Rosamond was floating in 
 my sight. In motion, or on my pillow, her (lying groans as- 
 sailed my ear. To regain tranquillity, 1 vowed an expeditiua 
 to the holy land against the Saracens, forsook my wife, my 
 child, and country, to follow our emperor Frederick the 
 Redbeaid, and in the name of God to murder men. v\ho 
 never had offended me. Oft as I plunged my sword mto 
 the vitals of a Saracen, I fancied that his blood would 
 cleanse me from my sm. lu vain ! I wrillied myself in an-
 
 Jet III, APELAIDE OF WVLFINGEN 153 
 
 j!;u!tih, on the holy tomb. In vain ! I imposed severe 
 penance on myself, and went through many a weary pil- 
 grimage. In vain ! Nor scourge, nor absolution, could 
 avail to cure the viperous sting of conscience. At length, I 
 was dangerously wountled in a skirmish, and taken prisoner 
 by tlie sultan of Babylon. There, for twenty years, I 
 languished in the fetters of the Infidels, till at last, with 
 other knights, I was ransomed by the emperor of the 
 Greeks, Weary of a delusive world, full of anxious wishes 
 to behold my family and home, I took a pilgrim's staff, and 
 urn, this day, returned. -I find my wife no more, and my 
 daughter {^Keenly riveting liis ei/e upon his son.) in the 
 arms of her brother. 
 
 Theuhald. {Petrijied with horror,) Thunder of Heaven ! 
 {After u pause, during which he is agitated by the full force 
 of this discovery.) Oh my wife ! My children ! 
 
 Hugo. (Closely sumeying him, aside.) ^'Tis well, 
 Speak, my son ! What wilt thou do ? 
 
 Theobald. Take my life, or let me have my Adelaide. 
 
 Hugo. Impossible ! Thou know'st the prohibition of the 
 Almighty. 
 
 Theobald. Then let the Almighty punish me. Why 
 did he sufier me to feel affection for her? I cannot lose 
 tier. 
 
 Hugo. Dost thou not tremble at the rigour of our 
 church ? 
 
 Theobald. I laugh at its rigour and its ban. He that 
 robs me of my wife, can plunge me into no deeper 
 misery. 
 
 Hugo. Thou must renounce her. I command it. 
 Theobald. I cannot, my father. 
 Hugo. My curse be upon thee ! 
 Theobald. I cannot, my father. 
 
 Hugo. The curse of thy mother be upon thee, from her 
 ^ra\e! G5
 
 154 ADELAIDK OF WULFrNGEN. Act III. 
 
 Theoluld. And if every sione should curse me, every gust 
 of wind should hreatlie diiinnatiou on ine, it matters not. - 
 I cannot. She is my all. And my children 
 
 Hugo, lis well, 'lis right well. Embrace mc, my 
 son. 
 
 Theobald. (Astonished.) How, my father ! 
 
 Hugo. Heaven be praised ! Thou hast fulfilled my every 
 hope. Be at ease. I wished to prove thy sentiments. 
 Adelaide is thy sister, but therefore is not less thy wife. 
 Were such a marriage, in such circumstances, sinful before 
 God, he would have planted natural abiiorrence in the 
 hearts of both. What is wholesome to society at large, is 
 not always a law for a solitary instance. Be of good cou- 
 rage then, my son, trust in God, love thy wife, endeavour to 
 make thy children honest, and deserve the blessing, which, 
 in this hour, from the fullness of my heart, I bestow upon 
 thee. 
 
 Theobald. Heavens ! My father ! My dear, good father ! 
 You awake me to new life. You restore to mc my senses. 
 Alas ! They were almost gone for ever. 
 
 Hugo. Yet must Adelaide suspect nothing of all this. A 
 woman's nerves would be too weak for such a shock. In a 
 woman's soul, superstition is too deeply rooted. She would 
 for ever think hesclf the vilest sinner, and by pious peni- 
 tence esnbitter her own days, as well as thine and mine. 
 Let her be, as heretofore, the daughter of old Bertram, and, 
 except ourselves and him, let no one ever dive into the 
 secret. Wiiere is he, that he may enter into this our bond, 
 and chain his oath to ours .'' Come nearer, Bertram. 
 
 (Opens the door.) 
 
 Enter Bertram. 
 
 {Seizes his hand.) Old man, congratulate me. I may no\ 
 rejoice in safety at my childrens' iiappincss.
 
 Act in. ADELAIDE OF VVULFINGEK. ioo 
 
 Theohal J. -{Embracing him.) Though thou art not the 
 father of my Adelnicie, I never shall forget, that to thy in- 
 structions I am obliged for my good, my faithful wife. 
 
 BerfT-um. {Still ulzcays sorroxcfal.) Then, you know 
 ail? 
 
 Hugo. All! All! Your scruples may vanish. The sin 
 rest on me, on hiin, and on his ciiildrcn ! 
 
 Theohald. Away with all thy false alarms ! Think not 
 of the past, but as it doubles our present joy. Forget all, 
 except our love towards thee. 
 
 Bertram. Dear, noble sir ! Yes, I will be quiet if I 
 can. You are two pious uprij^ht knights. You cannot wish 
 to rob me of salvation. 
 
 Hugo. The Almighty Ruler of the universe is witness how 
 firmly I believe, that we are not wandering in the path of 
 darknes-^. (Drwrcs his sword.) Come hither to me. Lay 
 your tiands upon this sword, and repeat my oath of ever- 
 lasting secresy. (Theobald repeats the oath zcith a firm, 
 and Bertram uith a tremulous voice.) By God and all his 
 saints I swc ir, th;it this tongue never shall reveal the birth 
 of Adelaide. If I break tliis oath may the dread punish- 
 ments of perjury be on my head may no remission of my 
 sins affijrd me rest may the horrors of my conscience pur- 
 sue me wherever I am driven by despair may they settle 
 on my death-bed, and rack me in my last agony, that I may 
 in vain attempt to piav, in vain desire to die may no sa- 
 cr;i;nent, no priestly blessing Le able to absolve me from 
 tills oath ! Tiie grave, which, one day, will contain my 
 bones, shall be the grave of this my secret. This I swear, 
 as I liope fur mercy from my God ! Amen. {Returyis his 
 sword info the scabbard.) 'Tisdone, Embrace me, both of 
 you. The sensation of repose, which has, for three and 
 twenty years, been foreign to this bosom, returns to-dav. 
 G 6
 
 15<J ADELAIDE OF WULFIXGKN. Acl III 
 
 Tlic prospect of happiness in my declining days now opens 
 to my view. My heart sits hght and easy. Every tiling 
 around me wears a lovelier aspect. Come, my son. Come 
 to the arms of my two-fold daujiliter. 
 
 [Exeunt Hugo and Theobald- 
 Bertram. Woe be on my head ! What have I done ? 
 What horror thrills through every vein '.What agonies of 
 hell possess me ! My oath was blasphemy. Iloary sinner 
 that I am ! The grave already opens at my feet ! One 
 transgression tumbles me to the earth. An abettor of in- 
 cest. God's thunder-cloud is lowering towards me ! 
 What mountain will hide me from the eye of the all-seeing 
 Judge? {Sinks upon nsccii, deprived of strength. A jiouse.) 
 Weak old man ! Thy brain's on fire. Compose tiiyself. 
 They arc phantoms, which thou seest. Cast but one look 
 upon that happy pair, upon those sweet harmless children, 
 cast but one look of humanitij, and all is at an end. What 
 devil (had he even served the cause of hell for many 
 thousand years) what devil would dare to draw upon himself 
 the curse of these dear cherubs? But am I not threat- 
 ened with our church's ban ? Will she not for ever cast 
 nie from her bosom ? Will she not renounce m* in my 
 dying hour, and leave me to the horrid tortures of my coji- 
 Bcience ? Conscience! Have I then alone a conscience? 
 Do not Sir Hugo and Sir Theobald share the iimoccnt de- 
 i:eit? Is their example insufficient for my peace ? Alas I 
 The bands of love have chained their unsuspecting hearts ! 
 Their eyes are dazzled by a temporal glare eternity has 
 vanished from their sight. True it is, eight years have 
 passed away, and God has suffered this abomination. No 
 lightning has been launched upon the castle. No hail has 
 spread destruction through tlie lands of Wulfingen. The 
 husband, who is brother, the wife, sister, the fruits of 
 incest all arc alive, awake eacli morning to some new
 
 Act III. ADELAIDE OF WULFINCEN. lof 
 
 delight, adore with cheerful mien their great Creator, and 
 as yet no mark of Heaven's displeasure has fallen on them. 
 God had a mark for fratricide: why not too for incest? 
 Audacious wretch ! Barest thou accuse the long-suffering 
 of thy Maker ? Darest thou search into his secret ways ? 
 Sinner ! Has not the Almighty given thee speech, perhaps 
 that thou may'st be the instrument to end this abomina- 
 tion ? And would'st thou be silent ? 'J'hink on tiiy last 
 moment, when thou shalt sif^li for consolation, when the holy 
 jtriest shall demand account of all thy sins, and ere thou 
 may'st be able to repeat it, some evil spirit gripes thy throat 
 when thou shalt long fortiie sacrament, anrl receive it but 
 to everlasting damnation when thou shalt depart with all 
 thy sins upon thy head, and be dragged by demons to the 
 
 dread tribunal of the Almighty. Avaunt compassion, 
 
 and avaunt all fear of maii ! T must save my soul ! I 
 must save my soul ! The weight of rocks is thrown upon 
 me ! The unfathomable gulph is gaping at my feet ! 
 {Sinks upon his knees.) Holy Virgin, pray forme. 
 
 Cyrillus enters the Saloon. 
 
 Ct/rillus. The Lord be with thee, pious Bertram ! 
 
 Bertram, You are sent by the Lord, reverend father. 
 
 Cyrillus. What ails thee ? Thy eyes roll iiorribly, as if 
 some heavy sin weighed down thy conscience, 
 
 Bertram. Alas I the tempter has tormented me. 
 
 Cyrillus. Then throw thyself into the bosom of the 
 church, and thou shalt be at ease. What thus afflicts thy 
 soul ? 
 
 Bertram. Reverend sir, you are right learned and pious. 
 Do a work of charity, and rid me of my scruples - 
 You know that I lived eight years among the heathens. 
 Many an abomination was I forced to sufter. Many
 
 158 ADELAIDE OF WULFINGEX. Act ITT. 
 
 a sin was I obliged to witness. Ami, if ever T iTientioned 
 the Almighty's vciiizeance, they laughed at me, and said lliat 
 reason contradicted me. 
 
 Ci/rillus. Ee.isoti without faith is as aboard at sea, or an 
 anchor upon land. 
 
 Berlraf/i. Among them resided a young coujjle united bj 
 sympathy and love, encircled with sweet children. Peace 
 dwelt beneath their roof, unsullied virtue in their hearts, 
 and yet this couple (Would yon have believed it, reverend 
 abbot ?) were brother and sister. 
 
 Ci;riUus. (Stiikes a cross.) Oh God ! How long-suffer- 
 ing art thou, that the torrents of tliv ckuids, and Sodom's 
 liquid sulphur have nut yet consumed every dwelling of 
 abomination ! And thou old man, darest to ascribe virtues 
 to such people, sinners, who wantonly transLic.-s the most 
 sacred commandments of our God? who, like the sons and 
 daughters of men in the times of our f<axfather Noah, d;iily 
 provoke the Lord to vengeance ? Dost thou noc know that 
 these seeming virtues are the wiles of the deceiver: [ see 
 (and my heart blccdsj I sccihi.t the heathen has corrupted 
 thee. Haste ! Haste ! Tlee for refuiic beneath the wings 
 of the mother church ! Chasten thy body by fasting aid 
 mortification ! Ave Marin, ora pro nobis ! 
 
 lierlrum. (Very n.-nc/i <ii:i!alri!.) 'I'hcn, yf>u think, 
 right learned sir, that if a true-li: lieving christian, by 
 chance without knowing iv slioul.l liave married his sister, 
 such a marriage ouglit not to he v;i!i,l. 
 
 Ci/ri/ltis. Holy Norbert ! Thou otTend'st my ear by such 
 a question. Incest ! Scarcely dares my tongue pronounce 
 the word. 
 
 Bertram. Forgive me, reverend abbot, if I wish to di\e 
 to the bottom of this matter. Now, if for many years an 
 union, like this, had been to the surrounding country an ex- 
 ample, if hopeful and well-educated children
 
 Act III. ADELAIDE OF WUtFIXGEN. 159 
 
 Ci/rilUi^. Hold ! I shudder. Woe, woe be on the oiF- 
 spriii^; of incestuous iuiercourse ! Or, tliiuk'st thou titen, 
 that sin is less a sin, because tiie dreadful consequences are 
 not visible to short-sighted mortals? Think'st thou that a 
 tliiefis less a thief, becaiisehe revels in apparent peace upon 
 the profits of his spoil ? Who is able to fathom the long- 
 suffering of God ? Who is able to unveil his wise designs, 
 if his arm be slow in launching the avenginir bolt? 
 
 Bertram. Oh reverend sir ! Answer me but another 
 question. What must he do, who is privy to a sin like this? 
 Ci/rillus. Go, and deliver up the guilty to offended justice 
 lest, at the latter dav, he be condemned together with them. 
 Bertram. But if they be his bcnefactois 
 Cyrillus. Who is his first benefactor ? Ciod. Who has 
 the first, most sacred claim upon his duty ? God. 
 
 Bertram. But if he be bound to keep this secret by an 
 oath 
 
 Ci/rillus. Woe be upon him, who lias, in the delirium of 
 his sins, been led away to such an oath ! Has ntjt the 
 church alone the power to bind and to absolve ? To break 
 his oath would be the first step towards repentance. 
 
 Bertram. (Eej/ond himself, kneels down.) Oh reverend 
 abbot ! Hear the confession of a miserable sinner. 
 
 Ciirilius. (Ohservinf!, him attentively.) No, Bertram. 
 ^This place is not proper for the dispensations of our holy 
 office. 
 
 Bertram. Hear me, for God's sake, reverend sir ! You 
 have wounded me in my most tender part ! You have 
 pierced my conscience ! You have poured glowing fire 
 through all my frame ! For God's sake hear me ! Alas ! 
 If oh, if at this moment the angel of death should seize 
 me, and I should be called to render up my spirit, laden 
 with this weight of sin, without confession and absolution 
 Oh ! have compassion on me, reverend abbot ! You
 
 160 ADELAIDE OF WrLFIXGEX. Act III. 
 
 are a servant of the Almighty, and one may, at any time, 
 converse with the Almighty. 
 
 Cyrillus. Proceed, then. 
 
 Bertram. Tis now some twenty years ago, that, early in 
 the morning. Sir Hugo walked into my hut. But a few 
 hours before, my wife had been delivered of a dead child. 
 *' Bertram," said he, as he threw back his cloak, and shewed 
 a new-born infant, " I know thee to be honest, and 1 place 
 confidence in thy honesty. Behold this girl. She is the 
 fruit of an unhallowed hour, when I forgot the faith, which 
 I had sworn for ever to my wife. Her mother is no more. 
 The child is helpless. Take care of it. Let it be reared as 
 thy own daughter. Here is money for the purpose." 
 
 Cyrillus. Just Heaven ! The scales fall from my eyes. 
 This child 
 
 Bertram. Is Adelaide. 
 
 Cyrillus. The wife of her brother. 
 
 Bertram. And mother of two boys, 
 
 Cyrillus. Wretch ! And thou didst not hinder 
 
 Bertram. Reverend abbot, you forget I was a prisoner. 
 
 Ci/rillus. (Checking himself.) Is Adelaide acquainted 
 with this dreadful story ? 
 
 Bertram. She believes me to be her father. 
 
 Cyrillus. Holy Virgin ! Holy jSorbert ! What a discove- 
 ry ! (Aside.) Excellent ! This may answer. 
 
 Bertram. What think you first of doing, reverend sir } 
 
 Cyrillus. (With feigned humility.) I am a weak mor- 
 tal, like thyself. Judge not, and ye shall not be judged. I 
 hasten to the temple of the Lord, to watch, this niglu, at 
 the steps of the altar, and chasten myself with fasting and 
 mortification. Perhaps, God may be pleased to favour his 
 servant with a revelation of his will. 
 
 Bertram. I beg then, reverend sir, thut you would grant 
 ute absolution.
 
 Att Itt. ADELAIDE OF WVLflXCEK. 161 
 
 Ct/rillus. Appeal" at the coiifessiou chair to-morrow after 
 matins, and I will then impose some penance on thee, timt 
 thou may'st, with a pure heart, receive the lioly sacrameut. 
 
 Bertram. Willingly, oh how willingly would I wound my 
 back with the sharpest scourges, would I kneel till the 
 flesh was worn from my knees, would I fast until my body 
 was a skeleton, if I thereby could rescue the unhappy pair 
 from everlasting damnation ! [Exit. 
 
 Ci/rillus. Joy ! Joy ! the day is won. The period of si- 
 lence now is at an end. I laugh at her rigid looks. I laugh 
 at her unshaken fidelity. Shall I, like a fool, any longer 
 stammer forth these distant hints ? No. With open front 
 will I declare my passion. Some degree of courage always 
 will be felt, when addressing one who is not totally devoid 
 of guilt. Welcome, old Bertram, welcome ! Hail to thy 
 devout simplicity ! It brings me nearer to the goal of mjr 
 iltsires, than love, though armed with cunning. [ji7. 
 
 JEKD OF ACT XII,
 
 162 ;4DLAIliE Ol WVLliKG.\. Aci IV 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene, the same saloon as in the third Act. 
 Enter Cyrillus and Adelaide. 
 
 Cyrillus. At last, noble lady, you have understood my 
 signal. 
 
 Adelaide. (Rather hurt.) Your sio;nal, reverend abbot ? 
 You must be disposed to jest. A pious priest, an honest 
 wife, and a signal ! How can these agree ? Secrets I have 
 none, even at the confession chair. 
 
 Cyrillus. Emblem of virtue ! You misunderstand me. 
 Methouiiht that to us both the time seemed lona:, and there- 
 fore was my sigual. The kiiijihts are sitting with full gob- 
 lets, and relating tales of chivalry and war. My garb ordains 
 sobriety in me. My ear is more accustomed to the psalter. 
 You too are out of place when seated at these revels. The 
 horrid descriptions of stabbing, trnd of hewing, of murder 
 and of fire, must hurt your tender hcarr. Can you then 
 think me wrong, if, for the sake of milder conversatum, 
 I have drawn you hither? 
 
 Adela'Je. Did you observe how my two boys, with 
 open mouths, hung on Sir Ilutro's words ? Did you observe 
 how my spindle even somctir.vcs fell upon my lap, when he 
 recounted, in such admirable terms, his feats among the Sa- 
 racens? I attend with rapture to such dangerous exploits, 
 when related by an humble knight. I feel a pleasure in
 
 Act IV. ADELAIDE OF WUI.ilXGEX. 1G3 
 
 the pain. I hold my breath, and listen to his every syllable. 
 Nay, more than once, I started from my scat with a loud 
 shriek, when my heated imapnation saw the taulchion sweep 
 within a hand's breadth of his head. 
 
 Ci/rillus. Like a child, when listening to its nurse's 
 tales. 
 
 Adelaide. And as happy as that child. 
 
 CyriUits. Such stories serve hut to inflame the fancy, and 
 to cause bad dreams. 
 
 Adelaide. A bad dream is pleasant too, fur the sake of 
 wnkiniT. 
 
 Ci/rillus. Fair lady, you are fond of contradiction. 
 
 Adelaide. I hope my husband is not of the same opinion. 
 
 CyrHius. Your husband ! Every third word must be your 
 husbi'.ud. Do you live, then, for him alone .^ 
 
 Adelaide. I should think so, reverend abbot. 
 
 Cj/rillus. And, on his account, renoimce all sociable 
 virtues? 
 
 Adelaide. That were wrong. Nor does he require it. 
 But where can I find opportunity to exercise them. Since 
 tiie last tournament at Ilegeiisbur<r, I have not left our 
 castle. Here no one ever visits us, except our stern old 
 uncle who prefers the pictures in this room, to all the 
 conversation of a simple woman. 
 
 CyrUlus. Then to my visits, you pay no regard? 
 
 Adelaide. Your visits, reverend abbot ! Why, yes. 
 Have I ever been uncivil to you ? And even if I were, 
 your otlice teaches you to bear with the failings of your 
 flock. 
 
 Cyrilliu. Yet not to hold my peaco, but by goad advice 
 endeavour to amend them. Your conduct to me borders 
 on disdain (With a look of tenderness.) and I have not 
 deserved it from you.
 
 164 ADELAIDE OF wri.riKcr.N. Act IV. 
 
 Adelaide. Nor was I conscious of it. The reverence 
 which your office must exact' 
 
 Cyrillus. Is of little value to the heart. 
 
 Adthide. Have you a heart too ? I thought it was your 
 duty to renounce it, when you received the tonsure. 
 
 Cyrillus. My duty ! True. Yet it will often rebel 
 against my inclination. Ail these oaths and ceremonies 
 are but a farce to catch the multitude. The church is not 
 so cruel to her children. To be an example to the world, 
 we JBUst appear to be poor, chaste, and obedient. But to 
 require that, in private too, this oath should be inviolable, 
 were to magnify the monk to an angel. 
 
 Adelaide. ( Seriously.)' Xo\i teach a doctrine which I 
 never heard before. 
 
 Cyrillus. Noble lady, understand me right. I mean to 
 say, the virtue of a mortal must be reckoned in proportion 
 to his strength. I myself can solemnly "swear, that, since 
 I wore this sacred garb, I never have departed from my 
 duty. (With increasing tenderness.) But there are mas- 
 ter-pieces of creation, to which all vows, and all religion 
 re in vain opposed ; where the eye forgets itself, the tongue 
 becomes a liar in its prayer, and the heart enters on its 
 rights. 
 
 Adelaide. (With cold solemnity.) Reverend abbot, let us 
 return to the knights. 
 
 Cyrillus. No, noble lady. That I must not suffer. My 
 looks must long have been no riddle to you. Long have I 
 been unable to conceal my trouble and confusion. Your 
 image follows me to the mass, to the confession chair, 
 and to tlie altar. (Seizing her hand.) Fair lady, I love 
 you. 
 
 Adelaide. (With the full sensation of that dignity which is 
 the constant companion <y'i9Jrfue.) What have I done. Sir. 
 that has iuspired you with the audacity to make so infamous
 
 Act Ur. ADEtAlDE OF WULFIXGEN. 1C5 
 
 a declaration ? Have I e\ev been forgetful of my duty? 
 Have I ever borne the semblance of a painted harlot ? Have 
 my eyes ever wandered round m ? Has any unguarded 
 word ever betrayed an unchaste heart ? And you dare to 
 avow your love to me- dare, in the presence of God, sur- 
 rounded by the spirits of my hirsband's ancestors, to attack 
 that nuptial fidelity which I vowed myour hands ! 
 
 Cyrillus. Be not enraged, fair lady 
 
 Adelaide. Enraged ! No. I despise you, and hasten to 
 Sir Theobald, that I may complain of the indignity, which 
 !ias so daringly been offered to the companion of his bed, 
 
 CyriUus. (Hindering her attempts to go.) Hold, Ade- 
 laide 1 As yet ray eye is beaming -with affection. You 
 know how nearly a rejected passion is allied to hatred and 
 revenge. Beware ! 
 
 Adelaide. Leave me, sinner ! Thou art a dishonour to 
 thy habit, and cover'st villany with the venerable mantle of 
 religion. 
 
 Cyrillus. (Holding her fast.) With a single epithet I 
 can annihilate thee. 
 
 Adelaide. Where can slander find an epithet able to an- 
 nihilate virtue ? 
 
 Cyrillus. Incestuous ! 
 
 Adelaide. You liave lost your senses. 
 
 Cyrillus. Thou art thy brother's wife. 
 
 Adelaide. You have lost your senses. 
 
 Cyrillus. Never were they clearer. Thou need'st but ask 
 old Bertram. Thou need'st but ask thy (what shall I call 
 him?) father-in-law. At once wife and sister at once 
 aunt and mother. A goodly family, in truth ! 
 
 Adelaide, Forget not, sir, that you must render full ac- 
 count of what you now declare, 
 
 Cyrillus. Account ! Why not ? Do you suppose that 
 there is any want of proofs ? One word may suffice. You
 
 1CS AT)tr.VIl!F, OF WLI.riNGF.X. Acl IV. 
 
 are the offspring of ii liappy hour, in whicli Sir Hugo revel- 
 led on the charms of some poor ueneh. Bertram was but 
 your fosler-futher. The lieathens carried him away, and 
 you became your brother's wife. 
 
 Adelaide. Tliis :s too mucii. Iloiiemlier that I :im a 
 wife and mother ; that you are [blunging a soul into dc^i):!'!-. 
 Iletract your dieadful dcclaraticiu, or produce sou)c testi- 
 mony of Its truth. 
 
 Cyiillus. Are you not sati:5ficd with the conics.sion of old 
 Bertram, which he, tormented by his conscience, has en- 
 trusted to my ear? 
 
 Adelaide. Heavens ! It is not cannot be. 
 
 Cifrillus, "]'is even thus, fair lady. Yet need you feel no 
 fear, while I renrain your friend. Collect yoiuseli' All 
 may yet be well. Awiiy \>ith that rigid look! Learn to 
 know and esteem my henrt. You can no longer i^e Sir 
 Theobald's wiie. I must report what has happened to the 
 holy chair at Jiome, but you well kn<jw, that all depends 
 iijjiai the mode in which i rcpf>rt it. I wi.i Ci)ntri\ c, tiiat 
 instead of being punished, you A\dV: be iixed in the neigh- 
 bouring nunnery at Sicgmar, ti;r yi)r.r life. Ihisnunnciy, 
 my beauteous .Adelaide, is, by u s-u'.tc rrancous road, cois- 
 nected with my abb;y. The abbess is my hijn;]. \(;u 
 shall want nothing, antl yinir afk ciionate t'viilUis \\\\\ 
 rsiecm himself a happy man, in sweeieuing your suli- 
 t.uv horns 
 
 Adelaide. Scum of infamy! Hence, thou iufeinal ii. po- 
 or i to ! Revere my misery. Kevere the suHcrings of virtue ! 
 Thou never shale degrade me to a deed uawortiiy of that 
 title. 
 
 Cv:rilh;x. F.xasjicratc me not. Rcuieuiber that your fate 
 rcst3 in my hands. 
 
 AdeUiidc. Sa\, in the hands of (>od.
 
 Act IV. ADELAIDE OF WUI.l'IXGFN . i67 
 
 C^iilli/s. T)o you still resist my love? Are you deter- 
 mined to drag me by compulsion to a vengeance the most 
 horriale ? 
 
 Adelaide. Begone, villain ! Obey the devil whom thou 
 servest. 
 
 ('(/'i/.'MS. Enou;j;h ! As you are deaf to the voice of a 
 friend, hearken to the priest of God, In the name of the 
 Crucified, I pronounce damnation on you ! In the name of 
 the church, I pronounce its ban upon you! Cursed be 
 Theobald, and his incestuous wife! Cursed be their chil- 
 dren and their children's children ! Let no true lieliever 
 have cop.ipassion on their hunger and their thirst ! Let fire 
 and water be denied tliem tlu-ouih the whole Roman em- 
 pire ! Let him be defiled who dares to touch them ! Let 
 this castle, tlie scat of rank abomination, be demolished, 
 and not one stone left upon another ! Let the armour of 
 the knight be broken at his feet ! Let him and the partner 
 of his infamy be chained together to a pile of wood, and 
 vomit forth their sinful souls amidst the flames, to the glory 
 of God's commandments ! Then, headstrong being, whea 
 the fire shall have reached thy hair,and when the smoke al- 
 ready chokes thy utterance, then call in vain for succour 
 and relief to the despised Cyrillus. With the smile of 
 satisiied revenge I'll listen to thee, and withdraw the glow- 
 ing coals, to feast upon thy lengthened sufferings. [Exit. 
 
 Adelaide. Heavens ! What is the meaning of all this ? 
 My joints totter. My head swims. I c:innot yet conceive 
 the horrors of my situation. I fancy all a dream, and look 
 around for some kind soul, who can relieve me from it. But 
 in vain! Which ever way I look or here or there des- 
 pair is standing wirh a ghastly grin. Bertram's dubious 
 conduct now too plainly verities the dire assertion. Oh ! 
 From the sunnnit of happiness and peace, thus, in a mo- 
 ment, plunged into the bottomless abyss of desolation!
 
 303 ADFT AIDE OF WUI.FINGFN. Jct IV. 
 
 Nor I alone My husband Children ! Heavens! My 
 children ! Is there then nopossihility of saving them ? Will 
 not one sacrifice atone for all to God and to the church ? 
 I am ready. I'll fly into the desarts waste my life in 
 dreary solitude mourn in distant cloisters mercy only, 
 mercy on Theobald, and his guiltless children ! On me 
 alone fall the vengeance of the Lord ! Against me alone, 
 who, forgetful of myself, dared to exchange the lowly cot- 
 tage for the grandeur of the castle, be the arm of the Lord 
 stretched out not against him, that generous youth, who, 
 in the fulness of affection, led a poor orphan to his bridal 
 chamber, and now finds the grave of his repose in the arms 
 of his sister ! Away ! Away, Adelaide, through night and 
 darkness ! Haste ! Fly till thy wownded feet no longer can 
 support thee ! Away to deserts !- Bury thyself within some 
 holy convent, that he may never hear thy name again. 
 Alas ! 'Tis all in vain ! This hypocrite, this monk, pro- 
 nounced a curse upon my children, and my children's chil- 
 dren. A mother's wretched fate will not alone content him. 
 He will annihilate us all. Oh! To whom may I, without 
 
 sin, confide my misery r But soft! Who comes? 
 
 Away ! Away into the garflen ! Every one, who dwells 
 within this castle, is a companion in my guilt. (As she i^- 
 going, she encounters Bertram, and sinks uith a ahtick to 
 the earth.) 
 
 Bertram. Oh ! The unhappy creature knows already. 
 (Throns himself at her side, and endeavours to rezire ho .) 
 My daughter ! My dear daughter ! 
 
 Adelaide. (Recovering.) Ah! Repeat that name! Give 
 me life again ! Declare once more, I am your daughter. 
 
 Bertram silent Ij/ raises her. 
 {Seizes his hand hastili/.) Come liither, father ! It was 
 false. Was it not ? That monk is full of poison. Poison- 
 ous wicked lies ! Were they not, my father?
 
 Ad IV. ADELAIDE OF VVULFIKGEK. XQ9 
 
 Bertram is silent. 
 
 You do not answer. Perhaps you do not understand my 
 words. lie Ims dared to say that I am not your daughter 
 and I love you so tenderly ! 
 
 IJertnim attempts to speak, but cannot. 
 
 You want to speak. I understazid you. 'Twas silly to 
 torment myself for such a reason. Your Adelaide is but a 
 child. 
 
 Bertram throns his anns round her n^ck and sobs. 
 
 With what affection do you share your daughter's grief! 
 \\ ho can now doubt that you are my father ? Peace ! 
 Peace ! 'Twas but a piiantom. 'Tis past, and I am well again, 
 
 Bertram turns axcay, raises his hands, and prays in 
 sHeitcc. 
 
 He is praying, T ought not to disturb him. But my 
 heart ! ^ly lieart ! It will burst from my bosom. Dear 
 father ! Let me only hear one syllable. With one single 
 s^yllable I will be content. I own that my alarm is folly, 
 yet think your cliild is now before you, 
 
 Bertram sobs, and continues to pray. 
 
 Good Heavens ! Is it, then, so difficult but once to call 
 me daughter } While I was little, when, at any time, you 
 held me on your knee, and I was playing with your beard, 
 I've often heard you say : "Dear child, thou art my only 
 joy." And now surely I cannot have offended you. Oh. 
 quick ! Call me your daughter ! Quick, my father ! 
 Tliink but if that were true, which the vile monk declared 
 your poor Adelaide and the poor little children- 
 Bertram remains in his former position, u-eeps bitterly^ and 
 is scarcely able to stand. 
 
 (liaising her voice to the highest pitch of anguish.) Yet 
 speak ! Father ! Father ! Oh ! Speak to me. (Shaking 
 him.) Call me dau;jhter ! For God's sake, call me daughter \ 
 
 ^ oL II. ri
 
 irO ADLI.AIDr. or -WVLlKsOFX. Act Jl'. 
 
 Bertram. (Falling to the earth.) Xo. Thou art not 
 fHv daughter, 
 
 Adelaide. (Wringing her hands in despair.) Oh God ! 
 Oil God ! [Ruahes out. 
 
 liertram. (Raising himself u-ifh diffleulfj/.j The cup is 
 nipty to its last dregs. I'll follow her. Despair has hurried 
 her away, and may perhaps lead her to the edge of some 
 steep precipice, or to the ri\cr's brink. I'll frjlow her, and, 
 if my search be vain, plunge after her. [Erif. 
 
 Enter Sir Hugo, Sir Thkobaid, rf CYKir.Lf?. 
 
 Hugo. (In jocund humoi/r.) How, reverend abbor, 
 could you vanish thus, ere you had pledged a welcome to 
 me, in the goblet ornamented with my arms? You pious 
 men are not, in gerveral, averse to \\ Ine. 
 
 Cvrilhis. Wine cheers the heart of man. My heart is 
 bleeding, and is dead to every jm'. 
 
 Hngo. Bleeding ! What may have happened to it. 
 
 Cyrilhis. The abominations of the world have wounded if. 
 
 Hugo. Oh ! Think not of them. The world will neitlier 
 go worse nor better than it did a thousand years since, and 
 vvill, another thousand hence. It turns round, and stumble^ 
 over good and bad. The bad we generally ourselves throw 
 in its way. 
 
 Cyrillus. Sir knight, detain me not. T-he bell has rung 
 for vespers. 
 
 Hugo. No longer than is -needful to present yon with sonio 
 gifts, which I collected for your abbey, when in Palestine. 
 A thorn twig from the crown of Christ, green and unwi- 
 thered : a splinter of the holy cross, on wliich a drop of 
 blood has fallen, that no hand is able to wash off. And a 
 piece of the garment, for which the soldiers cast lot;. 
 Knter, and receive these reliquc^ from the Iiands of my son.
 
 Act IV. ADELAIDE OF \VVI.FIN01.N. 171 
 
 Ci/riUns, Not from his, nor from your hands, sir 
 kniu;ht. 
 
 Hugo. No I Well as you please. \Miat has entered 
 your liead now ? 
 
 CtjriUu^. Have you patience to hear me? 
 
 Hi'go. Yes, if you be not too tedious. For the winr 
 sparkles in the cup. 
 
 Cyril/uis. Stretched at midnight, sleepless in ray cell, I felt 
 a strange oppression at my breast, and big drops stood upon 
 my ciay-coid brow. 
 
 Hu^'O. You had eaten too mucl:, before you went to 
 bed. 
 
 Cvrillus. Scoffer ! Know that I speak in the name of the 
 Almiglity. Already I had prepared to leave my couch, and 
 ontor on some penance, when suddenly a more than mor- 
 tal light illuminated my cell. I lifted up my eyes, and lo, 
 the angel of the Lord stood before me in snow-white rai- 
 ment. His forehead was covered with a cloud. In his 
 right hand he held a sword. Then I fell down on ray face 
 and prayed. 
 
 lingo. C Smiling.) Well! What said the heavenly 
 messenger ? 
 
 Ci/ritlus. (Significantly.) He said : " Among thy flock 
 are tainted sheep, and from the hand of the shepherd shall 
 I require their souls, in the last day." 
 
 Hugo. Was this all .? 
 
 Cyrillas. (Still Jiiore significant lij.) lie said : "Sin has 
 lifted up her head. The seed of destruction has taken root. 
 The dark ages, which went before the flood, are come 
 again." 
 
 Hugo. -Well ! Further ! 
 
 Cj/rillus. (Rireling his eyes upon him.) He said : 
 Men have transgressrtid the holy law of marriage. 'J hey 
 II y "
 
 1?'^ 'APEIAinr. OP WLIIINfiKX. Act IV. 
 
 re become tlie seducers of innocence, and have given their 
 dauiihtors to Lc wives unto their sons." 
 
 Hugo f/?zc? Tlieobali] are thutuhrsfrvck. 
 Now, sir knight ! Why thus altered ? Whither is vour 
 sportive scoffing humour fled? Will you hear more? He 
 said: " Arise! Arm thyself with the church's ban. Iic- 
 port this abomination to the sacred representative of Saint 
 Peter, that he may snatch the incestuous wife from her 
 brother's arms, that he may destroy ail, which has been 
 generated in the lap of sin, that he may utterly extinsnish 
 this race, which is a shame unto the righteous, that he mav 
 cive both the root and bi-anches to the flames, and scatter 
 the ashes to the four winds of Heaven." [Esit. 
 
 Hugo. (Jfter a pause.) We are lost, my son. God 
 has given us into the hands of a blood-tliirsty monk. 
 
 Theobald. Heavens ! How is it possible 
 
 Hugo. How ! Bertram is perjured that is evident. 
 The appearance of the angel is a pions fraud. 
 
 Theobald. Then shall this sword be plunged into the 
 honry traitor's 
 
 Hugo. Hold, my son! First rescue, then revenge. 
 
 Theobald. Alas ! How is rescue possible ': [fe is gone, to 
 bellow forth our wretched story, poisoned "ith all his ran- 
 cour, to the fanatic priests at Rome. Notliing now remains 
 but to close the gates of our castle, and right till its huge 
 walls shall fall upon our heads. 
 
 Hugo. No, mv son. That were only unavailing rashness. 
 The Roman church will call on every knight throughout t)ie 
 empire. All our neighbours, friends, relations musi direct 
 their arras against us. What can'st thou oppose to such a 
 force ? 
 
 Theobald. Resolution to die. Resolution, with this hand 
 to slay my wife and cliildren, and then to bury myself be- 
 neath the ruins of our castle.
 
 Act IV. ADELAIUK Oi' WLLIIMGEN. 173 
 
 Hugo. 'Tis well. I rejoice to find tliou art a man. 
 Be tliis our last resource. 
 
 Theohcdd. Our last tmd only resource. I hastca to make 
 preparations, to provide ourselves with victuals, to repair 
 our walls, collect my followers 
 
 Hugo. Be not so rash, my son. {Rejkcling.) lias fate, 
 then, left no other means ? 
 
 Thcohakl. None but ignominious {li<iht. 
 
 Hugo. Ignominious ! Why ignominious ? Is a hero 
 less courageous, if he forsake the uncertain shelter of an 
 oak, because the approaching lightning threatens to rend it 
 from its base? 
 
 Thcohuld. Enougli ! Let us fly. Let us turn our backs 
 upon this castle, and, in some distant country, seek a hut 
 large enough to hold a loving couple, and small enough to 
 ei^c.ape the eyes of our pursuers. Heavens ! What a 
 thought darts across my mind ! Mistivoi ! Honest old 
 Mistivoi! (DraicsoiU the half of the ii^>^.) My father, 
 this token of hospitality was given me by a heathen. Little 
 did I ima;a!ne I so soon should use it. 
 
 Hugo. No, my son. Flight brings us no nearer to our 
 purpose jjcacc. Flight is impossible, at least so long as 
 Adelaide is unprepared. What pretence could'st thou urge 
 for her following thee? To conceal the truih froni her 
 would be impossible, and to chsclose it, higlily dangerous. 
 Thou kuow'st my thoughts upon this subject. She is a 
 woman. 
 
 ThcubalJ. True but a v.-oman far above her sex; noble 
 and exalted in her sentiments, pious without superstition ; 
 steadfast, and resolute in danger. And do you reckon no- 
 thing on her love for me ? 
 
 Hugo. All, my son. But thou know'st not, how firmly 
 prejudices, which have been instilled in childhood, are 
 rooted in the soul of woman, and tlic more firmlv, the less
 
 J? 1 Ai'I'f MOV. (!l WMllNrr.N'. .-ii / IJ' 
 
 iicy arc lowsciicd by an utciuairUniuc wltli t!u' world, iiusl 
 thou not to day coi)tt-ed to me, thyself, lliat it nas only 
 llie last bloody sceiiii oi" desolation, wlurh liad ])rovcd to 
 thee the cruelty and injustice ot'excuniion^ lor our churcii? 
 No, 1 havo hit u\nm another plan. Th(ju know'st, that, 
 to defray the c;jenses of my journey to the holy land, I 
 nnrtgagcd llappach and SiiHiiit-rn to liie ahlicy. Let u^^ 
 liud tlie abbot, and as the price of sccrcsy, make him a lull 
 donation of these two villaj;c3. The avarict of a prif^st v\ i!l 
 seeure to us what zeal for God's honour never will to- 
 lerate. 
 
 Theohitld. But how, if he refu-.c 
 
 Hvgo. 'Twill then be soon cn<iuj;h to think of other 
 means. Come 1 Let us haste, ere, in the rai;e of blind 
 fanaticism, he has roused, against us, the v. hole bofly of 
 the church. (As he goea.) Fool that I was, to think 
 that I could bribe a monk with reliques ! As if they 
 
 wanted help to make as many as they pleased ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 The stage rci>/ai)ts dear Jbr a fdc 7n'n!ufcx. AurLAiDr, 
 vith dlshevel/ed hair, ilmncaftt head, and cheeks pule as 
 death, ihiuli/ enters the sa/iii). A reiki ro/ung of her 
 ej^es, and, at intervals, a J'uiat coutracled smile, bet raj/ ihe 
 absence of her reason. 
 
 Adelaide. Still ain I loft alone. Every living creature 
 simns me. I vv;is in l!u: garden : The Vtirds fie^\ i'roni 
 nic : Not a butterfly came near me: J-".very llouer I 
 touched sunk shrivciled to the ground. I looked towards 
 Heaven : The sun Avithdrew behind a cloud. What is to 
 become of me r -I am the most desolate wretch on earth. 
 Who will have pity on me? ( Lonklng ziildhi at the pir- 
 ture>.^ What men are thefe around u\e, with swordr g:;t
 
 oil tlitir sides? All stare at me, and vet the blades stare 
 not tVoiu their scabbards. (Kneeling before the picture 
 nearest to her.) Have compassion on uie, iliou, that lookest 
 -;o sternly ! Rid ifie earth of a monster ! Or, if thou 
 chink thy sword loo noble to be btaincd by my incestuous 
 blood, lift up that foot, and, with its iron armour, tread on 
 my neck, as on a poisonous worm. I ask in vain ! Tis my 
 doom to lin;j;cr here, a prey to all tlie agonies of conscience. 
 If I could but pray if any one would but pray for me. 
 Where arc my children? (Shuddering.) Children! 
 Have I children? Have I a husband ? I am not a mother. 
 I cannot be a mother. What 1 lire borne has been the 
 brood of iiell. Satan's grin was minji,led with the first smile 
 
 of my banes. Guiile ihoiu hither, great Avenger, that I 
 
 may sprinkle these massy walls with their brains, collect 
 their scattered limbs, consume their bones with lire, and 
 give them to the hurricane, to sweep the dust aloft ! {Sinks 
 exhausted upon a seat. A pause.) \\ here am [? My eyes 
 are dim. ^.Jethinks, it must be evening. All is so still 
 s-o still ! Xo bird is singing. Not a guuL h humming. 
 The sun sets. Tomorrow, perhaps, he will throw his eaili- 
 est beams upon my grave, and kiss a tear from my dear 
 brothsi's cheek. Where will they dig my grave ? Beneath 
 t!ie lime-trees to^i ards the East ? Oh no ! Among the 
 nettles, nndei- tiie wall of our church-vard 1 liey will fix a 
 small black cross upon it. "The Lord have mercy on her 
 soul." Yes. Die I will die I, and my jioor children. 
 
 Without him I cannot li\e ; with him [ nmsl^ net live. 
 
 God will judge us. He will cleanse their tamtcd souls for 
 millions of years in purgatory, and, at last, receive tiie in- 
 nocents among his angels. The idea dawns. To die ! 
 No evil spirit has inspired that thought. (Kneels.) 
 Holy mother of God! Behold, a sinner kneels before thee 
 II i
 
 \76 AVUMVt C) U t I ! I.Sf.I V. Act IV. 
 
 in the dust ! Mercifully (lci;;n to look upon me, and if the 
 dark design of death, which broods wiihiu my soul, he not 
 the delusion of my own hrain, or the instigation of the 
 tempter, oh vouchsafe some miracle to me, thy handmaid ! 
 Steel my breast, nerve my hand, and arm me with some in- 
 strument of murder, that I may disco\ er thou art with ine ! 
 
 Entfr WiLiBALD andOTioy.kw. 
 
 Wilihald. (With a dnc^gcr in his hand.) ?.l other ! 
 >fother ! Look at this dagger ! My grandfather took it 
 from the Saracens See, how it glitters ! 
 
 Adelaide. (Dreadfully alarmed.) I am heard. 
 
 Wilihald. Only look, mother, only look. 
 ^Ai\e\?(\i\e rises trembling, stares at VVilibald, ualks slorvlj/ 
 
 to him us if intending to catch something by surprise, and 
 
 snatches the dagger from his hand.) 
 (Affrighted.) Dear mother, it's sharp. 
 
 Adelaide. Is it so ? (<S7(e looks icildlt/ at the dagger, at 
 her children, and then again at the dagger. Bt/ degree.^ her 
 uildness softens into sorrou-. She h cares deep sighs, and at 
 length weeps.) 
 
 Ottojnar. (Creeping to her and J'awning.) Dear nio- 
 thcr, what's the matter ? 
 
 Wilibald. Arc you ill, dear mother ? 
 
 Adelaide. Ill, very ill weak, very weak. Blessed mother 
 of the Crucified, complete thy miracle ! Oh streni;fhcn 
 me ! 
 
 Ottoniar. (Pulls Wilibald sorroufulli/.) Come, brothrr ! 
 
 Wilibald. Come, and let us pray for my mother. [Goimj. 
 
 Adelaide. (Hastily intercepting their uaij.) Whithfr 
 would you go ? Back ! (Drags them to the J'ronf of tiic 
 stage.) Back, spawn of hell ! 'J'his arm is consecrated bv 
 the Lord, A\\ ! Ye shall not escape it. Immortal stren^tii 
 is given to this hand ! Tremble ! Your hour is coiik .
 
 Jjci IV. ADKI.MDE OF WILTINGEN. ^'^' 
 
 Of (omur. (Creeping behind Wilibald.) Oh brotlier, 
 what does she mean ? 
 
 Wilibald. Dear inotlier, my father will becoming soon.. 
 Let us sio to meet him. 
 
 Adelaide. Father suid'st thou ? Who is thy fatlier ? 
 Ila ! Viper ! Must thou still recal it to my mim\}fLifls 
 her arm.) Hold! Cotne hither, Wilibald. Come hither- 
 Oitoraar. Tell mc have you said your prayers to-day ? 
 
 Both. O yes, dear mother. 
 
 Adelaide. What was your prayer ? 
 
 V/ilibald. That God would be merciful to us. 
 
 Adelaide. (Bursts- into tears.) God be merciful to 
 you ! 
 
 Ottomar. You're crying, dear mother. 
 
 Adelaide. Answer me further. Have you, since you said 
 your prayers, done nothing wrong? 
 
 Wilibald. I've done nothing wrong, I am sure, mother. 
 
 Ottomar. (Stammering-.) I I took a bird's egg from: 
 one of the village boys. I am very sorry for it. 
 
 Adelaide. KriCel down, and beg God's forgiveness. 
 
 Ottomar. (Kneels.) Godwill forgive me; for I'll give 
 him a tne first nest I ilml. 
 
 Aactaide. (]/i a tremor.) -There ! 'Tis done ! ^^flse- 
 moment is arrived. (juide my arm, oh God ! I.et me but 
 reach the heart at once that I may not see the struggles 
 that I may not hear the groans.^: Away! Away ! Quick ! 
 (Skejiiesat Wilibald zcilk the uplifted dagger, and sinks 
 at his feet, deprived of strength. The dagger falls from her 
 hand. She throws her arms round the ehi Id re n, presses them' 
 close to her heart, and uceps bitterly.) 
 
 Both. (Hanging on her neek, and caressing her.) Dear 
 mother ! 
 
 Adelaide, Tn vain does the stern sense of duty exact the' 
 115
 
 178 ADELAIDE OF WTJLriNGEN. Acl IV. 
 
 murder of these sweet innocents. They are the fruit of in- 
 famy, an fibomi nation both to God and man. Look, ye 
 inexorable judges, look at this guiltless smiling face. If 
 Satan be concealed behind this mask, no wonder he so ea- 
 sily seduces saints. This child has robbed another of an 
 egg : this is the heaviest transgression, and he heartily re- 
 pents it. 
 
 Ottomar. I do indeed, dear mother. 
 
 Adelaide. He has prayed too, this morning. Ilis was not 
 the prayer of a vile dissembling monk. It was that pure 
 praise, which God has prepared for himself, from the 
 mouths of infants. No. In the eye of God you are for- 
 given you, and your parents ; for tiicy knew not what 
 they did. Come, children. Help your motiier to seek con- 
 solation in your father's arms. (As she is going, she suddenly 
 starts trembling back.) Woe be upon me ! What am I 
 about to do? Some infernal spirit is trying to delude me, 
 is trying to rob me of my last and only consolation hap- 
 piness hereafter. Till now I have been ignorant, and the 
 mercy of my Judge will pardon mc. But the next embrace 
 must be eternal death. In vain does the tempter whisper 
 to me : " 'Tis but fraternal love. A sister sure may ciasp 
 a brother to her heart." Begone, ye lures to sin ! I can- 
 not command my heart. 'Tis the l)eart of a fond loving 
 Mfife, a sister's love is foreign to it. God has passed his 
 heaviest denunciation upon incest. Did not the abbot say 
 this ? Did he not curse me and my children ? Did not the 
 holy virgin arm n>e by a miracle ? Was it not the finder of 
 the Highest, which pointed at the sacrifice, ordained to be 
 offeced to him, by my hands ? Oh temporal and eternal 
 welfare of my children, the most sacred of a mother's cares, 
 what will become of you, if, in this hour, my strength for- 
 sake me ? Come nearer, my pretty ones. Tell me wliat 
 you meaa to do, should you ever become men ?
 
 Act IV. ADEtAIDE OF WUI-HNGEN. l'?^ 
 
 Wilibald. I'll be a brave knight, like my father. 
 
 Ottomar. So will I, mother. 
 
 Wilibald. I'll fight with lances and swords. 
 
 Ottomur. So will I, mother. 
 
 Wilibald. I'll do good to the poor, protect widows and 
 orplians, and rescue the oppressed; tor my father says- 
 these are the duties of a knight. 
 
 Ottomur. I'll do all this too, mother. 
 
 Adelaide. Will you indeed? Alas ! No. You never 
 can be knights. You are not born as knights. No one will 
 engage with you. No one will draw his sword against you. 
 Your name will be erased from heraldry ^1 he badge 
 will be torn from your helmets. Your horses will beslain^ 
 your armour broken, and your shield trodden upon. Over- 
 whelmed with ignominy, you will fly the lists, and curse the 
 breasts which gave you suck. You will take refuge in de- 
 serts and in forests, will turn your backs on the demesnes of 
 your forefathers, and be pursued into every quai-ter by the 
 church's ban. The pious man will strike a cross when he 
 espies you at a distance. The dastardly assassin will, un- 
 punished, plunge a dagger in your hearts, and give your 
 carcasses for food to ravenous vultures. No ! (Seizes the 
 ddfigcr.) No ! Rather shall you perish by a mother's 
 hand. Never shall any base poltroon be able to attack youl" 
 Never siiall your name be marked with infamy ! Never 
 shall whispering slander tell your mother's crime ! Ye shall 
 not wander in the wilderness scratching the earth for food,, 
 suing to the clouds of heaven for drink, cursing the Creator 
 and your own existence. My soul was pure and imdefiled 
 when I conceived you. My soul is pure and undefiled ini 
 this sad hour. Oh ! God! Their spirits came from thee. 
 Thou gavest them to me. Take them back, and hereafter 
 let me Und them at thy throne. (Almost bewnd herse/f.) 
 II ti
 
 130 ADELAIDK Oi WULUXGEN. .tct iJ'. 
 
 Why do j'ou tremble, children? Why do you look iit nie 
 so fearfully ? You will be h<ippy. You have prayed. 
 You have done nothing wrong. Come hither, Wilibald ! 
 Embrace me. Embrace your mother once again, 
 
 Wilibald. {Enihraoing her.) Dear mother. 
 
 Adelaide. {Plunges the dagger into his hack.) Farewell, 
 beloved child ! Farewell ! 
 
 Wilibald s//cs ztnth a faint groan at his tnother's feet, 
 zcrithes his body, and expires.) 
 
 Ottomar. (Shuddering.) Oh my brother. 
 
 Adelaide. '( Fixing her ei/e intentlt/ vpon Wilibald.J 
 There ! 'Tis done ! But another struggle !- -But one con- 
 vulsion more ! Now he is dead the spirit gone its tene- 
 ment momentary. There soars the liherated soul. Its 
 chains are broken. A more than mortal lustre folds it. 
 and see an angel takes charge of him, leads liiin with 
 friendly guidance to the throne of God There he stands I 
 Sweet babe! Why art thou there alone i* Where is thv 
 brother? 
 
 Ottomar. (Who in the wean time has crept into a corner, 
 kneels, and raises his Utile hands.) Dear mother, lot me 
 live. 
 
 Adelaide. {Violently startled.) Ila ! What sobs in the 
 dark, there ! Speak ! Answer me ! 
 
 Ottomar. (In a tone of supplication.) It's little Ottomar. 
 
 Adelaide. Thou still here ! And alone ! Where is thv 
 Brother ? 
 
 Ottomar. Oh ! There he lies. 
 
 Adelaide. 'Tis false ! Dost thou not hear his call ? Art 
 thou deaf to thy brother's voice ? 
 
 Ottomar. I hear nothing, dear mother. 
 
 Adelaide. Hark ! Again 1 And now a third time ! 
 Irf)ok up ! He is smiling on us. He beckons ! He calls ! 
 -Quick! Quick ! Follow him.
 
 Act IV. ADErAlDE OF Wtll INOl:X. ISl 
 
 (She stabs him in the breast several times.) 
 Ottomar. (Sttikes the zcound, ztilh both hands, and crecpi 
 towards her, on his Jmees.j'^Oh mother oli poor little 
 
 Ottomar. 
 
 Adelaide. Away, basilisk ! (Stabs him once more he 
 falls anddies.) Ha ! That was well aimed ! That hit the 
 vital part ! He moves no more ! Not one more sigh ! 
 Triumph ! Triumph ! I have torn them from the claws of 
 Satan. There ihey hover, hand-in-liancl. Their voice is 
 hymns of praise, their raiment light. ^Triumph ! Triumph I 
 I laugh at the church's ban, and at its threats. The sacri- 
 fice is offered. God looked down well pleased. (T/trozz;.? 
 
 the dagger from her.) Away ! Away to chapel ! ^ 
 
 Away to supplication and thanksgiving ! (Spies blood upon 
 her hands.) Hold ! ^This is blood. Thus I dare not pass 
 the thresholds of the temple. Thus stained with bloorf, I 
 dare not sprinkle myself v.ith consecrated water, nor strike 
 the token of the holy cross upon my bosom. 1 will wash 
 myself. I will go down to the well, where my beloved 
 waits. {Stu7}tbks against Wilibald) What is this .? 
 Gently ! Gently ! iiist .'The children arc asleep. -OIi 
 that I may not have been too loud ! See ! this poor boy 
 must have some horrid dream. His mouth seems contort- 
 ed, as if he were in pain. Poor child ! The gnats vvill not 
 suffer him to sleep. They have stung him till he bleeds. 
 Stop ! Stop ! (Tears off her veil and covers Wilibald.J 
 There, little slumberer ! Sleep in peace ! But what have 
 I left for this ! Is not my veil large enough to cover both.^ 
 Why do you lie at such a distance from each other, as if 
 some storm had cast you hither ? I.et me bring them 
 close to each other. Gently softly that they may not 
 wake. 
 
 (She carefully lifts up the hodi/ of Ottomar, lays it near that 
 of his brother, kneels, covers both with the veil, and is busy 
 in observing on every cide that no aj)crture is './ft.
 
 186 ADELAIDE or WULFINGF.:*, Aci IV. 
 
 ^ Enter Sir Hug and Sir Theobald. 
 
 Theobald. What art tlujii doin;}; Adelaide ? 
 
 AdeUdde. Hist! Hist! [ have stiiiG; the boys to sleep. 
 
 (She raixes the reil,. and discovers the bloody bodits.) 
 
 Theobald. Jesus Maria ! 
 (He staggers backward to the nearest pillar, against 
 
 uhich he leans, nithout strength. His whole frame qtiivers-. 
 
 His countenance U horriblj/ convulsed. His cijes are rivet- 
 ed upon the bodies, and he sheds not a tear. 
 
 Hugo. Heavens! Too late ! Wretched being ! What 
 hast thou done ? 
 
 Adelaide. {Wilh the smile and air of insanitij.)\ sung a 
 pretty hymn. The holy \'iigiri taught me and, while I 
 sung, the sweet boys dropped asleep. 
 
 Hugo. Alas I .She raves ! 
 
 Adelaide. Hist ! Speak lower, crey-bcard. I'll z(^ into 
 the garden I'll pluck flower^ violets, roses, pinks, anri 
 lilies. I'll scatter ihera upon my t herubs nd when thov 
 wake with pleasant odours round them, they will reward 
 their mother with a kiss for all her care. Sii. down htre_, 
 old man. Beware lest any breath oi' wind (!i^turb the 
 veil or any cnat come near to sting them. Hush ! In a 
 moment I return. [Runs auai,\ 
 
 Hugo. (After a pau^e looks at his son then at the 
 bodies and then towards Heaven.) Almighty God ! Oil let 
 this sacrifice to superstitions madness be the last, and receive 
 these guiltless souls among thy holy host of aagels ! 
 
 [He kneels and kisses the chiUlren. The curtain falls.)
 
 
 ,i;vy/,- //.,/
 
 COUNT BENYOWSKY 
 
 OR, 
 
 The Conspiracy of Kamtschatka. 
 A DRAMA, 
 
 IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 TEANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF 
 
 AUGUSTUS VON KOTZEBUE, 
 
 BY 
 
 Benjamin Thompson, Esq. 
 
 * 3.onoon : 
 
 FRINXED FOR VERNOR AND HOOD, 
 
 Ko. 31, PoULTRV. 
 
 18<)5.
 
 V}^ /) ,y.-i ris iT.n.so .v.;:. 
 
 Governor nf KurtitsrhuUx-a. 
 
 Iv/AN Fedrowitsck, Coptdin of Cossacks. 
 
 Count Bentowsky" 
 
 Crustiew a 
 
 ^^^^^^ovv f ^,..^^_ 
 
 KUDRIN 
 
 Baturi.x 
 
 Wasili 
 
 TscHULOSMKOEE, Mtistcr (if a -iessri 
 Grigori, his Nephtu-. 
 KuEossow, a liusr.ian J.icii'LHunt. 
 Kasarinoi-i', a Sun chant. 
 Corporal. 
 
 Athanasia, the Governor's Daughter. 
 TiiEODcr.A, htr Attcnduut. 
 
 Exiles, Soldi', rs, Servants, Children.
 
 COUNT BENYOWSKY 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 ScFNK, o'ic o/^/iC Governor's Apartments in the Cituckl 
 
 o/BoLCHERt-K. r/iC GoVEnNOR 7H/ IWAii Sit OH Olit 
 
 Side with a Chess-hoard before them, jjoj/ing great Atten- 
 tion to the Game. On the other Side sits Atiianasia rcith 
 a Book in her Hand, and near her Theodora uorking 
 
 Embroidery. 
 
 Lean. CiircK to the king! 
 
 Gov. Indeed ! And by a j3a\vn, too ? Tliat's provoking 
 enough. 
 
 Ju-au. Yes, yes, thc?c pawns, these common fellows, he 
 mIio can mana^ic them 
 
 Gov. Is a match for a king ? True. 
 
 At hem (Throuing the look aside.) Oh ! 
 
 Theo. You sigh ! 
 
 Athun. Wliy was I born exactly at this phicc ? 
 
 Theo. I care iitUe wliere I was born, if I but Hve. 
 
 Athan. And do you hve r 
 
 T/ico. What a droll question ! I think I prove that at 
 my meals.
 
 J PtJ to : ^ T I r :, > uv. .. u r . /.ci I. 
 
 Alha/i. ^'es, every oiiu ctm eat. 
 
 T/ieo. Except the dead. A creiitiire tir.it cats, is a living 
 creature. 
 
 Athan. You are satisfied with the torpid life oi ixw 
 oyster. 
 
 Theo. Oh. it' wishes were but magic wands ! 
 
 Atliiin. What are you duiug ? 
 
 Theo. I aiu embroidering flowers. 
 
 u'li/(a/i. Where do these flowers grow ? Not here. Wliat 
 a delightful country is Italy \ I ha\ e just been reading a 
 description of it. There orange groves flourish through the 
 country; here we are obliged to work them m tapestry. 
 There nature is a healthy youth; iiere an intjrm old 
 man. The inhabitants of that happy laud may aay they 
 live. 
 
 Theo. I grant they have what wc wish tor : bur, in retuiu, 
 they want what we possess. Our soil prinluces other plants 
 and other pleasures. 
 
 Gov. Zounds ! my knight is lost. 
 
 Taan. And my rjucrn sa\('d. 
 
 Athan. Pleasures, say yuu ? Iv. ery hou^e i-^ a pri-ui). 
 W^rapt in warm furs up to the very eliin, we shrin'k trtun 
 the fi'Cah ivir, an-.l i'.u-iigry (i"cs drag mir ilcdgos tlirongh 
 eternal snow. Nu fi.jwrr uiifoicL- itirolf in our r(;lii c'i:- 
 uuite, and rio fruit rii-tiij. is such your idea of enjoy- 
 ment ? 
 
 Tlicc. \^ hat caio I for flowers and fruit, as long as I 
 have men r 
 
 Athan. Men: Alas! V\'!;at luiu! of n:en ? Do tluy 
 deserve llie na:uc ol human beings? ' Tumo^ro^^,"^ay 
 thev, " is a ho'id iv. To uiorrow we will l.'C nicrry.'' 
 And how do llr. v sho.v tlieir mirth? 'I he Knshia!) in- 
 toxicates himself with brandy ; the Kanitschada'.e with 
 the juice of poib(.inou= plant?, 'i hen they stagger thi^ji;;,!!
 
 Ad). CHN t l.l .\ VO.Vr-KY. l"'i 
 
 thv strcfis, and ihe very does ihcv lucct turn uuii}. I'Uis i; 
 their mirtli ; tiiis is their ei)joyineiit of life. 
 
 T.'ieo. But don't \\c soiuetiines scat ourselves iu ii circle, 
 ami sing a cljeerful air to the Bidalaiku? Is there uo 
 pleasure in thalr 
 
 hi an. ChcvM to t!io rjuecii ! 
 
 Gor. I (l.ji)'t iikc the biriciiioii of niv uaiQC. 
 
 Atlitm. ( Jiri'ig lier cj/rs on the t'arih.) Xo, niy fiieiul. 
 T) niy heart it alFords no pleasure. Were my good mother 
 still alive 
 
 Thco. Have you any secret lodged in your bosom ? 
 
 Athan. Oh, no. \\'c cut, drink, and sleep. Who makes 
 any secret of the^e things.? Of any other, no one is iu 
 want here. 
 
 ThLo. So much the better for us. 
 
 Athan. Geiiiu.-' and feeling do not ripen in this fretiilng 
 climiitc ; nay, scarcely bud. 'Jo estimate tlic value of a, 
 sable's skin, to calculate the profits of u voyage from tills 
 country to the Aleutian aud Curilian Islands, is all the 
 knowledge our rude countrymen possess. A successful 
 bari^ain is tlicironly pleasure, Oth(!r nations enjoy the dc- 
 ligius of I'.rcc and rrinCy but these barbarians seek cnjoyniciit 
 iu senauuH-ii aud bi\i)u/j/. Evan the sweet sensation 
 of luunauity is unknown to them, l.'Ccause it is warm 
 to the heuft, not to the pulnle. Wherever I direct njy 
 eyes or steps, I eneounier imserabie exiles. Sorrow appears 
 in every eye, and penury mi c\ery cheek. On every 
 side I see a muster-roll of human distress. No sun- 
 iK-ains melt our snow ; it is consumed iiy tears for ever 
 dropping on it, 
 
 Thco. 'Ibis discontent arises from your never ceasing 
 studies. Your fatlier should order ail the bunks to be 
 thrown into the great stove uliich \\arfns the guard-room, 
 
 Athan. lie tnay burn the l)ook>>, but their contents are 
 w.iittf'i: ill n)v hfart.
 
 108 COLNf litNAOWbKV. Act I. 
 
 Theo, Perhaps I am wrong, your discontent may arise 
 from another cause. You have reached the a<j;o at wliich a 
 female suspects every thing, and comprehends nothing. 
 When in possession of one tiling, you want every thing ; 
 and if every thing were to be granted, you would still want 
 something. To a heart which feels a void, the world is 
 a desart. To a contented heart, Kamtschatka is a para- 
 dise. 
 
 Athan. You are right, Theodora, I am a solitary being 
 in the world : and when my father too shall leave me he is 
 old and infirm when he too shall forsake me alas ! what 
 will become of me? 
 
 hccn. (Takes a bishop.) This bishop I have long had a 
 design upon. 
 
 Gov. lie guarded my king. 
 
 luan. Now for it ! 
 
 ^'0^i.\ I sec no means of escaping. 
 
 Enter a Sf.rvaxt. 
 
 Scr. Lieutenant Kulossow is arrived \\iih ?cvcral 
 exiles, and waits your excellency's pleasure in the uu?i- 
 chamher. 
 
 Gov, Conduct him and the exiles hither. 
 
 [F.vit Fcrvn::t. 
 
 Athan. Another groupof wretched beings. Come, Theo- 
 dora. I do not like to see them. [^C'luin^. 
 
 Enter Ki'lossow, prrccdini: Bknyov.-skv, mut a nntnher 
 of E.ti!r--. All sland at the entrance (f the upnrt- 
 inent. 
 
 A'hriu. (S'arts, attcwntm to leave the room, hnf turns 
 again, pazes at Denyovvsky. leccwes crnharrasi^ril, and scats 
 
 h:rsfh' (j-iair.) 'i l.OiMiuru let US uo.
 
 Act I. COrNl BENYOV\\--KY. 183 
 
 T.'iro. I am ready. 
 
 Athaii. (^Lookiiig rcith reserve at BeaYO^^sky;. Do you 
 see that man ? 
 
 Theo. I sec many men. 
 
 Athav. But you surely can distniguish him I mean. 
 There is a boldness in his eye, which sec-ms to bear him up 
 against his wretched fate. 
 
 Theo. I see a man whose sallow cheeks betray sickness 
 and want. 
 
 Afhan. True, but health of soul beams from his eyes. 
 See, with what boldness he looks round, wiiile his com- 
 panions iix their eyesupoii tlic earth, lie seems to say, I 
 am every where free. A noble spirit considers chains and 
 the ribband of an order in the same ligiit. His look makes 
 me tremble. 
 
 Tlico. Shall v.-e so ? 
 
 Allian. \\'hy should we go? To make ourselves fa- 
 miliar with misfortune, is to provide a treasure for fu- 
 turity. 
 
 Theo. Well ! we will stay then. 
 
 [Begins to uork again. 
 
 (Benyowsky approache:^, stops behind the Governor's 
 chair, and observes the game.) 
 
 Athan. See ! He is as much at ease as if he were in his 
 own house. 
 
 Theo. (looking up.) It will be well for him, if your 
 father should put so favouraV)Ie a construction on his bold- 
 ness as you do. 
 
 Athan. That he will. A lofty spirit in adversity must 
 gain the heart of every one. 
 
 Goi-. {Rising.) I liave lost the game. 
 
 Jtcan. Yes you have. 
 
 jBew. Not exacilv.
 
 i^C> cm; NT P.JENYOWSKY. Acl 7. 
 
 Gor.--{T,'io':< t:p 7rii h tHfoiikhrnenf, survpys him hnn- 
 ly, end iri'v.yjrtf him fh'/ii fund 'o i''Ot.) Wlio are vm ? 
 
 }<('n, A sukiier. I have boon a gei)crul I am luivv a 
 slave. 
 
 Gm'. Do \ou tiiuirstaxi(j i'lcsb ? 
 lifr. .\ little. 
 
 Gi^v. Xyo sow thiiil; it pcs^iblf: t'nil my game can bo re- 
 covered ? 
 
 Hen. Pcrliaps it may. 
 
 Gov. Try then. (7 Iwan.) With vour pcrniisr^ion. 
 lu-un. By all mean.';, if you wish it ; but there is no rhaiirc 
 of escape. In four moves 1 shall check-mate vou. 
 
 [Hcnyowsky avd Iwan hcL:^in to pi'iy. 
 Gov. (To Kiilossow.^' Your report. 
 K?il. Here it is. 
 
 Gov. {AfUr harivii fi'isiilu pcniaed it, cpnrt to the 
 officer.} \)n you know any ihitig respecting this man } 
 
 Kul. He was the generul of the polish confederates, and 
 was made a prisoner, after being severely wounded. 
 Got. What is his name? 
 KuL Count Benyowsky. 
 Ben. Check to the king and queen ! 
 Iwan. Damnation ! 
 
 Gov. (To Kulossow.^ Have you had a dangerous 
 voyage } 
 
 Kul. Extremely dangerous. On our passage from 
 Ocho/k hitiier, ue were overtaken by a dreadful irtor;,!. 
 Our mainmast was carrieii away I'v the board, .and si. al- 
 tered the captain's arm. His great pain made him in( i- 
 pable of attending to the vtsel, and Coimt Benyo\^.'kv 
 ntulertook to supplv his place. Most skiltidiy he did it. 
 io his dcNterity and res)luti'ja we are obliged for our es- 
 cape. 
 
 h'l.-i. Cheek-nia^e!
 
 Ail T. corvT rvyvoAvsKV. li)l 
 
 Tutni. (Overturns the board pecvhhhi.) You deal with 
 the devil ! 
 
 Ben.- CSmi/ins.) Success, united witii a little prudence, 
 has belort been di^iiitied with th;it accti^atiDn. 
 
 Juan. T am j)!()vcrl;i;tlly prudent. N^'heii I use the term 
 prudent, I mean to iinpls', luan Fedrowitscli, the captain of 
 tlic Cossacks, the second person in tl:is province. Here is 
 the nioHey I have lost. 
 
 \_Tliroics Sicvcral bank-notes upon the fabJf. 
 
 Gov. It seems, Count, you are as skilful a chess-player 
 as a manner. You liave lately sa\ed a half- lost vessel, and 
 now a haif-l(jst game. The lattei- only concerns nivscif. 
 For the former 1 return you thanks in the Ucmic of the Em- 
 press. 
 
 Bi')!, (Bo'cinst uith f^rcat di^niti/.'' TIiosc whom I res- 
 ciied tVom de-ti iirtion have ali'eady thanked me. 
 
 Gov. Let his chains he taken olT. (He is ohnied.) 
 Your. conduct has in one minute procured you what you 
 could not otherwise liave acquired for many years my 
 respect. You might have made yourself master of tho 
 vessel during the storm. You might have fled to some re- 
 mote part of the world. 
 
 Ben. I might have done more : I had it in my power to 
 let the vessel sink. But you perceive I had the courage to 
 . preserve my life. 
 
 Athan. Oh, Theodora ! What a man ! 
 
 Got. In whatever respect my duty to my sovereign will 
 allow nu! to shew you marks of my esteem, and to 
 alleviate the severity of your fate, I will do it most 
 readily. 
 
 Ben. I envy you. Sir, the pleasing prerogative of exercis- 
 'yfxz generosity towards the wretched, and I feel a regard for 
 you. because vou know how to -use it. 
 
 Gov. At present my duty comniands me to prescribe 
 your future mod'~: of life.
 
 1P<2 CXV NT V.rNVOWSKY. Act I. 
 
 F.cv. T!ic man \\\\o knew liow to command, will know 
 l:ow to ohi'v. 
 
 Gov. OliOfJienco amJ pciiceaUlo dcmennaur are fir-it le- 
 quhci'i ol" you. 
 
 Men. 'J hose arc cnsy to t bhivo. 
 
 Got'. You are at iiijcrty, ami v\ill !.( supplied with pro- 
 vi:^ions for tlnee days ; after wliicli you nnjst pro\ !('(. for 
 your own support. Each exile will receive a ,nii, a huite, 
 powder and hall. The chare will lie, in future, your sole 
 cmplnyment. 
 
 ]ic7i. (With archur and (/flight. ) The chacc and arno I 
 I'ransporting occupation ! It will remind me of war and 
 liberty. 
 
 C'n'. You must annually deliver tome, as a tribute to the 
 crown, the skins of six fables, fifty rabbits, two foxes, and 
 two ermines. Not far from th.e town a place will be al- 
 lotted to you, where you must l;uild houses for yourselves, 
 and each will be supplied witii furniture from the 
 magazine. 
 
 Ben. Your excellency is most kind. While you assign to 
 us our labour, you console us. 
 
 Gov. I shall enter into an aliiauce wirli time and custom, 
 to smooth the ru;;;ed path on which it is your destiny to 
 wander. Meanwhile, farewell ! 
 
 Ben. Your Empress is a great w(Hnnn. She has phiccd ;i 
 humane governor where humanity \\as most necessary. I 
 goto shew my companions, by my example, how they shofihl 
 fndure misfortune. \Exit n-ilh tiic .['Hnf 
 
 Got. (TMikin<^ af'ter A//;/.) That is a great man. 
 luan. A great cdiess-playcr, you mean. 
 Atfian. Wiiat a noble youth ! 
 
 Iican. TIow ra[)idly he played ! iMo\e upon mo\e ! 
 Got. \\\\\\ uh.at di'jniiy he bears inir^lortune ! 
 hcan. 3Ivgamc ^vii -.o t'avouialjle.
 
 Act I. COUNT BENVOWSKY. 193 
 
 Athan. What noble pride, yet what easy manners ! 
 
 Iwan. Check to the king and queen ! 1 shall never for- 
 get that while I live. 
 
 Gov. Willingly will I alleviate his fate, whenever I can 
 and dare. 
 
 Athcm. Suppose, my dear father, you were not to insist 
 upon his attention to the chace during these cold days, and 
 were in^iteud of it 
 
 Gov. Well ! What instead of it ? 
 
 Athan. I have long felt a wish to be instructed in French 
 and music. You, too, have sometimes said you wished it 
 Perhaps 
 
 Gov. Perhaps what ? 
 
 Athan. The count could instruct me. 
 
 Gov. If he understands them. 
 
 Athan. (With eagerness.) Oh ! I am sure he does, 
 
 Theo. (Aside.) Ay, ay, no doubt. 
 
 Gov, We will see. Come, friend, breakfast is ready. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Iican. (As he follows the Governor.^ ^Check to the 
 king aud queen ! It is enough to make a man distracted. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Theo. (Tutting her embroidery into azvork-bag.) Shall 
 we go to breakfast } 
 
 Athan. {Lost i}i meditation, and scarcely ^eari;?^ Theo- 
 dora's question.) Directly. 
 
 Theo. {After a pause.) Your father will expect you to 
 pour out the tea. 
 
 Athan. Do you think so ? 
 
 Theo. {After another pause,) It will be necessary, too 
 to fetch some sugar from the cupboard 
 
 Athan, (Starting, as if from a dream.) What say youf 
 Yes No You are wrong. 
 
 VCL. IL J
 
 194 couM B^.^YQwSKy. Act I. 
 
 Theo. (Laughing.) In what respect ? 
 
 Athan, In what respect ! (Sinks again info a reverie.) 
 Oh! 
 
 Theo. I am liungry, 
 
 Athan. Hungry ! How canvou be hungry now? 
 
 Theo. (Laughing.) Because I have had notliing to 
 eat to-day. fAthanasia JwaAet no reply, hut rivets her eyes 
 vpon ihejloor, zchilc her features betray uhat is passing in her 
 mind.) Athanasia ! (Aside.) How can I dispel thcbc 
 whims ? 
 
 Enter a Skrvant. 
 
 Ser. His Excellency requests that Miss Alhanasia 
 Athan. (Awaking.) Oh ! The French maiiter ! I'll 
 
 come directly. \_Exit^ 
 
 r/ieo. The Fren ch master ! Ha! Ha! I comprehend 
 
 nil this. [Exit. 
 
 Scene changes to the Village rchere the Exiles daell. 
 Enter Cri'stiew from his hut. 
 
 Cms. Hail to the morning siuj ! It is a clear serene 
 winter's day, but hoo it is cold. The snow glitters 
 and crackles. The smoke spires into the air. Small 
 icicles hang to my fur collar, wherever I have chanced 
 to breathe. Oh, my heart, why dost thou alone for ever 
 burn, and glow ? Old blockhead that I am ! INIv hair 
 is white as the rime which covers these larches, and yet 
 beneath the snow rages a flame like the volcano Kalitowa. 
 Oh, liberty, liberty, thou a't, like bread, the requisite 
 of every rank and age. Bread nourishes the body liberty 
 the soul. Alas! for a single indiscretion have I been an
 
 Act I. C0T7NT BtXY0W5KY. 195 
 
 exile three-and-tvveiity years. f)h, my wife, my child ! 
 Are you alive ? Are you in health? Ilast thou too al- 
 ready wrinkles on tliy forehead, dear Elizabeth ? Has sor- 
 row for the loss of thy affectionate husband bleached thy 
 cheek. ? C With romantic convulsive action.) See ! she puts 
 iorth her hand to support her infirm old Crustiew. Give, 
 give nie thy hand, Elizabeth. What suffering can be so se- 
 vere on earth as not to be alleviated by a loving wife ? I 
 see tliee too, my dear Alexander. How tall thou art grown ! 
 Thou wert lying in the cradle when I imprinted my last 
 kiss upon thy toothless mouth, and marked a cross upon thy 
 breast with my chains. There you are sitting together, and 
 Alexander says, " Mother, tell me how my father looked" 
 ^and his mother drops a tear upon her needle-work a 
 tear, in which my image floats. With sorrow she celebrates 
 our wedding-day. She invites remembrance as a guest; 
 and grief too appears, though uninvited. {Bursting into a 
 Jiood of leant.) Oh, God, allow me for one of my few re- 
 maining moments, allow mc to clasp her in my arms, that I 
 may feel there is a being in the world who loves me ! 
 
 Enter SrEPANorr nit It a gvn in Jiis hand, and a fox at well 
 as a couple of rabbits on /tis back. 
 
 Step. Good day to you, old Crastiew ! To-day the sun 
 itself will congeal to a sheet of ice. There he stands in 
 the firmament, as if he had been painted and placed there 
 by some miserable dauber, so totally devoid is he of power 
 and warmth. 
 
 Cms. Yet you went out early. 
 
 Step. I did, and have killed what you see a fox and a 
 couple of rabbits. In another hour they would have been 
 frozen to death. Feel ! They are as hard and stiff as 
 I 2"
 
 196 COUKT BEXYOWSKV. Act 1. 
 
 bones. When I shot tliem, they scarcely bled. A little 
 red ice dropped from the wound. 
 Cms. Have you been to town ? 
 
 Step. I was there last night. A new party of exiles is 
 just arrived. 
 
 Crus. (Eagerly.) Indeed ! Shame on me ! I have 
 caught myself in the act of giving way to a hateful sen- 
 sation. 
 
 Step. What ! One of your usual romantic notions ? 
 Crus. Romantic it is not. Ought I to wish that others 
 may be wretched, because I am so ? 
 
 Step. Why not? They are companions in misery. 
 There is some little consolation in hearing them com- 
 plain of hardship, which custom has made tolerable to 
 us. 
 
 Crus. Are there many of them? 
 
 Step. About twenty. I understand there is a noble Pole 
 among them, a valiant, enterprizing, fearless soldier. That, 
 is my man. 
 
 Crvs. What are you brooding upon ? 
 Step. Upon eggs which you had no concern in laying; 
 ipon projects beyond your courage or conception. What 
 lind of life do we lead? Heaven and hell ! If you ask 
 ne whether I had rather be the hunter, or the hunted fox, 
 '. know not how to answer you. I envy the fox, because he 
 iteals, and enjoys his booty because, even in the chace, he 
 listens, as he flies, with anxious hope; whereas no inter- 
 change of sensation tells me I am alive. 
 
 Crus. Courage without power is like a child who acts the 
 soldier. 
 
 Step. Courage without power is a nonentity. Courage is 
 never without power. Jn short, I' will no longer submit 
 to such a life of misery. 
 
 Crus. None of us would submit to it, were we not under 
 ontrol.
 
 Act J. COUNT BENYOWSKY. 197 
 
 Step. Make me your leader, and I will appoint the 
 stranger second in eononQand. In a few days we shall be 
 free. 
 
 Cms. (Shaking his head.) You, StepanofF! Unite your 
 valour with another's wisdom and experience ; then we may 
 perhaps succeed. 
 
 Step, How sagacious ! Old people must ever be trying 
 to convince us, that the world would perisli, if not support- 
 ed by their sage advice. An old man always wants 
 a clear light, and then walks cautiously and slowly, while 
 the youth needs but a glimpse he sees he snatches. 
 
 Cms. How long has this wish inhabited your mind? But 
 a few months ago you laughed when others murmured. 
 
 Step. And now I am enraged that others only murmur. 
 
 Cms. Whence this sudden alteration ? 
 
 Step. Hear me, old man, and comprehend me, if you 
 can. To warm myself at an oven, or in the sun, to be 
 drawn bv horses or by dogs, to eat sterlet or dried fish, was 
 hitherto a matter of indifference to me, and will remain so, 
 if the girl I love will but partake of them. 
 
 Cms. The girl you love ! 
 
 Step. Why, yes. Is it so wonderful thati should be in love? 
 
 Crus. Are you beloved in return ? 
 
 Step. Who would ask such a question ? When you wish 
 to purchase a woman's heart, you must not spend much 
 time in cheapening it. Pretend you do not care much for 
 thf article, and you will obtain it at a low rate, 
 
 Crvs. Who IS the girl whom you admire ? 
 
 Siep. Athanasia. 
 
 Crus. The Governor's daughter ! 
 
 Step. Yes. Why do you start ? 
 
 Crus. Are you mad ? 
 
 13
 
 198 COUNT BENYOWSKY. Act I. 
 
 Sttp. Ila ! Ha ! Ha ! Is the Governor's daughter less a 
 woman than the daughters ot other people? 
 
 Cms. You are right. I ought to have laughed instead of 
 starting. A prisoner, an exile, who is banished from society, 
 who cannot even call the knife his own which he carries in 
 his pocket, who only enters the castle in which Athanasia 
 lives, when he is obliged to work there as a slaxe 
 
 Step. This it is which drives me to desperation. When 
 the lovely creature passes rae, nay, even touches me with 
 her silken gown, she scarcely ever sees me; and when per- 
 chance she does, there is nothing but compassion in her 
 looks. Not even on Easter Sunday, when every Russian 
 may approach and kiss his neighbour, while he savs, 
 ** Christ is risen from the dead," not even then dare I ap- 
 proach her. But this shall not long continue. What I am 
 able to do I will dare to do. 
 
 Crus. Stepanoff, you are drunk earlier than usual to-day. 
 
 Step. Ha! Ha! Ha! Old age calls manly spirit drunk- 
 enness ! Common souls think every great projcct"madnes?; 
 hut when it has succeeded, they crown the achiever with 
 the title of hero. 
 
 Enter Wasili, hastily. 
 
 Wasili. Some new exiles are arrived, and already ap- 
 proach our village. 
 
 Step. Thanks to St. George, we shall learn again, at last, 
 how the world goes on whether men be still fools, and 
 what kind of folly is the present fashion. 
 
 Crua. Go, Waaili, and sec that a new cask is tapped. 
 Place the bottles and glasses, the caviare and cedar-nuts, 
 upon the table. They are perhaps hungry. Let us try to 
 beguile them of their sorrow fcr the first quarter of ;iii 
 hour. \_Exlt Wasili.
 
 Act I. COUNT BE>.'yO'WSKY. 199 
 
 Step. That WasllI is an excellent fellow. There are em- 
 ployments in the world which mould a man into a certain 
 form for the term of his whole life. He is like a piece of 
 paper, which, after having been once folded, never loses its 
 marks. Is it not evident, at first sight, that this man has 
 been in service at court ? He announces those who arrive, 
 he conducts those who depart, he gathers intelligence 
 wherever he can, he understands how to set out a table, he 
 is as idle as a satiated lap-dog, and his head is like a lady's 
 work-basket. 
 
 Crus. Yet in one thing he resembles you. His tongue is 
 sharp. 
 
 Step. It is only a cat's tongue. It can lick the skin off, 
 but not wound. 
 
 Crus. Here come the strangers. 
 
 Enter Benyowsky and the Exiles. 
 
 (Curiosity/ and joy immediately attract the older inhabitants 
 of the village from their huts, uho assemble round the nei$ 
 Exiles.^ 
 
 Welcome among us, ye companions in misery. 
 
 Step. Our welcome is like the salutation of liell, when the 
 devil arrives with a fresh stock of souls. 
 
 Ben. Participated sufferings lose half their bitterness. I 
 greet you all as my brethren. 
 
 Crus. Stranger, give me thy hand. (He shakes it.) -I ob- 
 serve upon this wrist the marks of recent chains. My wrist 
 was once as red as this ; but three-aiid-twenty years erase 
 the impressions both of good and evil. 
 
 Ben. How ! Have you dwelt on this coast for three-and- 
 twenty years! and are you .still alive f 
 
 Cnis. I ai)i, an;l 1 still hope. 
 14
 
 200 COUNT BENYOWSKY. Act J. 
 
 Hen. Tlien is hope the only treasure which increases with 
 misfortune? 
 
 Crus. It is a last resource, which we are willing to share 
 with any one, though never entirely to consume. 
 
 Step. What is hope without courage ? A broken-winded 
 courser. 
 'Ben. Misfortune excites courage. 
 
 Step, Not aUvnys. Despair alone excites it ^Misfortune 
 droops, and loses the faculties of exertion. 
 
 Crus, Let us have no more of this iil-timcd prattle! You 
 are in want of refreshment. We have prepared a breakfast ; 
 and though we treat you with sorry fare, we do it witii wil- 
 ling hearts. 
 
 Ben, Tell me where shall %ve dwell? Where shall we 
 build our huts ? 
 
 Crus. The inclemency of the season will not allow you 
 to build as yet. Our huts are open to you ; and we will 
 lodge you as well as we are able till the approach of spring. 
 Go, Wasili ; fetch the tickets on which our names are writ, 
 ten, that I may shake them in my cap, and allot to each 
 stranger his companion. [.r<Y Wasili. 
 
 Ben. '(Apart to Crustiew.) Good old man, let me dwell 
 with you. 
 
 Crus. (The same.) You shall. {Aloud.) Now tell mc 
 friends. Is there no one among you who knows the for- 
 jaken wife of Crustiew ? She lives, most probably, in No- 
 vogorod. (Looking anxiously around.) Is there no one ? 
 An Ksile. ( Cwnesjoricard.) I know her. 
 Crus. (Clasping him zcith great emotion in his arms.) 
 Oh, my friend, is she alive ? 
 Exile. She is. 
 
 Crus. In what way does she live ? 
 
 Exile. In quiet retirement. I sawher lately at the l-'jly- 
 IT ate r f>.ast.
 
 Act I. COtNT BENYOWSKY, 201 
 
 Crus. And my son Alexander.? 
 Exile. lie is a soldier, and has gained renown, 
 Crus. Oh, Almighty God ! Perhaps for the first time the 
 thanksgiving of a happy man ascends to thee from Kamts- 
 cliatka's dreary coast ! My friend, may you, for these hap- 
 py tidings, enjoy what none but Providence can grant 
 consolation and happiness in slavery. 
 
 He-enter Wasilt. 
 
 WasUi. Here are the tickets. 
 
 Crux. {Shakes them in his cup, and selects one unobserved, 
 iihich he secretin/ pnts into Benyowsky's hand.) Pretend to 
 have taken this, (Aloud.) Now, let each stranger dravr 
 the name of his future companion. 
 
 Step. This is a lottery which contains but very few- 
 prizes. The huts are filthy nests, and the inhabitants 
 croaking ravens. 
 
 Ben. {Appears to draw a ticket fi'om the cup, which he 
 opens and reads.) Crusliew ! 
 
 Cruf-; You are welcome. We will share our happy re- 
 collections, and interchange wishes and hopes. 
 
 Ben. I dare engage that you will not lose by the inter~ 
 change. 
 
 First Exile. (J)razfS a ticket and reads it.) StepanofF, 
 
 Step. If you can laugh when you have the cholic, I bid 
 you welcome. 
 
 Second Exile. (Drazcs.) Wasili. 
 
 Step. He will tell you how they used to dance in the 
 seign of the Empress Elizabeth. 
 
 Third Exile. (Drazos.) Alexis. 
 
 Step. He was a priest, and will teach you how to pray. 
 
 Fourth Exile. {Draws.) Batarin. 
 15
 
 202 COUNT BENTOWSKi'. Act F. 
 
 Step. Oh, that fellow can describe to you the dwarfs 
 wedding in the reign of Peter the First. 
 
 Fifth Exile. {Draws.) Heraklius Zadtkoy, 
 Step. That man will drink you under the table, if you 
 have swallowed nothing but proof-spirit all your life. 
 Sixth Exile. (Draws.) Bialzinin. 
 Step. He teaches hawks to pounce upon their prey, and 
 catches hares with springes. 
 
 Seventh Exile. {Draws.) Lobstchoff. 
 Step. He can count how many hairs grow on a sable's 
 back, and how many eggs an ant lays. 
 
 Cms. All is now properly arranged. Let us, therefore, 
 go to breakfast; that over the full goblet our young friend- 
 ship may have a rapid growth. 
 
 Ben. The full goblet shall make it grow, and its firmness 
 will be establiihed by our common misery. [E.iunt, 
 
 Ti3T, OF ACT I.
 
 Ail IT. rot; XT Bi:yYo,v:4KY. .203 
 
 jcr 11. 
 
 ScEXE, a nretched Apartn ent in Crtsi iew's Hut. 
 Benyovvsky jv fifiing at a Window zcith his Head 
 supported on Itiii Hand. 
 
 Ben. At len^tii the morning d;i\vns. At length the 
 sun casts a glance upon Kanitschatku; a glance, cold and 
 comfortless as niv wretclied fate. Where are you, ye 
 gay virions of my early youth? lam forsaken left to 
 solitary, gloomy meditation. No voice whispers at the 
 side of my couch, "Hist! He sleeps." No tears will, 
 ever drop upon my grave, declaring, "Alas! He is 
 dead." No one hates me no one loves me and am I 
 still alive? A knife and a lance, a sword and a gun, have 
 been given to me and am I still alive? Quick let me 
 break these bonds, and burst from my confinement ! My 
 soul is free, and does not own the power of chains, Alas! 
 I am restrained by Hope, tiiat daughter of the jailor,, 
 who plays the wanton witii every prisoner. The dagger 
 drops from my hand, and I si.'ik into her arms. (A 
 pause.) Fool that T am ! I am a child in leading strings. 
 Hope is but a doll, with which children of a larger growth 
 play till they reach the grave, that ihey may not lament 
 their misfortunes. Begone ! Me thou shalt not deceive. 
 I am a man. To what power will ray spirit stoop? Who 
 is lord over my existence but the Almighty and mvself? 
 (He espies a knife ttpon the table. With a look of hor- 
 ror and desperation he rivets his eye upon it. Suddenly 
 he stretches forth his hand, and seizes it. Irresolutely he raises 
 his arm to stub himself He gages alternately at the 
 16
 
 204 COUNT BENYOWSKY. Act II. 
 
 knife, and towards Heaven. His hand slozvlj/ sinks upon fiis 
 knee. He throxcs his other arm upon the hack of the chair, 
 and rests his head upon it, when a miniature set in diamonds 
 drops from his hair. He starts up alarmed, snatches it, 
 and gazes intently at it. Bj/ degrees sorrow glistens in hit 
 eyes, and he exclaims,) Emilia ! IMy wife ! (He throzii, 
 the knife away.) Thee liave I preserved. Of thee my ra- 
 pacious foes have not deprived me. In my hair I hid 
 thee and in my heart. Emilia, the gh.be hes between 
 us, but God and love know neither space nor time. I will 
 live for tliee. For thee I will fight, and defy a host of 
 combatants. This picture shall be my sliield, my talisman. 
 When real love inhabits a heart, fear is a stranger, and 
 guilt a cast-off servant. Ob, gentle Hope ! return, and 
 associate with tliy sister Love. Never part again, sweet 
 enchanting pair. Emilia loves me my wife loves me 
 It matters not whether a wall or a quarter of the world 
 divides us. At this very hour she is perhaps praying for 
 my deliverance, w hile a suckling hangs upon her arm, and 
 lisps the name of father. Live, Benyowsky, live ! Tliy 
 life belongs to her and him. 
 
 Enter Crustiew. 
 
 (Benyowsky hastily conceals the picture.) 
 
 Cms. Good morning, friend, and brother. (They 
 shake hands.) I ask not how you have slept, for we 
 were only separated by a slight partition, I heard you 
 pacing to and fro, throughout the night, and as I lay I 
 groaned in unison with you. 
 
 F.en. Forgive me, good old man, if I disturbed you. 
 Time and custom will soon teach me how tu ijcar the want 
 of rest myBclf, without infringing upon yours.
 
 Act II. COUNT BENYOWSKY. 204 
 
 Crus. Sleep is not always rest, and hapless is the wretch 
 whose only rest is sleep. You yesterday mentioned a 
 few words respecting the possibility of escape. You 
 seemed inspired by the hope of a happier futurity. My 
 heart caught the spark, and burst into a flame. 
 
 Ben. It is a flame without fuel. 
 
 Crus. How ! Think you it will be soon extinguished ? 
 5 ^-FiYA solemnity, and hi a lower tone.) No. Fof 
 threc-and-twcnty years, the project has been ripening in 
 my mind. It has ripened slowly, like gold in the bosom 
 of the mountains. Much have I prepared. Much is 
 done, much still remains to be done. Twenty men have 
 sworn fidelity to me. They are well prepared, for they 
 are armed with courage, understanding, experience, and 
 determination. In one respect, and in one only, are we 
 wanting. In none have I found the real spirit of a leader. 
 One man is tickled, by ambkion. Another, though in 
 slavery, boasts of his birth and rank. A third has no 
 idea of a firm, well-regulated association. A fourth 
 would to-morrow execute the project, and on tlie suc- 
 ceeding day consider of the means. In short, every one 
 is tolerably adapted for the situation he at present holds, 
 but in no one can I discover the stamp of a truly great 
 ^pirit. We have abundance of wheels, but no main- 
 spring. 
 
 Ben. You yourself 
 
 Crus. I know myself. The hoy may become an enter- 
 prizing youth, but the greybeard can never act with the 
 energy of man. Let me have time to survey a thing on 
 every side, and my courage often equals my experience. 
 But when sudden dangers surround me like repeated 
 flashes of lightning, when years depend upon a minute 
 when I must instantly determine thus or thus then 
 am I overpowered, irresolute, powerless.
 
 206 covyr Br.N-iovvSKY. Jet II. 
 
 Be?!. And were you to find the man Vvhom your i;na- 
 gination has depicted, what reliance can ht; place upon a 
 horde of criminals? They are rash, but not courHt!;eous ; 
 daring, but not magnanimous. Their resolution is intoxi- 
 cation, and at the dccisi\e moment its effects would fall 
 upon their nerves. Who would be surety for the fidelity 
 of men like these. 
 
 Crus. I and their misery. Shall I describe to you the 
 latter.' I will: for, unless you release them from it, your 
 destination is the same. (Wil/i increusivg enersy.) Be- 
 lieve me, all who dwell here are not criminals. One hasty 
 expression has doomed many a vvretch to perish here. 
 Miserah'le is tlie criminal but far more miserable he 
 whom indiscretion only has loaded with the chains of 
 slavery. Bowed to the earth Vjy ngony and penitence, lie 
 lands on these inhospitable shores, and penury steps 
 forth to welcome him. Countenances, on which justice, 
 and often nature, has stamped the mark of guilt, scowl at 
 his approach. In vain docs he seek a friend. In vain docs he 
 attempt to recall the pleasing virions of his former days : or, 
 if he can recall them, what do they avail.'' To him who hopes^ 
 they are a cordial: to him who dares not hofie, tliey are a 
 torture. Industry and perseverance but prolong his misery. 
 He is not allowed to possess any {jvopcrly, and every villain 
 may plunder him with impunity. lie must patiently endure 
 oppression ; for if his spirit, roused by injurious treatment, 
 dare assert the rights of nature, the hsws of the groat 
 Peter decree that he shall be the prey of dogs. Banisfif li 
 from the reputable part of society, reduced to every slavish 
 and disgusting employment, fed on dried fijh, and aiui(.:-t 
 daily doomed to feel the scourge Oh, what a wrtlciied, 
 wretched picture! Health affords him no delight. When 
 sickness assails him, he is devoid of every consolation : 
 when death overtakes him, he is forsaken by the world,
 
 Act II. COUNT BENYOWSKY. 207 
 
 ere he has left the world. In a dreary desert his last groan 
 dies away, and the dews of death remain upon his c!uv-^ 
 cold brow, unwiped by any friend. Days and weeks creep 
 slowly after each other, and the victims of despair perish 
 imperceptibly. Putrefaction alone enforces from tyranny 
 the fast favour of being buried in the snow. 
 
 Ben. Hold ! Thou vvouldst murder me by tlow poison. 
 Lend me a dagger. 
 
 Cms. Many a victim of despair has here plimged the 
 dagger into his own heart and his executioners have 
 laughed. No one has yet indulged the hope of tasting li- 
 berty, without having recourse to tiie compassion of death 
 or princely power. No one has yet anticipated freedom by 
 means of united prudence, courage and determination. 
 For thee was reserved this glorious anticipatitm this glo- 
 rious acliievement for thee, Count Bcnyowsky Hun- 
 garian magnet husband father hero ! 
 
 Ben. (With ardour.) I am ready. Speak! What 
 can I do ? What dost thou wish that I siiould do ? 
 
 Cms. Age has but words manhood is rich in action. 
 
 Ben. Thou hast poured oil enough into my glowing 
 breast. I pant for action. What shall, what can I do ? 
 
 Cms. Release tiiyself and us. 
 
 Ben. Here is my arm. Lend me thy head. 
 
 Cms. Nature has formed tliine own to govern. Thou 
 hast no need of my wisdom; but my caution shall ever 
 wait at thy side. 
 
 Ben. Yet how is this jj As yet I am in the dark. The 
 power of man is united with all-powerful nature in oppo- 
 sition to us. On one side desert wastes and boundless 
 fields of snow ; on the other, unknown seas divide us from 
 the habitable world. Without a ship, without a pilot, 
 without arms, without provisions, how long can we strug- 
 gle ? If we be free to day, to-morrow we must die.J
 
 208 COUNT BENY0W5KY, Act II. 
 
 Crus. Die and be free ! Is not that far preferable to tlie 
 description I have given of our present situation ? The 
 game we play at has every advantage. Much may be 
 gained life only can be lost. 
 
 Ben. Thou art riht, old man. Let me examine the in- 
 terior of thy daring project. (Crustiew opens a small, closet, 
 takes out a book, and presents it to Benyovvsky u/io opci. 
 it and reads.) "Anson's voyage round the world." In 
 what respect will this assist us? 
 
 Crus. The name of Anson is the name of a friend. On 
 my arrival the barbarians ransacked all my pocket*. IVIy 
 purse, which contained but little, became tlicir booty, as 
 well as several other trifles. I trembled ; they laughed at 
 me with exclamations of derision. The lilockheads knew 
 not that I trembled for the safety of my books. Three 
 friends have, with fraternal affection, accompanied, and, 
 in some measure, consoled me during my long captivity. 
 These three are Anson, F/ufo, and Plutarch. To the 
 second I am obliged fur my belief in Heaven, for my 
 reliance on a happier futurity. The third has made use 
 acquainted with the heroes of antiquity, and has taught mc 
 to feel the enerur lie dignity of man. To hope Oh, Pcmiv- 
 ow^ky ! to iiopc (Pointing to the book.) The first has 
 taught me the undaunted, noble Anson ! 
 
 Ben. How so? 
 
 Crus. (With youlliful ardour.) Flight! Flight to 
 the Marian Islands ! The possibility of this Lord Anson 
 has developed. 1 iuian an Island, which is like a para- 
 dise on earth blessed with a mild climate harmb ss in- 
 habitants wholesome fruits peace liberty content- 
 ment happiness ! Oh, Benyowsky ! Benyovvsky ! save 
 
 thyself and us. 
 
 Pen. With astonishment and rapture I look up to thy 
 gigantic mind. Thy hand ! I will execute thy great de-
 
 Act II, COUNT BENYOWSKY. 200 
 
 sign, or perish in the attempt. With this hand I devote 
 to thee my life. Nothing can release me from my vow, 
 but death or liberty. Embrace me as Misery and Despair 
 embrace each other embrace me as thy brother. 
 
 Cru.1. Pardon me. You are our leader. (He kneels.) 
 I swear to yoa submission and fidelity. 
 
 Ben. (Sinking upon his neck.) I will reward this 
 confidence I will> conquer or die. But if 1 fall, by him 
 who made me, thou shalt quake, Kamtschatka ! 
 
 Crus. Enough ! Our brethren in misfortune, and in 
 this union, are waiting for my signal. (He goes to the 
 door, and several times pulls a rope suspended from above, 
 on zrhich a hell is heard.) 
 
 Ben. What are you doing ? 
 
 Crus. Come to the window. See ! They crowd hithflV 
 from all sides. 
 
 Ben. (Looking out.) Transporting sight ! Thus do :i 
 the wretch, whose vessel is about to shiver on the rock, 
 gaze at his deliverers approaching from the shore. 
 
 Enter Stepanoff, Kudrin, B.^turin, and many other 
 Exiles. Mutual salutations are exchanged, and hands 
 shaken oji every side. The assembly then'forms a semi- 
 circle, in the centre of which stand Cjiustiew and 
 Benyowsky. 
 
 Crus. Friends, and fellow-sufferers! You have for sc 
 veral years chosen my maturer ago to be your guide upon 
 the path where thorns are plentifully scattered, and tho 
 rose is not allowed to blossom. You havo been satisfied 
 with me in all respects, except my tardy circumspection. 
 You have always approved my conduct, except when \ 
 checked your rash impatience, restrained ynur daring im 
 potcnce, and called to you while you gnawed your chain-?^
 
 SIO COVNT BENYOWSKY. Act II. 
 
 " Hold, for you only make the evil greater than it is." Think 
 you that I have felt the weight of these fetters less than 
 yourselves ? Think you that my sighs, my curses, or my 
 tears, have been fewer than your own? No, Like you, 
 have I panted for freedom and delivemnce. Rouse your- 
 selves, my brethren the hour is at length arrived. I 
 solemnly renounce every preference which your united 
 choice has hitherto bestowed on me. At our head stands 
 an intrepid hero, (Pointing to Benyowsky) a noble 
 Hungarian, bred to war and victory under the Polish ban- 
 ners. His arm shall free us. He wills it, and his will is 
 absolute. The fame of his exploits will go before time, 
 and tyrants will tremble when he unsheaths his sword. 
 (Confused murmius arise among the assembly/.) Speak, 
 Count Benyowsky. (Silence immediately prevails through 
 the assembly.) 
 
 Ben. Speak, say you ? Be our eloquence the clash of 
 swords ! Be our morning sahitation the oath of fidelity ! 
 Be our evening blessing the shout of liberty ! The bonds 
 of misery are stronger than the chains of slavery. Des- 
 pair is stronger than the fear of death. You know me 
 not I know not you but we are wretched therefore 
 we are brethren. If there be one among you, who will 
 shed his blood for you more uillingly, let him step 
 forth, and I will instantly do lioniagc to him. My am- 
 bition excites me not to claim pre-eminence ; but if it 
 be your will, resolved am I to climb the craggy steep on 
 which the palm of freedom flourishes, heedless whether 
 a fragment of the rock sliould roll upon me, and crush 
 my soul out. Let him who sees me waver, plunge his 
 sword into mv breast. With you to conquer, or to die, 
 is my firm and unalterable determination so help ine 
 God ! (Confused sounds of approbation arise among the 
 Exiles.^
 
 Act II. COUNT BENYOWSKY. 211 
 
 Cms. 'Tis well. Let every one who thinks like Crustiew 
 bare his head, and raise his hand. (Ail do so except 
 Stepanoff.^ You alone, StepanofF? 
 
 Step. Yes, I alone. Think'st thou that thy smooth 
 tongue is a wire, by which we may be led hkc puppets? I 
 know the power of rhetoric upon the heart. You have 
 spoken now will I speak. 
 
 Crus. Do so. 
 
 Step. My comrades, is this just ? I, who am your 
 countryman, step forward in opposition to a foreigner 
 a heretic. I will not dispute his heroism. He is brave 
 but so am I. Of his courage you have heard mine 
 you have witnessed. The Poles were obliged to place 
 an Hungarian at their head but we are Russians. He 
 says he will shed his blood for you that will I do also. 
 Is it worth our trouble to discuss the value of a slave's 
 blood ? He will make a merit of his exploits mine are 
 the gift of brotherly affection. I will light with you to- 
 morrow as I feasted with you yesterday. jSow, decide 
 between us. 
 
 (Marry of the Exiles place their caps again upon their heads, 
 when Crustiew attempts to address them, 
 
 Ben. (To Crustiew.^ Hold ! Unanimity must be our 
 support. Man can do but little men can do much. 
 The chain will become useless, if one link be parted 
 from another. The question is, what shall be done 
 not, who shall be tlic leader ? We thirst for freedom 
 it is immaterial whether he or I present the smiling cup. 
 Stepanotf, thou art a man. Give me thy hand. No ill- 
 will, no envy shall profane this union. The decision of 
 our partners in misfortune is a law to which I willingly 
 submit.
 
 312 COUNT BENYOWSKV. Act II. 
 
 Step. Enough of this prattle ! How long will you delay 
 your decision ? [A confused noise takes place. 
 
 Several Exiles. Old Crustievr shall decide for us. 
 
 Crus. (Gives a signal with his hand, on which all 
 are silent.) Stepanoff is valiant as the hghtning, which 
 darts from Heaven and blasts the just as well as the un- 
 just. (To Stepanoff^ Nay, wrinkle not your forehead, 
 knit not your eye-brows thus; for, when our freedom is 
 at stake, I will declare the truth. Brethren, the Per- 
 sians where accustomed to throw the army which opposed 
 them into confusion, by driving elephants before them ; 
 but never was an elephant their leader. Do you compre- 
 hend me ? 
 
 All. Benyovvsky ! Count Benyowsky! We chiise him. 
 
 Step, Be it so. The elephant is taught to bend his 
 knee. 
 
 Crus. (Kneeling.) We swear to thee 
 
 All. (Kneeling, and raising their right hands.) We 
 swear. 
 
 Crus. Inviolable fidelity, and unconditional obedience. 
 Be our united exertions devoted to our great design if 
 necessary, our lives. Be our tongues bound to secresy. 
 Be death the portion of the perjured, and be no bonds of 
 friendship or relationship sufficient to prevent the destruc- 
 tion of him who abides not by his oath ! 
 
 All. This we swear. 
 
 Crus. If fate should ordain that any one of us be cast 
 into a prison, we swear that no tortures shall force us to 
 confess that we have entered into this confederacy. We 
 swear that we will sooner bite off our tongues, and S[i!t 
 them in the face of our exccutioucrs. We swear that 
 either poison or a dagger shall rob the tyrants of their prey, 
 and that our grave s shall likewise be the graves of our secret;. 
 
 All. This we swear.
 
 Act II. COUNT BENYOWSKr. 2IS 
 
 Cms. EnougVi ! ^All rise. 
 
 Ben. (Knee/s, and presents both hands to CrustiewJ 
 From tliy hand I accept thy oatli, and that of all assem- 
 bled here. In thy hand I pledge my own. 
 
 Cms. I accept it. God is witness to it. (After a 
 solemn pause.) Brethren, at the hour of midnight assem- 
 ble in the chapel, that we may ratify this sacred compact 
 at the altar. 
 
 An Exile hastily steps from the door. 
 
 Exile. A servant of the Governor approaches. 
 
 Crus. (Alarmed.) Heavens ! Our numbers will excite 
 suspicion. 
 
 Ben. Sing, brethren ! Sing any thing which first occurs 
 to you. 
 
 (One of the Exiles sings the first line, and the rest imme- 
 diately join in chorus.) 
 
 Come, my comrades, join with me; 
 Think no more of slavery. 
 Let us with a jocund lay 
 Drive the cares of life away. 
 Come, my comrades, merry be, 
 Think no more of slavery. 
 
 Enter Servant, 
 
 Ser. Zounds ! You are vastly merry. 
 Crus. Welcome ! Will you join us in the song? 
 Ser. I have bo time to spare. Which of you is Count 
 Benyowsky ? 
 Ben. I am he. 
 Ser. The Governor wishes to see you.
 
 211 COtNT nrNYOWSKY. Act II. 
 
 Ben. T ^^lil come ininiediatcly. 
 
 Ser. Fiirc you well. [Exit. 
 
 lien. Ij'X every one go to his accustomcci occupation, 
 and beware lest he i)y word or look excite suspicion. 
 Retire separately. Do not form small groups in the 
 street. If you be alone, do not fix your eyes on any spot, 
 as if you were brooding over some material project. 
 Let not the sounds of sorrow or of joy, of doubt or 
 hope, escape you. Farewell I Be mindful of the oath by 
 which you are bound Mine has been heard by the .\1- 
 niij;hty. [Thit. 
 
 All. -(In covfused conversatiori.) What a valiant 
 
 man! A hero ! He will deliver us from bondage, 'i'es. 
 Away to the chace ! Away to the chace ! [Exeunt. 
 
 j\Ia)ie>it Crvsmv.w and SrF.rANOiT. 
 
 Crna. (CuUinii afler the drparliiifi canspira/ors.) 
 At midnight we shall meet again. fStcpanoiV.s/rt/KA i/i a 
 cor Iter uith his anus folded, and a t:hx)n>ii scon I upon I'lix 
 countenance. Crustiew surrei/s hiwj'ur ufeic moments u'Uh 
 a look of suspicion.) Stcpauotf ! 
 
 Step. (Starting.) Ila ! Are you here still ? 
 
 Cms. You seem just ut this moment not to be here. 
 
 Step. I! But I do not always seem what I au). 
 
 i'rus. What is the matter with thee, llunt wild man ? 
 
 Step. Call me ratlu^r a wild beast. Thou art a ui-e 
 old man, most learned and most bookish in tliy notions. 
 Thou moyest think that thou doest know the nature of 
 every creature from the worm to the elephant, but of 
 one thing thou art ignorant or at least thy memory has 
 
 failed thee. 
 
 Cms. What may this thing be ? 
 
 Step. That when the elephant is irritated, he is apt to 
 turn upon the army to which he belongs, and that the con- 
 sequence is desolation death. [Exit,
 
 Act II. COT NT BENYOWSKY. 215 
 
 Crus. (Looking after him for sereral moments, end then 
 shakes his head.) A worm may be dangerous too. The 
 caterpillar jealousy already feeds upon the blossom of our 
 freedom. l^Exit. 
 
 Scene, Atuanasia's Chamber. On the Table are a Book 
 and a Chess-board. 
 
 Enter Atmanasia and Theodora. 
 
 Athan. You are sure my father sent? 
 
 Theo. Long since. 
 
 Athan. And he is not yet come ! 
 
 Theo. Good Heavens ! If he can do every thing else, he 
 can't fly. 
 
 Athan. (Walking ^ip and down with marks of great un- 
 easiness.) How strange are my sensations i I know not 
 what I want. Is it still early, Theodora? 
 
 Theo. It is almost noon. 
 
 Athan. (Walking to her looking-glass.) I am not yet 
 dressed, 
 
 Theo. Why, I have mentioned that a hundred times, but 
 you forget every thing to-day. 
 
 Athan. Forget every thing ! Just the reverse ! I am all 
 thought. 
 
 Theo. True, So you were this morning, when, instead of 
 milk, you pouredcoffeejnto your tea, and yet swallowed it 
 without perceiving the mistake. 
 
 Athan. (Still before the glass.) My hair is in disor- 
 der. 
 
 Theo. You have had no sleep. You tossed from side to 
 ide throughout the night.
 
 210 CeUNT BENYOMSKY. Act II. 
 
 Jihan. Wliom did my father send ? The creature mu^t 
 be a perfect snail. 
 
 Tfieo. [Looking through the window.) Ila! Who comes 
 youder ? 
 
 Athan. {Turning siirldcnhi round.) Is it the Count? 
 The.o. (Smiling.) Count! You mean demi-cod. 
 Aihan. {Who has hastened to the 'aindou\)llc does not 
 look up. 
 
 Theo. You ought not to look down. 
 Athan. Do you know liow I feel t 
 Theo. Tliercabouts. 
 
 Athan. As if we had been long acquainted as iffl ought 
 to c^ll to him. 
 
 Theo. How will this end? 
 
 Athan. I never thought so little of futurity as I do 
 to-day. 
 
 Theo. So much the worse. 
 Athan. Hist! I hear my father's voice. 
 Theo. Farewell to all advice. {Casting a sly look tojccrds 
 Athanasia, who has thrown herself into a chair, and pretends 
 to he reading uilh great attention.) Excellent ! The 
 very emblem of artless simpHcily ! Oh, what a precious 
 thing is the heart of a woman ! Tor c\cv is the tempest 
 raging in it, yet ever is the surface smoolli. {Looks over 
 Athanasia's shoulder, takes the book out of her hand, turns it, 
 and gives it to her again.) Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! \Vhy, you were 
 holding vour book the wrong way. Ha ! ILi! 11a ! \Kxit. 
 Athan. (Alone.) The letters dance hel'ore me (Casting 
 a glance tonards the door;) and my heart ilics to meet 
 hirn. 
 
 Enter Govkrxoh a/jc/ Benyowsky. 
 
 Gov. This is my daughter, Count. (Mtdual compli-
 
 Act II. COUNT BENTOWSKT. 217 
 
 merits are exchanged.) I repeat ray request. I hare heard 
 that want of employment for the head and heart is the 
 fundamental cause of learning and of love. My daughter's 
 heart is her father's property. With her head do what you 
 please. It is an uncultivated garden, but the soil is good. 
 
 Be)t. I have been bred to arras, and small is the extent 
 of my knowledge. To arrange a battle, or a ribband to 
 form an army, or a cap to sketch a plan of attack, or a 
 pattern for a gown are very diiferent things. 
 
 Athan.My simple morning-dress contradicts this assertion. 
 
 Ben. Modesty and beauty are two amiable sisters. 
 
 A than. If I feel that you make me blush, I must run away. 
 
 Ben. A threat, which compels truth itself to be silent. 
 
 Gov. Well, Athanasia, you must be grateful. Count 
 Benyowsky will cultivate your mind ; in return for which 
 you will make his fetters lighter. 
 
 Athun. With pleasure will I endeavour to do that. 
 
 Gov. lie will instruct you in the French language and 
 the harp ; and you will let him have a brother's share of 
 the few avnusements which our retirement from tlie world 
 affords. I release you, Count, from all public employ- 
 ment, and will provide for your subsistence. 
 
 Ben. My gratitude 
 
 Gov. Hold ! Who gains most by this? You or I? I 
 now leave you awhile with your pupil, after which we will 
 play a game at chess together. [Exit . 
 
 (A pause ensues, during which Athanasia appears confused 
 and casts down her eyes.) 
 
 Athan. I wish the pupil may not disgrace her instructor. 
 Ben. (Likewise confused.) By too soon surpassing him. 
 Athan. Are you patient ? 
 
 Vox. II. K
 
 f 18 COt.'NT BENYOWSXY. Act II. 
 
 lien. Wliat a question to a slave ! 
 
 Alhan. How strange it is that happiness and misery should 
 Jiethus interwoven } When one flower fades, another thrives 
 from its reiuains. Your lot is bitter, Count, but it sweetens 
 ours. To alleviate jour sorrows be our duty Duty ? Hovr 
 could so cold a word drop from my lips ! Re our delight. 
 
 Bea. (With a look of astonishment and transport.) 
 Heavens! I hear a language, which was become foreign 
 to my ear. 
 
 Athan. This country is, Town, cold and uncultivated. 
 Our flowers are devoid of fragrance, our fruits of flavour, 
 ami our men of sensibility. 
 
 Ben. Oh, my lady, man is the only fruit which cannot 
 degenerate in any climate. Weeds flourish every where. 
 
 Athan. Why weeds ? ^ 
 
 Ben. Because it is not worth w hile to mention the few 
 grains of wheat which grow among them. 
 
 Athan. Your language betrays that you have suffered 
 much misfortune. 
 
 Ben. Much! Alas, yes. One misfortune may be much. 
 X am a slave. 
 
 Athan. We will make your slavery tolerable. 
 
 Ben. (With great solemnity.) Slavery can never be 
 tolerable. {Sudcknii/ assuming an air oj' gallantry.) Unless 
 it be the slavery of love. 
 
 Athan. (Cheerfully.) There is no such thing as the 
 la\fcry of love. 
 
 Ben. Is love ever felt in Kamtschatka ? 
 
 Alhan. We live in Kamtschatka. 
 
 Ben. Without love, perhaps, as without sun. 
 
 Athan. No. W'hat is not produced by the warmth of the 
 sun, is effected by the warm imagination of a poet. We 
 read as often as we can we feel what we read. I sliould 
 be glad if there were more good books in our language.
 
 Act H. COl'KT BKHYOWSKY. 219 
 
 I have long wished to learn French. You have promised 
 
 my father 
 
 Ben. To do all in my power. 
 Athan. Shall we make a beginning ? 
 Ben. We have no book at present. 
 Athan. I don't wish to learn from a book, but from you. 
 Ben. But how, if the instructor be unable to speak in the 
 presence of his pupil ? 
 
 Athan. Because'he has not a book ? Count, how you gaze 
 at me ! I read in your eyes more than I ever read in any book, 
 Ben. {Confused.) What a pleasure do the fair sex feel 
 in the embarrassment of a soldier ! 
 
 Athan. Because it flatters our weakness, and does 
 honour to the weapons with which we attack your sex. But 
 no more of this ! We can proceed without a book. When 
 you mention a word, I will repeat it till I have acquired the 
 proper pronunciation. 
 Ben. A word ! 
 
 Athan. Yes. I will learn a dozen to-day, and another 
 dozen to-morrow. At this rate I shall be able at the end 
 of a year to converse with you in French. Let us begin. 
 What is the French word for heart '<? 
 Ben. Le Ceeur. 
 
 Athan. Le canr Le cceur. There, you see. I know 
 that already. Le caur. But how would you express^ Thi 
 heart heats ? 
 
 Ben. Le caur palpite. 
 
 Athan. Le cceur palpile. What a charming language! 
 (Lat/ing her hand on her heart, and sighing,) Le caur 
 palpite. I am an apt scholar; for I feel what I learn. 
 
 Ben. (Embarrassed.) I had almost forgotten that the 
 r^overnor expects me to play at chess. Have the goodaes* 
 to allow my departure. 
 
 K2
 
 2S0 COUNT BENYOWSKT. Act II. 
 
 Athan. Why Count, I always understood a lesson con- 
 tinued for an hour. 
 
 Ben. {Significant h/.) A whole hour ? 
 
 Athan. Yes. Am I so very tedious .? 
 
 Ben. For Heaven's sake, forget not that I am a banished 
 wretch, and let me not forget it. 
 
 Athan. Why not ? I will not banish you. You fought 
 against the Russians. What is that to me? You were made 
 a prisoner. What is that to me? You were brought hither. 
 What is that Hold ! That is something to me. 
 
 Ben. Is it indeed ? What otfice do you hold here? 
 
 Athan. The delightful office ofconsoling the unfortunate. 
 
 Hen. {I)eeply affected.)! see that nature has not been 
 unjust even here. She has robbed the meadows of their 
 verdure, but she has imparted all her stores to one amiable 
 80ul. Kamtschatka is not a desert. 
 
 Athan. Friendship, like the swallow, builds its nest every 
 where. Happiness is not like the butterfly, which in sum- 
 mer sun-shine flits from flower to flower, but becomes tor- 
 pid in the winter. Happiness dwells also close to the north- 
 pole. 
 
 Ben. Heavens! what a flower has this climate produced ! 
 
 Athan. Would you make me vain ? But no. I know 
 how I am to understand this. On a barren waste a com- 
 mon daisy pleases. 
 
 Ben. What is art compared to nature ? 
 
 Athan. Does my frankness please you ? 
 
 Ben. May I be allowed to feel a pleasure in it ? 
 
 Athan. Unaccountable man ! How bold is your eye ! 
 How timid is your language ! 
 
 Ben. Oh, then let the discretion of my language be an 
 apology for the boldness of my eye. A word, floating on the 
 lips, and a stone grasped in the hand, are harmless; but 
 when the word is uttered, or the stone is thrown, who can
 
 Act II. COUNT BENYOWSKY. HH 
 
 answer for the consequences? His Excellency expects me. 
 Lady, accept my thanks for the fresh blossom which your 
 hand has woven in the faded wreath of Benyow sky's hap- 
 piness. Accept my thanks for permitting Benyowsky to be 
 proud again. Yes, I am proud of your esteem. To my 
 misfortunes only can I owe this excess of kindness. "Who 
 could misunderstand this generous sensation ? Who could 
 be so malicious as to misinterpret it? Lady, to you is devoted 
 every sensation which is allowed to exist in the heart of a 
 slave. [Bows respectfully, and exit, 
 
 Athan. (Looks after Mm for some time walks up and 
 down in great agitation takes up the book, turns over a few 
 leaves, and again throws it aside walks in deep meditation 
 to the chess-board, and mechanically moves the pieces sighs 
 lays her hand on her bosom, and says,) Le caur palpite. 
 
 END OF ACT 11. 
 
 E3
 
 'iQS <:OVNT BKNYuVVSKt. Alt III. 
 
 ACT III, 
 
 Scene, Crustiew's Room. 
 
 Crustiew is discovered at the Window, anxiousli/ azcuiting 
 the Return ofBENYOwsKK. 
 
 Cms. Where can he remain so long ? [lis presence ani- 
 mates our body. The project begins to shoot up, and bud 
 his active warmth must bring it to maturity. 
 
 Enter Stepaxoff, uith a bottle and glass in his hand. 
 
 Step. {Not perfectly sober.) Good day to you, old 
 Crustiew ! Let us drink to the health of all prattling 
 cliamber-maids. [Drinks. 
 
 Cms. What do you mean by that ? 
 
 Step. Much or little, as you please. I have made a 
 precious discovery. It has quite intoxicated me. 
 
 Cms. The cause of your intoxication is in your hand. 
 
 Step. Pshaw ! Fill my head with fire instead of brains, 
 and I shall then be all sobriety, compared with this intoxi- 
 cation. 
 
 Cms. What wild extravagant ideas ! 
 
 Step, Do you know Kudrin. the Cossack ? 
 
 Cms. That is a drunkard's question. Is he not one of 
 our confederacy ? 
 
 Step. Don't trust him; for ho is the slave of a woman 
 He is in love with Theodora, Athanasia's attendant. 
 
 Cms. \Mr.acare I ibr ihar.
 
 Act III. COUNT BENTOWSKY, f^S 
 
 Step. She knows ail his secretshe all her's Ila! Ha! Ha! 
 
 Cms. I don't understand you. 
 
 Step. Satan, I thank thee for the service thou hast ren- 
 dered me. {Fills the glass and drinks.) Long life to the 
 devil_! 
 
 Cms. Wretch ! Thy drunkenness has made thee blas- 
 phemous. 
 
 Step. Blasphemous ! I feel exactly as I oiii^ht to do.^ 
 (Places tlie bottle and glass on the table.) There ! Ycu may 
 drink the rest. 
 
 Cms. Go, and sleep awhile. 
 
 Step. Ay, you would be glad enouy;h if I were never to 
 wake again. {With a sneer.) Good night, old grey-heard. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Cms. What enigma is working in this wild blockhead's 
 brain? His expressions, though confused, appeared to \)Q 
 the effect of something more than mere intoxication. 
 
 Enter BEsyowsKy, hmtily. 
 
 Ben. T have much to impart to you. 
 
 Crus. And I to you. 
 
 Ben. Love shuffles the cards. Our game is won. 
 
 Crus. What mean you ? 
 
 Ben. All my knowledge of mankind, all my knowledge 
 of womankind deceives me, if Athanasia be not well in- 
 clined towards me. 
 
 Crus. {Smiles, and shakes his hcai.) ^This affection has 
 sprung up in a single night like a mushroom. 
 
 Ben. Love is always au unexpected visitor ! Did you 
 ever hear of preparations ha\ ing been made for his re- 
 ception? 
 
 Crus. Well ! To what does this tend ? 
 
 Ben, Can you not guess ? 
 
 K i
 
 224 COUNT BINY0W8KY. Act III, 
 
 Cms. Will you marry her? 
 
 Btn. I am married. 
 
 Crus. Will you seduce her ? 
 
 Ben. Peribh such a' thought. 
 
 Crus. Will you return her affection ? 
 
 Ben, 1 cannot. Alas ! I know not 
 
 Crus. Well } 
 
 Ben. Advise me how to act. 
 
 Crus. I advise no one who has formed a previous deter- 
 mination. 
 
 Ben, Determination ! 
 
 Crus. Ask yourself this question. Does not the bloom- 
 ing Athanasia please you ? 
 
 Ben. {After remaining in suspense for a moment, shrugs 
 his shoulders.) If I look into my heart 
 
 Crus. Wliat find you there ? 
 
 Ben. {After a pause.) Sensuality and vanity. 
 
 Crus. The vanity of man is an odious idol, to which many 
 an unsuspicious heart has fallen avictim. 
 
 Ben. The advantages we gain by this are great. 
 
 Crus. True, if you feel strong enough not to overstep the 
 proper bounds ; false, if you intend to found our happiness 
 upon the ruin of a harmless being. 
 
 Ben. Never ! 
 
 Crus. I am old, and superstition is the inheritance of age. 
 I would not that our project should succeed at the expense 
 of an innocent creature's happiness. Better is it to be a 
 slave, and daily feel the whip of tyranny, than to be free, 
 and every moment feel the scourge of conscience. Oft as a 
 tempest overtook us on the ocean, I should exclaim, " This 
 is the vengeance of the Almighty.'' I therefore claim from 
 you a vow, that Athanasia's virtue shall be sacred to you. 
 
 Ben. The detested thought can find no place in my ima- 
 gination. I swear wliat you require.
 
 Act III. COUNT BENYOWSKY. 2^ 
 
 Cms. Enough ! Then may you nourish her fond wishes, 
 and feast her mind with lovely visions of anticipated rap- 
 ture. When we are gone, all will be well again; for every 
 thing can be forgotten, loss of innocence excepted. Mean- 
 vvliile, draw an impenetrable veil over this secret. Let it 
 not be known by our associates. Beware especially of 
 StepanofF. 
 
 Ben. Why? 
 
 Crus. Because he loves her to distraction.' 
 
 Ben. Loves Athanasia ! Does he know her ? 
 
 C7'us. As much as we all do. 
 
 Ben. Docs she know him ? 
 
 Crus. That I doubt. 
 
 Ben. Did he ever speak to her ? 
 
 Crus. Never. 
 
 Ben. And is yet in love with her ? 
 
 Crus. To distraction, I tell you. Now a word respecting 
 the preparations I have made. In some degree I have been 
 successful in some degree the reverse. 
 
 Een. First, to the successful part ! 
 
 Crus. It exceeds the other. Tschulosnikoff sailed some 
 time since to the Aleutian Islands for the purpose ofcatching 
 sea-otters. Eight and twenty men served under him. 
 Tlicy are returned, and are very much dissatisfied. These 
 I have gained over to our interest, and the vessel is our 
 own. 
 
 Ben, The voice of an angel ! 
 
 Crus, They will assemble at midnight m the chapel, and^ 
 bind their fate to ours by an oath. 
 
 Ben. You have succeeded most happily. Oh, Crustiew, 
 my head is like a magic lantern. Lighted by my fancy, the 
 gay pictures of futurity flit past me. Already do I see my- 
 self in China, Japan, India ; already do we double the Cape 
 of Good Hope. Hope, thou daughter of Heaven ! 
 K s
 
 82d COUNT BENYOWSKY. Ad III. 
 
 Cms. Be not so hasty. Hide this fire beneath the aslies. 
 We have not yet attained our object. 
 
 Ben. The way is smooth ; the cliffs are all behind us. 
 
 Cms. But while we wander on the smooth path, it is pos- 
 'ble we may suddenly sink into an abyss, IMalice peeps at 
 us from every corner. Envy listens to us on every side. 
 He who thinks that his foes are on the highway, knows 
 little of the matter. They are lurking in the bushesj 
 and when you have passed them, will fall upon you un- 
 awares. 
 
 Ben. All meet me with respect. 
 
 Cms. So much the worse. The flag, which they hang 
 out, will make you feel secure. Many hate you, because 
 there are always people discerning enough to feel the su- 
 periority of a great mind, and base enough to envy it. 
 Many hate you on account of the large sums which they 
 have lost to you at chess. Among these is Kasarinoff, 
 
 Ben. The foolish merchant ? 
 
 Crus. He detests you. 
 
 Ben. He ! You are mistaken. This very morning I re- 
 ceived from him a present of tea and sugar. 
 
 Crus. Be on your guard. His villany may be sugared, 
 but villany it still remains. 
 
 Ben. Suspicious old man ! Do not fancy people worse 
 than they are. Mistrust has hindered many a good 
 action. 
 
 Cms, Caution is not mistrust. 
 
 Enter Wasili. 
 
 Wasili. A misfortune ! 
 Ben. What is it ? 
 
 Wasili. Our little dog Sabac is dead. 
 Crus. Then we have lost a watchful friend. How lian- 
 pencd it?
 
 Act III. COUNT BEXYOWSKY. 227 
 
 Wdsi/i I was preparing tea for Count Benyowsky, and 
 he amnsed me so much witli his gambols, that I gave him a 
 piece of the sugar sent by Kasarinoff. In a few minutes af- 
 ter he had swallowed it, he rolled his eyes, became con- 
 vulsed, and died. [Benyowsky starts. 
 Crus. {After a pause.) How now, Benyowsky ? 
 Ben. I i:im petrified. 
 
 Cms. Which of us best knows the nature of mankind ? 
 Ben. You. But he shall repent this diabolical design. I 
 
 will hasten to the Governor 
 
 Cn(S. Not unarmed, 1 hope ! 
 
 Ben, A poisoner is the meanest of assassins. A look will: 
 terrify him. Wasili fetch me a piece of the sugar. 
 
 [Exit Wasili. 
 Poor Sahac ! If in ray age I find repose, my garden shall be 
 adorned with a statue of thee, that I may never forget my 
 gratitude to Providence. [Going-, 
 
 /i,'f ?' TstHULOSNIKOFF. 
 
 Tscfi. (With a look of fupy se/^es. Benyowsky hy the 
 collar.) Hold ! Not anolhcr step shait tiiou proceed. 
 
 Ben. ( Pushes Inin back uii.h superior strc/igtfi, so that he 
 almost fulls.) Address me from that corner. What dost 
 thou want ? 
 
 Tsch. Damnation ! Am' I to be treated thus by an 
 exile } 
 
 Ben. Thou should'st not have forgotten that an exile is a. 
 man. 
 
 Tsch. Disgracefully attacked by the disgraced ! 
 
 Ben. That is so much the worse for thee. 
 
 Tsch. The Governor shall know it. 
 
 Beyi. He shall. 
 
 Tick. Declare what are your intentions.
 
 228 COUKT BENYOVVSKY. Act III. 
 
 Ben, To break thy neck, unless tliy language is restrained 
 within proper bounds. 
 
 Cms. {Apart to Benyowsky.) Be calm. Passion will 
 rot assist our cause, 
 
 Tsck. What are you whispering in his ear, old villain ? 
 You have bribed my crew. You have excited them to dis- 
 cord and rebellion. 
 
 Cms. (Confused.) I ! 
 
 Ben. 'Tis false. 
 
 Tsch. {To Benyowsky.) A conspiracy is formed, and 
 you are at the head of it. 
 
 Ben. 'Tis false. 
 
 Tsch. My pilot's conscience would not allow him to con- 
 ceal it. He has discovered all. 
 
 Ben. What he has said is false. 
 
 Tsch. False! Then why is yon old scoundrel in sucli con- 
 sternation ? Terror has robbed him of his faculties. 
 Answer me, old fellow : do you know my crew .? 
 
 Cms. I do. 
 
 Tsch. Why did you steal to their huts before day-break ? 
 What had you to do with them, when you were all together, 
 and the doors were barred ? 
 
 Ben. Blockhead, I can explain this matter in a {cw 
 words. The Governor, and several respectable inhabitants 
 of the town, have persuaded me to establish a public 
 school. I want to erect a large building for this purpose ; 
 and as your crew were unemployed, I thought of hiring them 
 to work for me. I commissioned Crusticw to do this for 
 me, and he agreed with them. 
 
 Tsl'/i. A very likely story, no doubt ! But let me tell 
 you 
 
 Ben. Hold ! I have conferred on you the honour of re- 
 futing your ridiculous suspicion; but were I any longer 
 to brook your preposterous conduct, I should be guilty
 
 Act III. CGUNT BENYOWSKr. 229 
 
 of weakness, or of fear. Beware, therefore, how you pro- 
 ceed. 
 
 Tsch. What ! Dare you threaten 
 
 Ben. I dare do more than threaten. 
 
 Tsch. Is a lawful citizen to be insulted by an exiled va- 
 gabond ? 
 
 Ben. -(Strikes him) Take that and that and 
 
 that - [Kicks him out of doors, 
 
 Tsc/i. (Whose fury almost chokes him.) This shall 
 cost thee thy life. [Exit. 
 
 Cms. We are lost. 
 
 Ben. Why ? 
 
 Cms. He is gone to the Governor. 
 
 Ben. So will I. 
 
 Cms. He will be violent. 
 
 Ben. I will be calm. 
 
 Criis, And should he not convince, he will awake 
 suspicion. 
 
 Ben. Collected firmness will easily overpower unbridled 
 fui'v. 
 
 Cms. (Goes to the window.) Haste then to the cita- 
 del before him. He is on foot. Throw yourself into the 
 sledge which you see yonder with two dogs in harness, and 
 drive orer the river. It is a nearer road. 
 
 Ben. Enough ! If no hindrance occur, you shall soon 
 see me again. (As he goes Wasili meets him, and presents 
 a small packet.) True. I had almost forgotten the 
 sugar. [Exit. 
 
 Cms. (Alone.) Had he not been here, our game 
 would have been lost. My firmness quite forsook me. 
 Slavery and age subdue both the body and the mind. 
 Youth feasts on hopes manhood bursts into action 
 age and infancy have only fruitless wishes for their por- 
 tion, [Erit.
 
 230 COUNT BENYOWSKr. Act III. 
 
 Scene, o}ic of the Gov v.uyo}\^s Rooms. 
 Enter Athanasi.a. 
 
 Athan. At lengtli T am alone, and can give venf to 
 the sensations of my heart. Oh that my mother were 
 alive ! She would have understood me. I must relieve 
 my mind. He is noble, and shall know my sentiments. 
 Confidence creates generosity. Nothing can sooner dis- 
 arm a man of honour, than the avowal, " I am in vour 
 power." Hist ! I hear somebody on the stairs. That hasty 
 step is his. 
 
 Enter SxEPANorr. 
 
 Alas, no. My senses deceive my heart Do you wish to 
 see my father. 
 
 Step. No you fair lady. 
 
 Alhun. What do you want .? 
 
 Step. More than a god can bestow your afleclion. 
 
 Athan. Are you m;i(l? 
 
 Step. I shall be if you reject me. 
 
 Athan. I ought not to listen to you. \_Gou)i:. 
 
 Step. Stay, for Heaven's sake, stay. Listen to me, 
 and decide as the humanity and goodness of your nature 
 will direct. I grant I am an exile ; an outcast of man- 
 kind. I was banished for a hasty juvenile indiscretion. 
 My birth is equal to yours ; my heart is worthy of 
 yours. Chance may release me from the chains of 
 slavery, but your chains I shall for ever wear. Fair 
 Athanasia, cast on me a look of kindness. Oh, let a 
 single gleam of hope shine through the dreary darkness of 
 my life.
 
 Act III. COUNT BENYOWSKY. 231 
 
 Athun. Enough ! I can make no reply to your decla- 
 ration ; but from compassion I will conceal it from my 
 father. [Going. 
 
 Step. Oh, stay, and let the words of sincere, of ar- 
 dent love, find their way to your heart. It is about 
 seven years ago that I was first obliged to work, on the 
 fortifications. Unaccustomed as I was to labour, iny 
 strength was soon exhausted. Powerless I lay stretched 
 on the rampart, and prayed to Heaven for death. Then 
 it was that you appeared with your good mother. Atha- 
 nasia Alexiewna, you were then a little girl. Fearfully 
 you started back, clung to your mother, and besouglit 
 her to assist me. She gave me a piece of money and I 
 gave you my heart. You are grown my affection has 
 grown with you. Years iiave passed away, yet still I see 
 the little cherub, as if the circumstance had happened 
 yesterday. Grateful I have ever been, and gratitude is 
 ripened into love. Do not condemn me do not reject 
 me. I require no oath, no promise. I only beg I may be 
 allowed to hope, that if fate should ever smile on me 
 again, you will also smile on rac. 
 
 Athan. I most sincerely pity you ; but I cannot, will not, 
 give encouragement to useless hopes. 
 
 Step. ( With asperitj/.) You cannot because you will 
 not. 
 
 Athan. To whom am I accountable for my sentiments ? 
 
 Step. Another attachment lurks in your bosom. 
 
 Athan. Does my kindness excite audacity ? 
 
 Step. The charms of novelty have attracted you. 
 
 Athan. Begone ! 
 
 Step. Mere bombast has conquered you. 
 
 Athan. Leave me, insolent man. 1 chuse to be alone. 
 
 Step, Do you expect a visitor } Is he coraming, lady ? 
 
 Athan. Who?
 
 252- COr^T EENTOWSKY. Act III. 
 
 Step. The happy man, for whose sake I am trampled in 
 the dust. 
 
 Athun. Shall I call my father ? 
 
 Step. Do as you please. My life is now of no value to 
 me. The delightful air-built castle of my hopes is de- 
 stroyed. Weep I will not pray I cannot. None but fools 
 weep and pray. To a man of spirit and determination, 
 despair has granted another resource. If, like Sampson, 
 he be made a mark for contempt and derision, he can at 
 least grasp the pillars of the temple, and crush his foes as 
 well as himself by their fall. 
 
 Athan. You rave. 
 
 Step. I do not, yet ; though soon perhaps I may. I 
 will observe you with minute attention, watch your every 
 look, pry into your every design. I will discover your every 
 involuntary motion. Love, jealousy, despair will sharpen 
 all my faculties ; and if Satan will but grant that I may see 
 what I wish Ila ! then shall the sport begin. Furies shall 
 dance upon my grave, and brandish in the air your nuptial 
 torch. 
 
 Athan. Heavens! TIow shall I escape this madman? 
 (Espies Benyowsky, and runs joyfuUt/ towards lain.) Ha ! 
 Count Benyowsky ! 
 
 Enter Benyowsky. 
 
 Step. Hell and the devil ! There he is. I have seen 
 enough. Farewell, lady. It is, doubtless, time that 1 
 should take my leave. I know how to die but not inirt- 
 venged. \_E.iil. 
 
 Ben. What mean* this ? You in a tremor ! He in a rage ! 
 
 Athan. I am indeed in a tremor. 
 
 Ben. Why? 
 
 Athan. I Nvill complain to my father.
 
 Act HI. COVNT BENYOWSKY. 233 
 
 Ben. Of What ! 
 
 Athan. No, I will not. 
 
 Ben. What will you not do ? 
 
 Athan. I pity him. He is insane. 
 
 Ben. Insane ! 
 
 Athan, He loves me. 
 
 Ben. Is he, on that account, insane ? 
 
 Athan. An exile 
 
 Ben. (With a degree of asperity.) True, Madam. 
 That I had forgotten, 
 
 Athan. (Confused.) Not because he is an exile No 
 I did not mean to say that 
 
 Ben. It was, however, a very rational remark. 
 
 Athan. But what is rational is not always true. Cannot 
 an exile be deserving of affection ? 
 
 Ben. He can, but he must not. 
 
 Athan. He may, but the man who has been here can- 
 not That man, I say, cannot. 
 
 Ben. Where is his Excellency ? I must speak to him. 
 
 Athan. He is Dear Count, I have offended you. 
 
 Ben. Offended me ! By what ? 
 
 Athan. You are an exiie too ! 
 
 Ben. Alas ! I am. 
 
 Athan. I so easily forget that 
 
 Ben. I shall never forget it. 
 
 Athan. That arises from what you call rational. 
 
 Ben. You should praise me for it. 
 
 Athan. I do praise you by my words ; but my heart 
 
 Ben. The heart likes to be flattered. 
 
 Athan. (Bashfulli/.) You are not a flatterer. 
 
 Ben. (In a firm tone.) No, 
 
 Athan. But there are truths which the heart likes to hear. 
 
 Ben. Truth should not always be spoken, 
 
 Athan. At least not by every body.
 
 34 COUNT BESTOWSXY. Act III. 
 
 Ben. Tl\ght. 
 
 Athan. I mean, for instance, by Stepanoff. 
 
 Hen. And his equals. 
 
 Athiin. Who is his equal ? 
 
 Ben. Every exile. 
 
 Athan. Every exile ! I understand you. (Suppressing a 
 sigh.) Natural coldness is not a virtue. 
 
 Ben. But to suffer and be silent is a merit. 
 
 Athan. Or obstinacy. My mother told me, if T aUvays 
 declared what I felt, I should never feel what I out^ht not. 
 
 Ben. This one maxim is a full description of your mo- 
 ther's sentiments. 
 
 Athan. She bequeathed me many such maxims. If 
 she were still alive Alas ! her grave is on the hill close 
 to the fortress. When the first grass peeps through the 
 snow, I'll hasten thither, and entrust my secret to the 
 earth. (After a pause.) You do not ask me what my 
 secret is, 
 
 Ben. 1 have no right to do so. 
 
 Athan. You are my instructor^and I must place confi- 
 dence in you. Give me your advice. 
 
 Ben, Respecting whnt ? 
 
 Athan. If T felt an aiTection for Stepanoff 
 
 Ben. Well? 
 
 Athan. \Miat should I do ? 
 
 Ben. Discover your attachment to your fwiuier. 
 
 Athan. And then ? 
 
 Ben. If his influence could restore StcpanolFio liberty; 
 you might, without a blush, give him your hand. 
 
 Athan. You have said exactly what I feci, 
 
 Ben. Happy Si ppanotf! 
 
 Athan. Indeed dear count ! Should you tVimk hiui hap- 
 py whom I love : 
 
 Ben. If he possess a feeling heart .
 
 Ad 111. COCNT BENVOWSKY. 835 
 
 Athan. {Bashfully leans upon him, and hides her face 
 upon his shoulder.) Do you possess one ? 
 
 Ben. (Agitated.) Athanasia ! 
 
 Athan, Yes or no ? 
 
 Ben. Amiable innocence ! 
 
 Athan. Yes or no. (Benyowsky involunfarili/ clasps her 
 in his arms.) I fly to my fatlier. [Exit. 
 
 Ben. Atlianasia! What would you do? Gracious 
 Heavens ! What is all this ? The angelic charms of inno- 
 cence surprised and overpowered me. {Striking his fore- 
 head.) Emilia ! My wife ! 
 
 Enter Twan. 
 
 Iican. There he is, as if sent for. 
 
 Ben. {Alarmed.) Has any one enquired forme ? 
 
 Izcan. Enquired ! Search has been made for you. 
 
 Ben, By whom ? 
 
 Itcan. By me, because I want to have some conversation 
 with you. 
 
 Ben. About what ? 
 
 Iivan. Matters of importance. 
 
 Ben. At another time. I am come hither on business, 
 which requires immediate attention. [Going. 
 
 Iwan. Hold ! Stir not from the spot. Perhaps the fate 
 of centuries depends upon this single moment. 
 
 Ben. {Aside.) Intolerable blockhead ! {Aloud.) 
 What are you pleased to command ? 
 
 hcan. Pleased to command! (With a mysterious air^ 
 and consequential smile.) A trifle. {After a solemn pause.) 
 Half the world. 
 
 Ben. What say you ? {Aside.) He is insane, too. 
 
 Iwan. You start. Ha! Ha! Ha! Upon these shoulders 
 is a head, and in that head strange things are happening. 
 
 Ben. That I perceive.
 
 236 COUNT BENYOWSKY. Act III. 
 
 Izcan. Who subdued Kamtschatka ? A Cossack. Who 
 is captain of the Cossacks? I wan Fedrowitsch, 
 
 Ben. That I know, but 
 
 Izcan. Silence ! Utter not a syllable. Promise that my 
 confidence shall not be misplaced, that what I have en- 
 trusted to you shall remain an in\ iolable secret. 
 
 Ben. (Smiling.) Most willingly. 
 
 luan. I have a little scheme. When I use the term 
 little scheme, I mean to imply a great project. In short, 
 ' (drawing hitn aside with an air of mystery,) I intend 
 to found a colony in the Aleutian Islands. 
 
 Ben. Indeed ! 
 
 Iwan. You shall lend me your assistance in forwarding 
 this plan, 
 
 Ben. If you wish it 
 
 Izcan. When I use the term assistance, I mean to imply, 
 pen; for, with respect to the sword, a Cossack wants no 
 assistance. You shall persuade the Governor to submit 
 your statement to her imperial Majesty. 
 
 Ben. Proceed. 
 
 Izcan. Don't you perceive I shall make you all happy ? 
 The Governor will be promoted to the command of 
 Ochozk, you will take his place at Kamtschatka, I shall be 
 Viceroy of the Aleutian Islands, and before you are aware 
 of it, conqueror of California. 
 
 Ben. Bravo ! Your Project is most admirable. 
 
 Izcan. Y'es, yes. (M'ith great solemnity.) I wiih you 
 joy, Governor of Kamtschatka. 
 
 Ben. (With equal gravity.) I thank your Californian 
 Majesty; but it would be more agreeable to me if you 
 would be graciously pleased to appoint me your prime 
 minister and coaimander in chief. 
 
 Izcan. Count, your petition is granted. 
 
 Ben. I am deeply atfcctocl 
 
 Izcan. So am I; fur I caniujt refrain from laughter, 
 nheu I fuiu-y tlr.it I see vuu at the head ofmvarinv--
 
 Act III, COUNT BENYOWSKT. S37 
 
 Enough ! be an alliance offensive and defensive concluded 
 between us. [^Presenting his hand. 
 
 Ben. (Shaking it.) Agreed. (Anide.) I'll bear 
 with the fool, for he may be useful to me. 
 
 Enter Governor. 
 
 Gov. Welcome, Count Benyovvsky ! Where is my 
 daughter ? 
 
 Ben. She was here but a few minutes since. 
 
 Gov. Theodora says she was in search of me. 
 
 IwuH. ( Comequentially.) We have hi the mean time 
 found a Kingdom. Ila ! Ha ! 
 
 Ben. Before we take possession of it, I am come to de- 
 mand justice. 
 
 Got'. How so? 
 
 Ben. A madman, one Tschulosnikoff, has attacked me in 
 my hut, and irritated me so far by his insolence that I kick- 
 ed him out of doors. 
 
 Gov. What was the cause ? 
 
 Ben. I hired his crew to assist me in erecting a building 
 for a school, and the blockhead asserts that I wished to ex- 
 cite mutiny and insurrection. 
 
 Gov. The idea is as absurd as malicious. 
 
 Iwan. The scoundrel must feel the knout. 
 
 Gov. I will send for him. 
 
 Ben. Your kindness towards me has created many ene- 
 mies, who absolutely wish even to assassinate me. 
 
 Gov. Assassinate you ! 
 
 Ben. Behold a proof. (Produces the sugar.) Under 
 the mask of friendship, Kasarinoflj the merchant, sent me 
 this sugar. A dog, which had eat a piece of it, died in- 
 stantaneously. 
 
 Gov. Is it possible .? Give me the sugar. 
 
 [Takes it, and rings. 
 
 luan. The scoundrel must feel the knout.
 
 SS8 eOVNT BENYOWSKY. Act III, 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Gov. Scud immediately for TschulosnikofF, and Kasari- 
 noff. 
 
 Ser. TschulosnikofF is already in the aiilichamber, and 
 requests an audience. 
 
 Gov. Let liim come. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Enter TschulosnikofF, 
 
 Tsch. I appear before your Excellency 
 Gov. With great effrontery, as I perceive. 
 Jnan. You are a worthless fellow. 
 Tsch. I accuse this man of high treason. 
 luan. What! My minister ! 
 
 Got. \'illain, dare you calumniate a man who, even in 
 fetters, has done more for the crow n, than a hundred free 
 scoundrels like yourself? 
 
 Tsch. T have proofs 
 
 Gov. Silence ! You caimot feel tlic force of any tiling 
 great or good. I know the Couni, an^l every thing he 
 does; therefore, beuare how you proceed against him; 
 for the man who dares to yilace any impediment in his 
 way, has been shone upon by the sun for the last time. 
 
 Titch. lie excites rebellion 
 
 Gov. I3egone ! I'll hear no mure. You owe him grati- 
 tude, and pay your debt with calumny. lie wants to make 
 human beings of your children, and this does not suit your 
 brutal dispositions. 
 
 Tsch. But my pilot 
 
 Gov. Peace ! Begone ! 
 
 Tsch. lie has brat me 
 
 Gov. He treated you properly. 
 
 Tsch. But, good Heavens 
 
 [Governor iincF,
 
 Act III. COUNT BENYOVVSKY. 23* 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Gov. To the guard witli this fellow ! 
 
 Tsch. Very well I shall go. Repentance will soon 
 overtake you, (To the Governor,) and vengeance you. 
 [Shakes his clenched fist at Benyowsky, and exit. 
 
 Ben. He still threatens. 
 
 Gov. His threats are ridiculous. 
 
 Iwan. Forty lashes will cool hira. 
 
 Gov. Be at ease, Count. I promise you justice and se- 
 curity. Calurauy can only cast a shade over a good con- 
 science, like black gauze over a snowy bosotn. It still 
 shines through the slender covering. I know these fellows, 
 and I know you. I would entrust you with my honour and 
 my life. 
 
 Iwan. And I with California. 
 
 Ben. (Aside., with his hand upon his breast.) I was not 
 prepared for this. 
 
 ' Enter a Servant. 
 
 Ser. Kasarinoff 
 
 Gov. Let him come. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Enter KASARixorp, 
 
 Kas. Your Excellency has been pleased to command- 
 Got;. (Calling to the Servant.^ Bring tea. Come 
 nearer, my dear Kasarinoffi I hear you are diligent and 
 attentive to business. You deserve encouragement. 
 
 Kas, The honour 
 
 Gov. Shall be no more than justice. A great mer- 
 chant is a great man. The monarch's concerns extend 
 through his dominions ; the merchant's through the world. 
 With his right hand he touches Asia ; with his left Ame-
 
 240 COUNT BENYOWSKY. Act III. 
 
 rica. By a stroke of his pen, he connects one quarter of 
 the globe with another, makes lemons grow in Kamtschat- 
 ka, and finds a gold mine in a desert. Reverence should be 
 paid to those who deserve it. Take a chair close to me, my 
 dear KasannofF. Let us drink a cup of tea together, and 
 liave a little conversation upon business. (Pours out the 
 <ea.) This is Caravan tea, and I believe very good. It was 
 sent to me from Irkuzk, as a present. I must confess. I 
 ought to be grateful ; for my friends are bountiful in their 
 presents. {Throzos sugar into Kasarinoff's cup.) This 
 sugar, for instance what a beautiful colour it is ! Count 
 Benyowsky was so kind as to send it this morning. (T/irozcs 
 another piece into Kasarinoff's cup.) You deal in sugar 
 and tea, I recollect. Try how you like these. 
 
 Kus. ( Iliiihcn'raased and alarmed.) T thank your Excel- 
 lency; but this is not the hour at which 1 usually drink tea. 
 
 Gov. Never mind that. 
 
 Kas. I am, indeed, at no time very fond of tea. 
 
 Gov. Taste this, then, to oblige me. 
 
 Kas. It makes me feci heated and nervous. 
 
 Got. Oidy a single cup ! 
 
 Kas. I must beg your Excellency to excuse me. 
 
 Gov. {Gravely.) Drink, friend Kasarinoff. Do vou 
 think I have mixed poismi with it ? 
 
 Kus. Heaven forbid that I should harbour such a thought ! 
 
 Gov. Drink, then, I command you. 
 
 Kas. (Takes the cup uith a tremhiing hand.) I have 
 such an aversion to tea 
 
 Gov. I'll put a little more sugar into it then it can't do 
 you any harm. Yriirous another piece into the cup. 
 
 Kas. ( Trembling.) I I 
 
 [The cup falls from his hand. 
 
 Gov. (Springs up.) I la ! Poisoner ! 
 
 Kas. (Sinks on his knees.) 'Mercy !
 
 Act III. COUNT BENYOWSKY. 24,1 
 
 Iwan, The knout ! 
 
 Gov. Your wicked damnable intention is evident. Count 
 Ben^'owsky, pronounce sentence on him. It shall be exe- 
 cuted this very hour. 
 
 Kas. Mercy ! 
 
 IwarL The knout ! 
 
 Ben. The punishment to be inflicted on this man is left 
 to me ? 
 
 Gov. Entirely. 
 
 Ben. I have your promise that his fate entirely rests oa 
 my decision ? 
 
 Gov. You have. 
 
 Ben. Enough ! I pardon him. 
 
 Gov. IIow ! 
 
 lican. What ! 
 
 Kas. (Embracing his knees.) Heavens ! what a man ! 
 (Almost unable to articulate.) I have no words Oh, 
 let these tears wash away my guilt ! 
 
 Ben. Rise, depart, and be my friend. 
 
 Gov. No, Count. This I cannot allow. 
 
 Ben. I have your promise. 
 
 Gov. You act nobly, but 
 
 Ben. If I act nobly, your heart is surety for the fulfil- 
 ment of your promise. 
 
 Gov. (Embraces him with emotion.) I have esteemed 
 you hitherto now I admire you. {To Kasarinoff.) Go, 
 and make yourself deserving of his pardon. 
 
 Kas. (Sobbing.) I cannot speak. I'll bring my chil- 
 dren. They shall thank him. [Exift 
 
 Lean. (Affected bj/ this scene against his inclination, offers 
 his hand to Benyovvsky.) Friend, you have acted like a 
 Cossack. I appoint you Lord Chief Justice of CalifornisL' 
 
 Vol. II. L
 
 24f COUNT BtNYOWSKY. A(t HI. 
 
 Enter Athanasia. 
 
 Athan. (Rushes torrards her father, and throzts her 
 arms round his neck.) My father ! 
 
 Gov. What now ? 
 
 Athan, At Jast I have found yoo. 
 
 Gov. What do you want ? 
 
 Athan. Your consent. 
 
 Gov. To what ? 
 
 Athan. To my happiness. 
 
 Gov. Is not your happiness my wish ? Speak ! 
 
 Athan. I am in love. 
 
 Gov. In love ! 
 
 Ben. (Much embarrassed. j I will withdraw. 
 
 Athan. Stay, Count Benyowsky. I am not ashamed of 
 my affection. 
 
 Gov. I am astonished. So suddenly 
 
 Itcan. I never observed any symptom. 
 
 Athan. (Goes to Benyowsky, takes his hand, and turns 
 to the Governor.) Your blessing, my father ! 
 
 Got. IIovv ! Is it the Count whom you lose ? 
 
 Athan. Whom else could I love ? 
 
 Iwan. (Mortified.) Come, come 
 
 Gov. But don't you consider 
 
 Athan. I consider every thing. I consider all his perfec- 
 tions, and the dying words of my mother. Shall I repeat 
 them? Yes, it was in this room, in this very room she died. 
 Here stood her bed here you sat and there I knelt. You 
 wept, I sobbed, and my mother groaned. In her last strug- 
 gle she once more raised herself, grasped your hand, and 
 said, in a broken voice, " Let my Athanasia marry the man 
 whom she loves." This is he. Oh, my father, give me the 
 man whom I love, 
 
 G<yv, Athanasia, you have taken me by surprise
 
 Act III. CO0NT BENYOWSKY. 245 
 
 Athan. (Drawing Benyowsky after her.) Here on 
 this spot, where my mother died here do we implore your 
 blessing. 
 
 Gov. When the Count is released from slavery 
 
 Athan. Is he not free whenever you declare him so ? 
 Spirit of my mother, descend, and let thy influence prevail 
 upon my father to fulfil thy last request. 
 
 hcan. Friend, I think you might without danger 
 
 Athan. Danger ! Is it dangerous to reward virtue } 
 
 Iwan. The ukase of Peter the First extends to many cases. 
 
 Athan. Blessmgs upon Peter's ashes for this edict! 
 
 Iwan. Tlie preservation of the vessel on the voyage 
 from Ochozk 
 
 Athan. Oh, yes ! That alone 
 
 Iwan. The introduction of cultivation 
 
 Athan. True. Oh, Iwan Fedrovvitsch, youarea goodman. 
 
 Iwan. The Cossack,s are always good men. Besides all 
 this, when we take into account the Aleutian Islands and 
 California 
 
 Athan. You don't say a word, dear Count. 
 
 Ben. What can I say ? I am tormented by the idea that 
 jour worthy father may believe I have urged you to take 
 this step. 
 
 Athan. That you did not. No, my father. He afSicted 
 my pour heart with his noble and rational sentiments, as he 
 called them. Oh, my father, are you still irresolute ? Here 
 do I kneel, whrre I knelt at my mother's death-bed here, 
 where she pronounced on me her last blessing. I'hat bles- 
 sing must be now fulfilled Now, or never! 
 
 Gov. Rise, Athanasia. Be it so. My hoary head obeys 
 the impulse of my heart. I venture something for you and 
 hiin, but you both deserve it. Count Benyowsky, you are 
 free. The secretary sIkiH execute the instrument in ice 
 legal form. {Clasping him in his arms.) I embrace my so. 
 L2
 
 244 COUNT BEKYOWSKY. Act HI. 
 
 Ben. Heavens ! Is it possible ? 
 
 Aihan. (Kissing her father's hand.) Oh, my dear fa- 
 ther ! accept my heartfelt thanks. I am overpowered with 
 joy. I k4\ow not how I feel. I could weep I must kiss 
 you dear Iwan. Benyowsky is free. lie is free, and mine. 
 Where is Theodora? The whole family shall participate 
 my happiness the whole castle the whole town. {Vuts 
 a full purse into Benyowsky 's hand.) Tins for the poor 
 captives. He is free he is mine. [Exit. 
 
 Ben. {Deeply affected.) If your excellency 
 
 Gov. Why not call me father ? 
 
 Ben. If I be at present dumb 
 
 Gov. I understand you. 
 
 Iwan. Ay, ay. I understand what you mean by dumb, 
 too. Fish are dumb, because they drink water. When 
 we have emptied a couple of bottles, our tongues will be- 
 gin to wag. 
 
 Gov. Very true, Iwan Fedrowitsch. Wine is as much 
 the companion of joy, as dew of a fine morning. Come. 
 
 Ben, Excess of joy and grief are nearly related to each 
 other. Both express themselves in tears; not in words. 
 3oth demand retirement, I beg permission to withdraw 
 for a few moments. [Exit. 
 
 Iwan, What a strange man ! When I am happy, I must 
 drink. 
 
 Gov, Let him go. Joy is not a coin fixed at the bottom 
 of a bowl. 
 
 Iwan. Whether it be a bowl or a bottle I don't care, 
 except that the bowl is rather more satisfactory, because 
 it is generally rather larger. Now as to joy when I 
 use the term jm/, I mean to imply thirst, and by my 
 soul I am just now as thirsty as a hound after a three 
 hours chace. 
 
 Gov. Come, then ! Let us drink to the happiness of the 
 young couple.
 
 Act III. COUNT BENYOWSKY. 245 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Ser. Tscbulosnikoff has escaped from the guard. 
 
 Gov. Escaped ! Blockhead ! All Kamtschatka is a 
 prison. 
 
 Iwan. The knout will fetch him back. 
 
 Gov. {To Servant.) Bring us a bottle of wine. 
 
 Iwan, What do you mean by ordering a single bottle ? 
 Bring us four. Zounds ! Is ndt your daughter betrothed ? 
 Turn the sea into wine, and Jwan Fedrowitsch, captain of 
 the Cossacks, will drink it to the last drop. [Exeunt, 
 
 Scene, an open Place zoithout the Citadel. A Balcony is 
 visible^ and under it a stone-seat. It is Evening. 
 
 Enter Tschulosnikoff and Grigori. 
 
 Tsch. He must pass this way. 
 
 Grig. Dear uncle, what is your intention? 
 
 Tsch. Give me your knife. 
 
 Grig, What do you mean 
 
 Tsch. I mean to be revenged, and then to die. 
 Grig. Revenged ! On whom? 
 Tsch. On Benyowsky. 
 Grig, What has he done to you ? 
 Tsch. I shall be distracted, if I attempt to repeat it. 
 Grig. But consider the risk 
 
 Tsch. The risk is nothing. I send him to hell, that I 
 may find a servant ready to receive me. 
 Grig. Will you murder him ? 
 Tsch. Give me the knife. 
 Grig. Well, if you 
 TscA. The knife I say! 
 Grig. There it is. 
 
 . L3
 
 146 COL>X BtSYOWSKY. Act III. 
 
 Tsch. Is it sharp ? Ay not amiss. 
 
 Grig. But for Heaven's sake 
 
 2'sch. Go to church and pray or go to the devil. I 
 don't vTant you. 
 
 Grig. I will not leave you. 
 
 Tsch, Then stay ; and give the villain absolution when 
 lie dies. 
 
 Grig. Tt grows darker. 
 
 Tsch. So much the better. 
 
 Grig. I saw six sentinels in search of you. 
 
 'Tsch. Let tliem continue their search. Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! 
 They shall find me, but not till this knife has found the 
 way to Benyowsky's heart. 
 
 Grig, I have just heard that he is declared free 
 
 Tsch. Is he.? Ha! Ha! Ha! 
 
 Grig, And is to marry the Governor's daughter. 
 
 Tsch. Is he ? Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! 
 
 Grig. The nuptials are perhaps celebrated this very 
 evening and you may wait here in vain till sun-rise. 
 
 Tsch. Then I'll wait till the sun is burnt to a cinder. 
 Hist ! I hear foot steps. Creep close to the wall. 
 
 Grig. Dear uncle 
 
 Tsch. Go, or I'll pluuge the knife into your heart. 
 
 [Thei/ separate. 
 
 Enter Benyowsky in deep meditation. 
 
 Ben. (Slorcly walking for tear d.) Athanasia ! Emilia ! 
 
 'Tsch. 'Tis he. {Rushes against Benyowsky.) Die, 
 traitor ! 
 
 Ben.- (Turns suddenly, and scixes his arm. They 
 wrestle.) Help ! Murder ! 
 
 Tich. Grigori ! Help!
 
 Act 111. COUNT BENYOWSKT. 247 
 
 ('Grjgori attacks Benyowsky from behind. At the very mo- 
 ment appears KasarinofF leading his two Children. He 
 leaves them, fells Tschulosnikoff to the earth, and disarms 
 him. Benyowsky, in the mean time, disarms Grigori, and 
 holds him fast. Tschulosnikoff raves, shouts and curses. 
 Theodora appears on the balcony, mixes her shrieks with the 
 various cries of the combatants, and runs back.) 
 
 Enter a Corporal and Soldiers. 
 
 Cor. Holla ! Stand, I command you, in the name of the 
 Governor. Ha! Tschulosnikoff! Have we found you again .? 
 
 Kas. He was attempting to murder the Count. 
 
 Ben. {Releasing Grigori.) Fly, young man. You shall 
 not be punished on my account. [Grigori escapes. 
 
 Cor. Come, Tschulosnikoif. You will have a comfor- 
 table share of the knout, 
 
 Tsch. Hell and furies ! {Spits towards Benyowsky.) 
 G damn thee ! [Exit, guarded, 
 
 Ben. {Embraces his preserver ^j Kasarinoff ! 
 
 Kas. " Go, and be my friend," said you to me. You see 
 I have been so. 
 
 Ben. You have honestly paid your debt. 
 
 Kas. Here are ray little ones. I meant that they should 
 embrace your knees, and thank you. But Heaven has de- 
 creed I should have a better opportunity of expressing my 
 gratitude. 
 
 Ben. Kasarinoff! ^ly friend/ This title, when bestowed 
 on any one by me, is not the coin in common circulation, 
 with which a labourer is paid for his work. Farewell ! 
 
 Kas. It is dark, and you are alone. Let me attend you. 
 
 Ben. To the river, if you like. 
 
 Kas. To death. 
 
 [Exeunt, arm in arm, each leading one of the Children. 
 L4
 
 248 COUNT BENY0W8KY. Act HI, 
 
 Enter Iw ah from the opposite side. 
 
 heart. (Reeling.) Holla ! Holla ! Checkmate What 
 does all this hurl?burly mean ? Who makes all this noise ? 
 {Looking round.) Nobody r Nobody makes all this noise. 
 When I use the term nobody, I mean to imply many people, 
 who are all gone. Zounds ; how every thing dances ! 
 But I heard Theodora. Why did she shriek and squall .? 
 Why did she disturb me, when I was so comfortable } Five 
 glasses Trom the bottle and five moves on the board, would 
 have mated both the Governor and Iwan Fedrowitsch, cap- 
 tain of the Cossacks. Ha! Ha ! Ha ! (Sinks upon the stone 
 seat.) ^There Zounds ! This is a cool seat. When I use 
 the term cool, I mean to imply cold. How is this .? Tlis 
 King of California is check-mated. Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! 
 
 \_Mutlers a few more unintelligible rcords. 
 
 J^ntcr Kvnuis, with a balalaika under his arm. He looks 
 carefully round, but does not perceive Iwan. 
 
 Kudrin. At length all is quiet here and dark as the grave. 
 The stars are gone to rest, and have wrapt themselves in 
 snow-clouds. {Approaches the balcony. )llKt ! Hist! Theo- 
 dora I She is not on the balcony yet or perhaps has al- 
 ready been there. Well ! I must lure my bird. {Tunes his 
 balalaika.) Eut my fingers are benumbed. {Breathes into 
 his hands.) VveW ! Well ! I shall succeed at last. The 
 breath of a lover can melt a mountain of snow, or dissolve 
 a diamond. 
 
 (He plays and sings the following words to an air in a 
 Russian Opera, called Melnik.)
 
 Act III, COUNT BENYOWSKY. 249^ 
 
 1 
 
 Darkness o'er the fortress hovers ; 
 
 Hasten from thy room, 
 'Tis the time when ghosts nnd lovers 
 
 Wander through the gloom. 
 2 
 
 Tis thy faithful Kudrin lingers, 
 
 Come without alarm; 
 Stiff and frozen are his fingers, 
 
 But his heart is warm. 
 3 
 I^ng 'twill be ere gay Aurora 
 
 Chases night away. 
 But the eyes of Theodora 
 
 Change the night to day. 
 4 
 When thou com'st, no darkness hovers ; 
 
 Haste then from thy room ; 
 Tis the time when ghosts and lovers 
 
 Wander through the gloom. 
 (During the last strophe Theodora appears on the balcony.) 
 
 Theo. Hist! 
 Kudrin. Hist ! 
 Theo. Are you there ? 
 Kudrin. I am, and have been some time. 
 Theo. Dear Kudrin, there are great rejoicings in the 
 house. 
 
 Kudrin. So much the better. 
 
 Theo. Athanasia is soon to be married. 
 
 Kudrin. To whom ? 
 
 Theo, To Count Benyowsky. 
 
 Kudrin, Benyowsky ! 
 
 L5
 
 250 COVNT BENYOWSKT. Acl III. 
 
 Theo. Now, we shall be happy too. 
 
 Kudrin. We are all to fly a cross the sea, then? 
 
 Theo. Simpleton ! I said nothing about flying. 
 
 Kudrin. What then ? 
 
 Theo. Marrying. 
 
 Kudrin. You don't know, then, and your mistress does 
 not know 
 
 Theo. What don't we know ? 
 
 Kudrin. And yet she is soon to be married ? That's cu- 
 rious enough, 
 
 Theo. Tell me what you mean. 
 
 Kudrin. I would if I durst. 
 
 Theo. Why dare you not ? 
 
 Kudrin. 1 have taken a dreadful oath 
 
 Tlieo. Concerning what? 
 
 Kudrin. Concerning can you be silent ? 
 
 Theo. As the grave. 
 
 Kudrin. Listen then. I came hither, Theodora, for the 
 purpose or prevaling upon you 
 
 Theo. To do what ? 
 
 Kudrin. To accompany us in our flight. 
 
 Theo. What flight ? 
 
 Kudrin. If you betray me, we are all undone. 
 
 Theo. Simpleton ! Love and treachery never dwell un- 
 der the same roof. 
 
 Kudrin. There are many of us many free men as well as 
 exiles. Count Benyowsky is at our head. We have secu- 
 red a vessel, and we are about to fly God knows whither! 
 but to a delightful country. 
 
 Theo. Are you asleep ! 
 
 Kudrin. Not I. All I tell you is true, and will soon 
 take place. Will you go with me, dear Theodora? 
 
 Theo. But my mistress
 
 ^t III. COUNT BENYOWSKY. 551 
 
 Kudrin. If the Count be miinied to her, he will of 
 course, take her with liim. 
 
 Theo. Incomprehensible man ! 
 
 Kudrin. Don't mind that. Pack up your clothes, and 
 make yourself ready to accompany us. 
 
 Theo. But the Governor 
 
 Kudrin. lie may play at chess with that old fool our 
 captain. 
 
 ra-an. -(Springs up, and seizes Kudrin.J ^Traitor! 
 
 ^Theodora shrieks, and runs auay.) 
 
 Kudrin. (Sinks on his knees.) Mercy ! (Trembling.) 
 we arc lost. 
 
 luan. (Holding him.) VillaUi I What have you been 
 saying ? 
 
 Kudrin. Oh, I am drunk. I don't know what I say. 
 
 Inan. Treachery ! Benyowsky ! My Californian minister ! 
 
 Kudrin. Some Kanitschadales have made me drink 
 Muchomor my head is quite confused. 
 
 Jzcan. Come with me. \T)ragging him auay. 
 
 Kudrin. Let me be at liberty till morning I beseech you. 
 
 luan. Come wi;li me, scoundrel ! 
 
 Kudrin. (Fvshes him rery violently, and almost knocks 
 him down.) Go to the devil, \Exit. 
 
 Iwun. What ! This to me ! This to his captain ! Holla! 
 Guard ! Ship I Intrigue ! Escape ! Treachery ! 
 
 TND op vcr Jir. 
 
 L6
 
 J52 COt'NT BENYOWSKV. Acl IV. 
 
 ACT ur 
 
 ScBXE, Crustiew's Room. 
 
 Crustiew, Baturin, and several CossTinATORs'are dis- 
 covered. Some of them form groups, while others walk up 
 and down with signs of uneasiness. 
 
 1 Con. He does not return. 
 
 2 Con. It is already dark. 
 
 Crus. Be at ease. He will come, most certainly. 
 
 3 Con. Tschulosnikoff is rash. 
 Crus. Benyowsky bold. 
 
 1 Con. The governor rigid. 
 Crus. But not suspicious. 
 
 2 Con. He will be so. 
 
 Crus. Even if he be, the hour of deliverance is at hand. 
 
 1 Con. Ten years have I sighed for it. 
 
 2 Con. I, seven years. 
 
 3 Con. I, seventeen. 
 
 Crus. I, two-and-twcnty. Picture to yourselves, my 
 brethren, the delightful moment when we reach some land 
 of liberty, where no snow forbids that we should kiss the 
 earth, and where the fertile soil imbibes our tears of joy. 
 Blest, blest be our deliverer ! 
 
 J II. Blest be he ! 
 
 Enter Stepanoff hastily. 
 
 Step. We are lost. 
 All. What now? 
 Step. Betrayed.
 
 Act IV. COUNT BENYOWSKY. 253 
 
 All. Betrayed! 
 
 Step. Your hero Benyowsky has treacherously gained his 
 own freedom. 
 
 All. How so ? Go on. Tell us. 
 
 Step. The Governor bestows his daughter in marriage 
 on the Count. 
 
 1, 2, & 3 Con. Well ! 
 
 Step. Well ! Blockheads ! He has consequently betray- 
 ed us. 
 
 Crus. That consequently is not clear to me. 
 
 Step. Indeed ! Why is he free ? This is never granted 
 but for some great service to the state, and what other 
 can be in his power than the service of treachery? Talk 
 he can. He has caught us with his tongue, as a wood- 
 pecker catches bees. First, he infatuated that old man, 
 (Fainting at Qv\ist\e\s,) then that old man infatuated 
 us. With Russian blood this hero pays for his freedom. 
 With Russian blood he besprinkles tlie bridal couch. To- 
 day he sees us led to execution, and to-morrow he celebrates 
 his nuptials. Vengeance, vengeance on the traitor ! 
 
 AU. Vengeance ! Vengeance ! 
 
 Step. We must die ; but let Benyowsky die before us. 
 
 All. He shall, he shall. 
 
 Cms. Be not so rash, my comrades. 
 
 Step: ^V'hat punishment did we swear to inflict upon the 
 perjured ? 
 
 All. Death ! Death ! 
 
 Crus. Die he sliall, if he be guilty. I myself, old as 
 I am, will rouse the remnant of my strength to plunge a 
 dagger in his heart. But he must be heard. If that man 
 be a hypocrite, if tTiat eye deceived me, adieu to all belief 
 in honour and fidelity, I think him innocent. Hear him 
 you must. 
 
 Step, Speak, then, old prater. Defend him.
 
 S54 C0UNT BE!<YOWSKY. Act TV. 
 
 Cms, 'Tis not I, but lie himself, who must speak. Hivi 
 you must hear. 
 
 Step. Ilim, forsooth ! Are you such a blockhead as to 
 think that he will dare to appear again among us ? 
 
 Enter Bemyowsky. 
 
 Cnts. There he is. 
 
 Step. Ila ! (Draulng his sword.) Down with him ! 
 
 All. (Draw their swords. ) Down with the traitor ! 
 
 Cms.' (Rushing hetzceen them and Bcnyowsky.J Then 
 let your swords find the way to his heart through mine. 
 Back, comrades ! He is in your power. You must hear 
 him. He cannot escape you. 
 
 Jiat. Crustievv is right. Guard the door. 
 
 Ben. Let me advance, Crustiew. What do you want? 
 
 Step. Thy blood. 
 
 Hen. Have I not devoted it to your deliverance ? Am I 
 not a member of your body ? 
 
 Step. Rather say, an ulcer of our body. Defend thyself. 
 
 Ben. Against wiiat charge ? 
 
 Step. Art thou free ? 
 
 Ben. I am. 
 
 Step. Is the Governor about to bestow his daughter's 
 hand upon thee ? 
 
 Ben. He is. 
 
 Step, Now, comrades, have I not told the truth ? What 
 further evidence is necessary? Revenge! Revenge! 
 
 All. (Brandish their sicords.) Revenge ! Revenge ! 
 
 Crus. Hold ! Benyowsky, you perceive we do not under- 
 stand your conduct. Explain the enigma. 
 
 Ben. I conceive your meaning. Think you that I should 
 appear among you uiih so mucti calmness and composure, 
 if I were what this villain wishes me to seem ? Look 
 ja my face : does treachery appear in my eye ? Do
 
 Act IV. COUNT BENYOWSKr. 255 
 
 you perceive the horrors of a guilty conscience In my fea- 
 tures ? 
 
 Step. Mean, paltry prattle ! 
 
 Ben. Mean, paltry prater ! Hear me, my brethren, and 
 then decide. I went to the Governor for what reason 
 you know. His daughter loves me : he loves his daughter. 
 It was very natural that she should beg my liberty, and as 
 natural that her father should grant it. He embraced me 
 as his son-in-law. What could I do in such a case ? Had I 
 declined the honour, I must have given reasons for such 
 conduct. And what reasons ? Was not dissimulation ab- 
 solutely necessary r Cannot my freedom be a double ad- 
 vantage to you ? 
 
 Step. Thou liest, 
 
 Ben. Thee I despise. Brethren, I stand in the midst of 
 you, unarmed andjdefenceless. If I have betrayed you, the 
 sentinels will, in a few minutes, surround our village. Then 
 dispatch me to that hell, which I should deserve, if I were 
 guilty of a crime so monstrous. 
 
 Cms. He is innocent. 
 
 All. He is. [Betiirning their swords into the scabbards. 
 
 Step. {With ferocious fun/.) Thou crafty and deceit- 
 ful villain, is it thy lot to be triumphant upon all occasions ? 
 Take a sword. I challenge thee to single combat. Be God 
 the judge between me and thee. If thy conscience be pure, 
 come on. 
 
 Ben. Give me a sword. 
 
 Crus. That must not be. Your life is valuable to us. 
 Stepanoff" is tortured by jealousy. 
 
 Step. Benyowsky is nothing but a mouthing hero. 
 
 Ben. (Incensed ) Give me a sword. 
 
 But. {Steps between them.) Hold ! I can no longer be 
 silent. {Pointing to Stepanoff.) ^That is the traitor. 
 
 [Stepanoff starts, 
 I All, How ! What means this ?
 
 2S6 COUKT BEXYOWSKY. Act IF. 
 
 Bat. (ToStepanoff.) Look steadfastly at me eye to 
 eye. 
 
 Step. (Embarrassed.) What do you want with me ? 
 
 Bat. See how his glowing clieek acknowledges the 
 crime. His blood is more sincere than his tongue. 
 What do I want with you ! I will declare what you lately 
 wanted of me. 
 
 All. Speak ! Speak ! 
 
 Bat. But a few hours since, my brethren, 
 
 Step. Believe him not: he lies. 
 
 Bat. He came enraged to my hut 
 
 Step. Blockhead, I was drunk. 
 
 Bat. Uttered curses on Benyowsky 
 
 Step. Men curse old women pray. 
 
 Bat. Wrote a treacherous letter 
 
 Step. {Scornfully.) Did you read it ? 
 
 Bat. I know its contents from your lip?. 
 
 Step, Blockhead, I was amusing myself with your igno- 
 rance. 
 
 Bat. I was to deliver the letter. 
 
 Step. You dreamt this. 
 
 Bat. It was pregnant with the destruction of Benyowsky 
 and of our hopes. 
 
 All. Proceed ! Proceed ! 
 
 Bat. I refused he alternately threatened and entreated, 
 till at length he threw a piece of money on the table, as 
 payment for my silence. 
 
 Step. Is this story almost at an end? 
 
 But. He then rushed out, and I have not seen him again 
 till now. 
 
 All. Traitor ! Villain ! 
 
 Step. He lies. 
 
 1, 2, &8 Con. {Drawing their swords.) 'Do\\x\vi\i\\\\\m. 
 
 Ben. Hold ! Disarm and bind him, but he must also be 
 heard.
 
 Act IV. COUNT BESYOWSKT. 257 
 
 (The Conspirators take away StepanoflTs stvord, and, in tpile 
 of his resistance, bind his hands.) 
 
 All. The letter ! Where is the letter ? 
 
 Ben. Stepanoff, you hear the question of your confede- 
 rates. Answer. 
 
 Step. {With sullenness and effrontery.) I know of no 
 letter. 
 
 Ben. Confess, or tremble. 
 
 Step, {With a look of contempt.) ^Tremble at thy 
 threats ! 
 
 1, 2, & 3 Con. Down with him ! 
 
 Ben. Hold ! Lead him away, and guard him in the ad- 
 joining room. 
 
 Step. {Gnashing his teeth as he is conducted azcay.) 
 Will no devil rise from hell to aid me ? [Exit. 
 
 Ben. Be composed, my brethren. Murder is commit- 
 ted in a moment, and the rash act is often followed by 
 the penitence of many years. Though Baturin's evidence 
 may be upright, you are still in want of StepanofPs con- 
 fession. 
 
 Bat. I swear that what I have asserted is true. May this 
 hand wither if my testimony be false ! 
 
 Ben. This is not sufficient. Did you read the letter ? 
 
 Bat. No. 
 
 Ben. Proceed with mildness, I beseech you, brethren. 
 Pardon conferred upon an enemy is a seed which often pro- 
 duces a rich crop. Let us be satisfied with terrifying him, 
 by which we may, perhaps, extort a penitent avowal of his 
 guilt. 
 
 Crus. Generous man, be you his judge, and act as seems 
 right to you. 
 
 Ben. Are you satisfied with this ? 
 
 1, 2,& 3 Con. Wc are.
 
 258 COUKT BENYOWSKy. Act IV. 
 
 Ben. 'Tis well. Bring rae a cup of water. (He is obeyed, 
 and places the cup on a table.) I know StepanofTs dis- 
 order. I alone can be his physician. Conduct him 
 hither. 
 
 Enter Bts.v A^oTcf, guarded.^ 
 
 Come nearer, StepanofF. You are convicted of treachery. 
 You, as well as all assembled here, swore that death 
 should be the lot of every traitor. Pass sentence on your- 
 self. 
 
 Step. My fate is in the hands of my enemy, 
 
 Ben. You are mistaken. All your brethren have con- 
 demned you. Confess. 
 
 Step. 1 will not. 
 
 Ben, You have but few moments to live. Confess. 
 
 Step. I will not, 
 
 Ben. You hate me ? 
 
 Step. From my soul. 
 
 Ben. What have I done to you ? 
 
 Step. Nothing. 
 
 Ben, And yet you hate me ? 
 
 Step. Yes." 
 
 Ben. And you will not confess ? 
 
 Step. No. 
 
 Ben. Enough ! Silence is confession. This cup con- 
 tains poison. Drink it to the last drop. 
 
 Step. {Looking boldly round.], Brethren, is this your 
 determination? 
 
 1, 2, & 3 Con. Most positively. 
 
 Step. You will sacrifice nie to this stranger ? 
 
 1, 2, & 3 Con. Drink ! Drink ! 
 
 5^e/7. Think you that death is a spectre, and T a child 
 alarmed by :t? I will drink; but first a word to thee, 
 Benyowsky. I h :, thoe, I ;iblic;- tuee. 1 h;ue iougl;; diy
 
 Act IV. COUNT BENYOWSKY. 259 
 
 death, but not the death of these men. Thou dost 
 well in removing me. Thou dost well in binding these 
 hands ; for were they free, by the Almighty, the first 
 use of their liberty should be to plunge a knife into thy 
 heart. 
 
 1, 2, & 3 Con. Dispatch him. 
 
 Ben. Hold ! What have you to do with his fate ? Me 
 alone has he injured, and me alone have you appointed his 
 judge. Release him. I pardon him. 
 
 Slep. 'Tis in vain, Count Benyowsky. Thy accursed ge- 
 nerosity is thrown away upon me. I hate thee. We cannot 
 stand near each other. One of us must fall. Let me, 
 therefore, die. 
 
 Ben. Unbind his hands. {It is done.) You are free. 
 
 Step. Am If Give me, then, a sword, that I may stab 
 the man I hate. {Attempts to snatch a sxcord from one of 
 the Conspirators, hut is prevented.) 
 
 Cms. Madman ! 
 
 Ben. Leave him to me. StepanoiF, I know the worm 
 which preys upon your heart. (Draws him aside.) Look ! 
 This is the picture of my wife. 
 
 Step. Your wife ! 
 
 Ben. I am married. 
 
 Step. Married ! 
 
 Ben. I am a father. 
 
 Step. A father ! 
 
 Ben. And I love my wife. 
 
 Step. Oh, God ! 
 
 Ben. I Cannot, therefore, accept the hand of Athanasia. 
 
 Step. {Is violently agitated, bursts into tears, and em- 
 braces theConai.) Benyowsky! I mustaway into the open 
 air. [Rushes out' 
 
 1, 2, & 3 Coji. Do you allow him to go ? 
 
 Ben. Be at ease. He is ours. 
 
 1. ?, & S Con. 8tran;ie I LicomprchensibJe !
 
 260 COUNT BENTOWSKY. Act IV. 
 
 Ben. Very natural. A silken thread can lead the most 
 headstrong, if we but know where this thread is tied. 
 
 Enter Wasili, hastily. 
 
 Wasili. Athanasia is come hither on foot, and quite alone. 
 She desires to speak with you. 
 
 Ben. Athanasia ! "What means this? Withdraw, my 
 brethren, through the back door, 
 
 [Exeunt all Me Conspirators. 
 At night alone on foot ! So bashful and yet so bold ! 
 ^This forebodes no good. 
 
 Enter Athanasia. 
 
 Athan. (Flies breathless into his arms.) Oh ! I can no 
 more 
 
 Ben. (Places her in a chair.) What is the matter ? 
 Why 
 
 Athan. I have ran I have flown 
 
 Ben. For what reason ? 
 
 Athan. My footsteps will not be visible In the snow. 
 
 Ben. For heaven's sake 
 
 Athan. Feel how my heart beats. 
 
 \_She lays his hand upon her bosom. 
 
 Ben. Compose yourself. 
 
 Athan. Yes I am better already^-! feel easier for I 
 behold you again and my terrors vanish. 
 
 Ben. Without a cloak when it is so cold! 
 
 Athan, I am without a cloak, but indeed I am warm- 
 very warm. 
 
 Ben. Docs your father ki)ow 
 
 Athan. No one knows but myself. The moments were 
 precious. 
 
 Ben. F.xplain to me
 
 Act IV. COUNT BENYOWSKY. 261 
 
 Athan. I will I WiW {Drawing her breath zcith dif- 
 Jiculty.) Oh ! Patience ! Oh ! Now it is over. 
 
 Hen, You alarm me. 
 
 Athan. No, no. You are here and all is well agmn. 
 I was a child 
 
 Ben. This enigma 
 
 Athan. {Rises, approaches him, seizes both his hands, and 
 gazes at him with a keen hut affectionate look.) Beny- 
 owsky ! 
 
 Be7i. Why this penetrating look ? 
 
 Athan. (After a pause.) No, it is false. He deceived 
 me. 
 
 Ben. Who? 
 
 Athan Laugh at me, dear Count, for I am a credulous 
 simpleton. My attendant she has a lover. Lovers, I 
 have heard, like to play each other a trick. He made her 
 believe but you must not be angry. 
 
 Ben. Proceed. 
 
 Athan. I was alarmed, and, without reflection, ran 
 hither. Scold me- laugh at me I deserve it. 
 
 Ben. You make me impatient. 
 
 Athan. Indeed, dear Count, I am easy now quite easy. 
 When I look at you, I am ashamed to confess the cause of 
 my alarm but I must. Let me rest my face upon your 
 bosom, that I may speak more freely. It is said that yoa 
 are at the head of a conspiracy that you want to escape 
 to reward my father's kindness with ingratitude to for- 
 sake me. (She quits her bashful attitude.) ^There ! Nowr 
 you know all ; but don't speak don't make me feel asham- 
 ed by defending yourself. You shall not even say no. 
 
 Ben. (Extremely agitated.) Athanasia ! 
 
 Athan. Not a word not a syllable! I would beat any 
 ne, who thought it worth while to defend you. 
 
 Ben. I must
 
 S62 tOUNT BEXyOWSKY. Act IV. 
 
 AtJian. Be silent, or I'll put my hand upon your mouth ! 
 Away with those wrinkles ! Laugh, laugh at your silly 
 childish Athanasia. Give me a kiss of reconciliation, and 
 I shall run joyfully back to the citadel. 
 
 Ben. 1 his is too much. Who could impose u[)on such 
 an angel ? Lovely, unsuspecting creature you have not 
 been deceived. 
 Athan. How ! 
 Ben. I must fly, 
 Athan. I'ly ! 
 
 Ben. Perhaps even to-morrow. 
 Athan. IMcrciful Heavens ! 
 Ben. I am bound by a dreadful oath. 
 Athan. Poor Athanasia ! 
 
 Ben. I have sworn to my companions in adversity that 
 I will conquer or die. 
 
 Athan. Poor deluded Athanasia ! 
 Ben. Perjury is to be punished with death. 
 Athan. (Wringing her hands.) Death, death to me ! 
 Ben. I caunot retreat 1 dare not look around me. My 
 heart bleeds but I must proceed. 
 Athan. All is lost. 
 
 Ben. I will break this chain. My corpse alone shall be a 
 slave. I hazard much by this confession, but I could not 
 impose upon your unsuspecting heart. Now I am in your 
 power. Go' discover to your father what you ha\e 
 
 heard 
 
 Athan. (Weeping.) Benyowsky, I have not deserv- 
 ed this suspicion. Though you do not love me, yet 
 shall you, when you are enjoying happiness in a distant 
 part of the world, uc er think of Athanasia but with re- 
 gret. My spirit, ever attendant on you, shall often force 
 from your heart the confession that Athanasia was not an 
 ignoble being.
 
 Act IV. C9l;ST BENYOWSKY. 263 
 
 Ben. Alas ! to part with you is the only difficulty which 
 my heart has to encounter. 
 
 Athan. I shall die. I have lived but a moment for we 
 do not live until we love. Blessed spiiit of my mother, re- 
 ceive me in thy maternal arms. 
 
 Ben. (Deeply affected.) Be generous, Athanasia. 
 
 Spare me. 
 
 Athan. You are agitated. Dear count, remain with me. 
 Dear Benyovvsky, remain with mc. I am sure you never 
 can be happy when you think of my distress. My pallid 
 image will disfigure every picture of happiness. Remain 
 will) us. Are you not already free.? The warmth of my af- 
 fection shall make sweet flowers grow in these cold deserts. 
 The strength of my afFecion shall contend with your anx- 
 iety to revisit the land which gave you birth. I will learn 
 every thing from you, and you shall learn from me to love. 
 
 Btn. You torture me 
 
 Athan. I do not complain I do not weep. Your heart 
 must deride -What, therefore, can I fear .? Confidence is 
 the coin with which a noble soul is bought. I place con- 
 fidence in you and you will not forsake me. 
 
 Ben. My confederates will murder me. 
 
 Athan. Come with me. Tiie power of my father, and 
 the arm of affection, will protect you. 
 
 Ben. Shall I perfidiously sacrifice my friends? 
 
 Athan. I will embrace my father's knees, and they shall 
 not be injured. Were their condemnation written in blood, 
 my tears should wash away the words. 
 
 Ben. I cannot 
 
 Athan. You can and will. \Vhat can you be in search 
 of? Liberty? Has not love already broken your fetters? 
 Treasures ? Will you not be my father's heir ? Affection ? 
 Oh ! you will find it no where as it glows within this faith- 
 ful bosom. Thou first sole object of my wishes, wilt thou
 
 264 COUNT BENYOWSKY. Act IV. 
 
 load thy vessel with my father's curse ? Wilt thou in every 
 zephyr hear my sighs ? Alas ! and yet if the weather were 
 tempestuous, I should kneel on the shore, and pray for 
 thy safety. 
 
 Ben. Cease, cease ! I love you by the Almighty, I love 
 you, but 
 
 Athan. Can love use such a word as but ? 
 Ben. I cannot deceive you. 
 Athan. You will not I am sure. 
 Ben. You must know all. 
 Athan. Still more ? 
 
 Ben. Look at this picture. This is my wife. 
 Athan. Ha ! (She sinks devoid of strength into a chair. 
 Benyowsky leans against the nail, and hides his face. A 
 long pause ensues. Athanasia's bosom heaves, and she ap- 
 pears to he contending with hersef. At length she rises with 
 a resolute air.) Enough ! I resign you. (Offering her 
 hand.) May I call you my brother ! (Benyowsky /o//s at 
 her feet, and presses his face to her hand.) Fly ! If your 
 wife loves you, (oh, she must love you,) how anxious and 
 miserable she must be ! Ilastftn ! Fly ! 
 
 j5en. (Starting up.) God of Heaven ! Emilia ! 
 Athan. Is Emilia her name ? It is a mild and gentle 
 name. Oh, doubtless your Emilia is mikl and good. She 
 
 will not deny me your fraternal love 
 
 Ben. Would that at this instant I could rush to battle ! 
 Athan. Pure and guiltless is my love for you it is the 
 affection of a sister towards a brother. ISo, I will not for- 
 sake you- I cannot forsake you. I will go with you 
 into the wide world. I will witness the de'ight of your 
 Emilia at your return. A beam of joy again warms my 
 heart. I myself will conduct you to her arms. I will 
 find my peace in yours assist your wife in conducting 
 your household teach your babts to lisp your name
 
 Act IV. COUNT BE.VYOWSKY. Sfit 
 
 Ben. Girl, yoii rob me of my senses. 
 
 Athan. No mean jealousy shall creep among us. No 
 busy neighbour shall disturb our happy harmony. My sin- 
 cerity shall gain your wife's affection my innocence and 
 virtue her respect. All I ask is to be always with you, 
 to see how you act, to hear what you say, to rejoice and 
 giicve with you. Do not dissipate the pleasing vision. Do 
 not cast ine from you. Give me a little spot in your cabin 
 that I may see you ; a corner in your vessel, that I may pray 
 for you. 
 
 Bni. And what is to become of your aged father ? 
 
 Athan. {Corering her face.) Oh, God ! 
 
 Enter a Conspirator. 
 
 Con. The Governor wishes to see you. 
 
 Ben. To-morrow early I 
 
 Con. Directly. 
 
 Ben. At so unusual an hour ! What can this mean ? 
 
 Con. The servant says there is a dreadful commotion in 
 the castle. 
 
 Ben. I will come. [Jl'.riY Conspirator, 
 
 Athan. Never. Benyovvsky, I tremble 
 
 Ben. Why? 
 
 Al/ian. Did you not hear ? A dreadful commotion ! Oh, 
 Avlicn my father causes a coiumotioii; lie is not instigated by 
 a trifle. He has sent for you at this late hour. To obey 
 him would lie rash in the extreme. Let me return alone , 
 antl if I su'-pcct any danger, of which I cannot apprize you 
 by a nolo, Theodora sliall bring you a red riband. 
 Soon as you sec ihat, (liink of ?ome means to save your- 
 self. 
 
 Vol. II. M
 
 262 COUNT BENYOWSKV. Act II'. 
 
 Ben. Whoknous wlietlier we do not mriffniry an Insect, 
 till we fancy it an elephant ? Your lather has, perhaj)s, 
 missed jou, and is uneasy. 
 
 Athan. That is possihle. 
 
 Hen. I'll go with you. 
 
 Athan. No, no. My teror would betray you. 
 
 Ben. Consider, dear Alhanasia 
 
 Athan. Affection cannot consider it only feels. 
 
 Ben. If we be already discovered, escape is impossible ; 
 for our preparations are not sufficiently forwarded. Anxi- 
 ety does but augment the evil. Lightninc nioic easily finds 
 its way to the traveller, who seeks shelter under a tree, 
 than to hiin who is in the ojjen ilcld. l"hcrcft)re let us 
 
 go- 
 
 Athan. I am not sure I can. My knees tremble. 
 
 Ben. Leiui on my arm. \_Going. 
 
 Enter KiDuiN. 
 
 Kudrin. (Falls at Bcnyowsky's feet.) Kill mc, Count 
 Bcnyowsky, kill nie. 
 
 Ben. Man, what is the matter ? 
 
 Kudrin. I have betrayed you. 
 
 Ben. Betrayed I 
 
 Kudrin. Love made me a traitor. 
 
 Ben. Instantly relate what has happened. 
 
 Kudrin. I love Theodora, and wished to take her with 
 me. A few hours since, she was standing on the balcony. 
 Trusting to deceitful darkness, I discovered all to her, and 
 was overheard. 
 
 Ben. Overheard? By whom? 
 
 Kudrin. The captain of our Cossacks. 
 
 Ben. By him alone ?
 
 Acl IV. COt'XT BEXYO'.VSKV. H}& 
 
 Kudr'm. Yes. 
 
 1-icv. And he discovered yon. 
 
 Kndrin. Yes, he seized ine, and called to the guard; but 
 I forced liiin back, and escaped. jMv conscience has tor- 
 mented me throughout the niglu, and tlie blood of my brc- 
 tiircn demands revenge. Pai-dn me, and kill me. 
 
 Ben. Are you certain that no one but Iwan Fcdrowitsch 
 overlioard you? 
 
 Kudrin. I am. 
 
 Ben. (7l Athanasia.) And is Theodora's fidelity to be 
 relied on ? 
 
 Ailian. I am surety for her. 
 
 Ben. Rise, then, ami go in peace. Creep cautiously to 
 the vessel, and conceal yourself in it. To-morrow you shall 
 heiir fiom us. 
 
 Kndrin . {JRising.) How ! Xot an angry word ! 
 
 ]jfn. Words employ time, and deeds alone can save us. 
 Instantly obey my command, and do not sutler yourself to 
 be caught a second time. 
 
 Kndrin. An unburthened conscience accelerates my ^teps. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Ben. Now, Athanasia, come to your father. 
 
 Athan. Notwithstanding 
 
 Ben. Certainly. Nothing but firmness and efTroiitcry can 
 invalidate the testimony of Iwan. Iff but succeed in liilU 
 itirr your father's snsiiicions to rest till to-morrow morning, 
 our fjniiie is won. 
 
 yUlian. But if von fail 
 
 Hen. Why rlicn our game is lost. 
 
 A^luni. And then ? 
 
 Bru. I shall know iiow to die. 
 
 Aikan. Oil, Bcnyowsky ! [Extniit, ann-in-urm. 
 
 M 2
 
 264 COINT BENYOWSKY. Act IV. 
 
 ScENF,, an Apartment in the Citadel, 
 
 The GovT.KNOii is discovered walhing rmeasih/ vp and donn. 
 IwAS stands at the other Side of the Room. 
 
 Gov. Arc you sure you heard all that you describe? 
 
 luan. Have I cars ? When I use the term ears, I mean 
 to imply t^rge ears. 
 
 Gov. Incomprehensible ! 
 
 Iican. lie called me an old fool. 
 
 Gov. In return for all my kindness 
 
 Izcan, He struck me on the breast. 
 
 Gov. I bestowed my only daughter on the hypocrite. 
 
 Izoan. We must have a knout made of thunder-bolts. 
 
 Gov. No. It cannot be. The deed is of too black a na- 
 ture. Iwan, confess that you were drunk. 
 
 Iwa7i. Drunk ! Why, yes. Is not one drunken captain 
 better than ten sober exiles ? 
 
 Gov. Grant me composure, Heaven, that, true to ray 
 dignity, I may not proceed too rashly. Law and equity 
 ought to be the judges. The warmth of my temperament 
 hall not influence the scales. 
 
 tinier a Sf.rvas-t. 
 
 Ser. Count Benyowsky will come. 
 Cot. Will come ! 
 Ser. Immediately. 
 
 Gov. Indeed ! This is audacity or innocence. Hai 
 Theodora been found ?
 
 .'hi IV. tOt.M llKNVOV,-,iiV, 266 
 
 Ser. No. 
 
 Gov. Let a corporal and guard go in search of Kudrin 
 the Cossack, and bring him hither. [^Exit Servant. 
 
 Iwan. Ay, ay, I'll pay you with interest, young man. 
 Zounds ! To call me an old fool ! I am only sorry that 
 the fellow is a Cossack. 
 
 Gov. My poor daughter ! 
 
 Enter Benyowsky and Atuanasia. 
 
 Ila ! Count Benyowsky ! 
 
 Iwan. Welcome, my minister ! 
 
 Gov. What do you want, Athanasia ? You come at an 
 inconvenient time. Leave us, my daughter, 
 
 (Athanasia goes azvau, zcith a heavy heart. Governor stands 
 lost ill gloomy medilation. Iwan surveys Benyowsky with 
 a smile of ignorance from head to foot, while Benyowsky's 
 eyes are alternately turned towards each of them. Gover- 
 nor rings.) 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Is Theodora not yet found ? 
 
 Ser. She is just come from a neighbour's house. 
 
 Gov. Where is she ? 
 
 Ser. With your Excellency's daughter. 
 
 Gov. Bring her hither instantly. [Exit Servant^ 
 
 {A pause ensues, during which the Governor rivets his eye on 
 Benyowsky, who looks calmly in his face.) 
 
 Gov. {Aside.) If he be guilty, he is not a common 
 villain.
 
 iiOO (Or.VT BENTOWSKV. Jc' If, 
 
 Ben. Your Excellency's countenance is not the same as 
 it was yesterday and to-day. 
 
 Gov. Heaven grant that our hearts may remain unal- 
 tered! 
 
 Btii. Heaven grant it, say I too. 
 
 Gov. I am surety for mine. 
 
 Ben. Then I am at ease. 
 
 Gov. I am glad to liear it. 
 
 Ben. You have summoned me 
 
 Gov. Be patienl. 
 
 lioan. V'ery pretcy things are talked of liere. 
 
 Ben. How so? 
 
 Iwan. When I use the term pretti/ tJtings, I mean to im- 
 ply high treason. 
 
 Ben. Has TschulosnikofF again 
 
 Iican. TschulosnikofF has nothing to do with it. He is 
 safely confined. 
 
 Ben. A new calumniator, then, it seems, Who is he? 
 
 Gov, He shall appear before you. 
 
 Ben, That I expect. 
 
 Gov. The most rigid justice 
 
 Ben. That I demand. 
 
 Gov. He shall confess openly. 
 
 Ben. And prove his accusation. 
 
 Gov. Of course. 
 
 Ben. And if he cannot prove it. 
 
 Gov. He shall be severely punished. 
 
 Ben. I am satisfied. 
 
 Gov. (After a pause.) But if he can prove his accu- 
 sation , 
 
 Ben. Then I will lay my head at your feet. 
 
 Gov. {Keenly looking at him.) Count, I hope you arc 
 innocent.
 
 Ben, I know I am. 
 
 Gov. Beloved and free as you are, what could induce 
 you 
 
 Ben. Therefore 
 
 Gov. You are right. Ivvan Fedrovvitsch, I fear you have 
 needlessly caused me a most uneasy hour. 
 
 luan. Needlessly ! Did he not call me an old fool ? 
 
 Ben. Who ? 
 
 Gov. That is of no consequence. 
 
 Izcan. The devil it is not. 
 
 Enter Theodora. 
 
 Gov. Come nearer, Theodora. Do you know Kudrin 
 the Cossack ? 
 
 Theo. Certainly. He is in love with me, and I with 
 him. 
 
 Ircan. There we have it. 
 
 Gov. Have you seen him to-day ? 
 
 Theo. Yes. 
 
 Gov. Where? 
 
 Theo. Under the halcony. 
 
 Gov. On what subject did he talk to you ? 
 
 Theo. On the constant subject of our conversations 
 love. 
 
 Gov. That I don't want to know. 
 
 Theo. What then ? 
 
 Gov. He discovered a conspiracy to you. 
 
 Theo. Conspiracy ! What is that .'' 
 
 Iwan. Did he not ask you to run away with him? 
 
 Theo. Run away! Yes, he did. 
 
 Gov. To what place ? 
 
 Theo. Oh ! 
 
 M4
 
 '!(}8 COU.M bK.WOWSKV. Act 11'. 
 
 Juan. Now ! Was I right or not? 
 
 Gov. Speak. 
 
 Theo. Oh, forgive, forgive my poor Kudrin. 
 
 Gov. First confess, 
 
 Theo. Well he complained of the captain's harsh treat- 
 ment, and prgposed that I should escape with him to 
 Ochozk. 
 
 Gov. Nothing more ? 
 
 luan. Pshaw ! Did you not talk of a flight beyond the 
 sea Eh ? 
 
 Theo. Yes, I said I would go with him all the world 
 over. 
 
 Iivan. When I use the term sea, I do not mean to imply 
 uU the world over. 
 
 Theo. Well then, I said I would go across the sea with 
 him, although I was very much afraid of water. 
 
 Ben. (Smiling aside.) Excellent ! 
 
 Got?. Well, Iwan ! How does this sound i* 
 
 Iwan.{SkaJ\ing his head.) False, every syllable ! Did 
 you not speak of a charming country, to which you would 
 fly.? 
 
 Theo. Yes, Ochozk. He has been there, and is always 
 telling me how well tlie people live. 
 
 Gov. But the Count, the Count. 
 
 Theo. The Count ! 
 
 Iwan. Yes, yes, the Count. Was not he to accompany 
 you to Ochozk Eh ? 
 
 Theo. This is the first word I have heard of it. So nmch 
 the better. I shall not be obliged to leave my lady 
 then. 
 
 Iwan. She affects stupidity. 
 
 Gov. Confess. Wliat did you say relative to the 
 Count? 
 
 Theo. Not a word. But yes I recollect 
 
 licav. Ay, ay.
 
 Act TV. con NT BENTOWSKY. 269 
 
 Thco. I told him that Count Benyowsky was to marry my 
 lady. 
 
 Gov. Nothing more? 
 
 Theo. What more could I tell him ? 
 
 Izcan. (hnpat lent lij.) Yon talked together about a 
 conspiracy, a ship, and escape. Will you confess ? 
 
 Theo, I beg your pardon, Iwan Fedrowitsch, but your fa- 
 culties were rather clouded at that time, and I believe they 
 are so still. 
 
 Iwan. You witch ! Why the slut will presently try to 
 convince me that I was not called an old fool. 
 
 Theo. (Weeping, and affecting to he incensed.)- \ a 
 witch and a slut ! 
 
 Iwan. Well, well ! 
 
 Theo. Let me tell you I am an honest woman 
 
 Iwan. Well, well ! 
 
 Theo. Educated with my lady 
 
 Iwan. Well yes. 
 
 Gov. Be pacified, Theodora. Have you concealed no- 
 thing from me ? 
 
 Theo. But, good Heavens, there stands the Count him- 
 self. He must know best whether he thinks of travelling to 
 Ochozk. 
 
 Ben. The Count, my dear girl, has no such intention; 
 but there are so many people, who, after emptying a bottle, 
 are kind enough to think for him. 
 
 Gov. Iwan, you were wrong. The wine and the 
 air 
 
 Iwan. As to the conspiracy, I may perhaps be mistaken;- 
 but as to the old fool, T am as positive 
 
 Gov. Well, if that be all 
 
 Iwan. All ! Enough too, I think. 
 
 Gov. True, Iwan. We must let him feel the knout. 
 
 Jtvan. Most certainly. 
 
 M5
 
 ^70 COUNT BENTOWSKY. ' Act IV. 
 
 Gov. Thank Heaven no suspicion attaches to the man 
 who is so dear to my heart. I beheve it easily, and most 
 willingly. 
 
 Ben. The enigma of the flight, as it is called, I probably 
 can solve. The captain, here, mentioned to me a project 
 respecting the Aleutian Islands : T happened to drop a ^ew 
 words on the subject, which Kudrin probably heard, and 
 misinterpreted. 
 
 lucin. Oh, that's another affair. When I use the term 
 another affair, I mean to imply 
 
 Theo. Nothing. 
 
 Itcan. Exactly. Nothing. 
 
 Gov. {Shaking hands with Benyowsky.) Dear Count, 
 we are, I hope, on the same terms as heretofore. 
 
 Iwan. {Shaking hands with Benyowsky.) And we too, 
 I hope. 
 
 Gov. Pardon my suspicions as the Governor : they never 
 entered-my mind as a father, 
 
 Ben. They have hurt me, but be they forgotten. 
 
 Gov. It is^ate. Shall we go to supper ? 
 
 Iwan. A very rational idea. 
 
 Ben. I must beg to be excused. This has been a warm 
 day to me. I am in want of rest. 
 
 Gov. Farewell, then, till to-morrow. 
 
 [Exit Benyowsky, 
 
 Iwan What a strange, whimsical man he is ! lie talks 
 about a warm day, when it is so cold out of doors, that a 
 man's teeth might freeze together. 
 
 Got. Where is my daughter? 
 
 Theo. In the dining room. 
 
 Gov. We will join her. But, Iwan, take heed that the 
 wine does not again make your head so full of idle 
 fancies 
 
 Iwan. Wine ! The very idea is a feast. Have at it ! 
 Ha ! Ila ! lla ! [T/iey are going.
 
 Act IV. COUNT BENTOWSKY. 9Tl 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Ser. A letter for your Excellency. 
 
 Gov. Who brought it ? 
 
 Scr. A Kamtschadale. [Governor opens it. 
 
 Lean. I hate letters. 
 
 Thco. Why? 
 
 Iwun. Because one is obliged to read them. 
 
 Gov. What ! Again ! Listen, Iwan. {Reads.) 
 
 '' Count Benyowsky is at the head of more than a hundred 
 determined men, Tschulosnikoff's vessel is in their power. 
 At the dawn of day the Governor will be robbed of hi 
 daughter. My life is surety for the truth of this intelligence-^ 
 and my liberty is due from the state, " Stepanoff." 
 
 Tuan. There we have it ! What say you now, Governor? 
 Was lie drunk too, who wrote this letter ? 
 
 Gov. Ha ! Was I then deceived ? Is 'the Count already 
 gone ? 
 
 Ser. lie seemed to be in haste. 
 
 Gov. In haste ! No doubt he was. (To Theodora.J 
 Bring my daughter hither, 
 
 I'/ito. {As she ^oes.) Another tempest threatens us. 
 
 [Exit, 
 
 hcan. I'll order my Cossacks to bo mounted, and in rea- 
 diiiess. 
 
 Gov. How he- stood ! IIow innocent were his looks! 
 IIovv calmly he offered me his head ! 
 
 Taan. One head we must have at all events h!s, or 
 Stepanoif's, 
 
 M6
 
 278 COUNT BEKYOWSKV. Act IV. 
 
 JS!n<er Athanasia and Theodora. 
 
 Gov. {Presenting the letter to Athanasia.) Read that 
 letter. 
 
 Athan. {After having periised it.) Calumny, dear father. 
 
 Got. Do jou know nothing } 
 
 Athan. Nothing. 
 
 Gov. But you turn pale ? 
 
 Athan. Vexation and disgust, anger and affection 
 
 Gov. But you tremble ? 
 
 Athan. Must I not tremble, lest my father, by acting too 
 hastily 
 
 Gov. Be easy, I shall scrutinize minutely, before I pro- 
 ceed further. 
 
 Athan. I am sorry to be the cause of making any man 
 miserable; but this Stepanoff deserves to be so. To me it 
 is evident why he wishes the Count's destruction, Ilis jea- 
 lousy is inventive. 
 
 Gov. Jealousy ! 
 
 Athan. He loves me. 
 
 Gov. You ! 
 
 Athun. With a sort of desperation. Even this morning 
 he dared to surprise me here in the fortress, and to use 
 such language as I thought nothing but madness could dic- 
 tate. 
 
 Gov. He ! To my daughter ? 
 
 Athun. I was about to call for aid, when the Count sud- 
 denly entered the room. With violent threats Stepanoff 
 left us and he has kept his promise. 
 
 Gev. I am astonished. 
 
 Athan. Jealousy dictated this letter. Judge, then, my 
 father, whether it ought (o disturb you.
 
 Act IV. COUNT BEMY0WSKY. 2fS 
 
 Gov. Why did you not immediately tell rae i 
 
 Athan. I pitied him, for I thought him insane. 
 
 Theo. (Aside.) Admirable ! The storm will pass away 
 without doing harm. 
 
 Iwan. Hem ! Wrong again ! What a day is this No 
 eating or drinking ! What a night is this, too No sleep or 
 rest ! 
 
 Got. (After a moment's rejkctwn.) -Can Stepanoff 
 have dared to fabricate this falshood ? Tschulosnikoff ! 
 Kudriu ! Can all this have happened by accident ? 
 
 Enter Kudrin in chains, guarded hj/ a Corporal and 
 Soldiers. 
 
 Iwan. Ila ! the bird is caught. 
 
 Cor. Had we been a minute or two later, he would have 
 escaped us. 
 
 Theo. (To Athanasia.) We are lost. 
 
 Athan. Give him a hint. 
 
 Gov. Where did you find him? 
 
 Cor. At the haven. 
 
 Gov^ Are any preparations making there ? 
 
 Cor. Yes. Tschulosnikoff's vessel is preparing for sea. 
 
 Gov. (To Kudrin.) ^What were you doing at the 
 haven ? 
 
 Kudrin. {Trembling.) Mercy ! Mercy ! I'll confess all. 
 
 Theo. (Forcing her way to him.) I have already con- 
 fessed all, dear Kudrin. 
 
 Iwan. Do you know who I am Eh ? 
 
 Kridrin. You are my gracious captain. 
 
 Iwan. I am your old fool, and consequently your un- 
 gracious captain. When I use the term ungracious, I 
 mean to imply the knout. 
 
 Kudrin. Mercy ! Spare me for the sake of my youth. 
 I have been misled. 
 
 Gov, Who misled you ?
 
 974 COUNT BENYOWSKY, Act IV. 
 
 Theo. I persuaded him 
 
 Gov. Peace ! 
 
 Theo. (Aside.) Fortune aid us ! 
 
 At ban. (Aside.) We are lost ! 
 
 Gov. (Tb Kudrin.) You wanted to fly from hence ? 
 
 Kudrin. Yes, 
 
 Gov. To what place ? 
 
 Theo. Haven't you relations at Ochozk ? 
 
 Kudrin. No. 
 
 Theo, But Friends and acquaintance ? 
 
 Kudrin. I never was there in my life. 
 
 Gov. (To Theodora.) Peace ! 
 
 Theo. Gracious Sir, I must speak for him. Terror has 
 robbed him of his senses, and he will forfeit his life, 
 
 Izcan. So much the better. 
 
 Gat>. Name your confederates. 
 
 Theo. Who hut I 
 
 Gov. Will you be silent.? 
 
 Kudrin. Count Benyowsky 
 
 Theo. Gave you good advice, I know, and you ought t 
 have followed it. 
 
 Gov. Girl, I'll have you locked in your room. 
 
 Theo. Butgood Heavens, your Excellency should consider 
 we are attached to each other, and his affection for me has 
 brought him into his present unfortunate situation. Do 
 you hear, Kudrin? I hesouiiht him to fly with me to Ochozk 
 His affection for mc made him consent that's all. Spare 
 him forpive him. He is the best balalaika-player in all 
 the country. 
 
 Gov. Begone to your chamber. 
 
 Theo. Oh, my lady, say a kind word in behalf of my 
 poor 
 
 Gov. Out of the room with her ! 
 
 Athun. Go, Theodora.
 
 Act IV. COUNT BEXYOWSKY. 27a 
 
 Theo. Well, if I must, I will go. Kudrin, you have heard 
 what I have said. I take all the blame upon myself. No 
 one but myself knew any thing of the matter. [Ejcit. 
 
 Inan. Am I nobody, then Eh ? 
 
 Gov. Now make a frank confession ; for nothing but the 
 truth can procure your pardon. 
 
 Kudrin. Oh, if my comrades must die, I had rather not 
 live. 
 
 Gov. Are there many of you ? 
 
 Kudrin. Yes. 
 
 Gov. Who is your leader ? 
 
 Kudrin. Count Benyowsky. 
 
 Gov. Where did you enter into a confederacy .' 
 
 Kudrin. At the altar. 
 
 Gov, How did you mean to escape ? 
 
 Kudrin. In a vessel. 
 
 Gov. When ? 
 
 Kudrin. To-morrow. 
 
 Gov. Now, Athanasia ? (Athannsia appears about to 
 su-oon.) Poor child ! I pity you. We have cherished a vi- 
 per in our bosoms. 
 
 himn. A dragon. 
 
 Gov. My heart can pardon every weakness, but ingrati- 
 tude is a vice of the deepest dye. Lead him away. Your 
 lives are answerable for his. 
 
 Ircan. Come, come ! I'll appoint you quarters. Bread 
 without sun, and water without air, will tame you, I dare 
 say. You shall not call me an old fool again in a hurry. 
 
 [Exeiint Iwan, Kudrin, and Guards, 
 
 Gov. There are crimes which rouse the soul, beget mis- 
 anthropy, and convert inborn benevolence to cruelty. Dis- 
 sembling villain ! Thou hast played upon my heart, but 
 thou shalt know mc.
 
 276 COUNT BENYOWSKY. Act IV. 
 
 Athan.^ Falls at his feet.) Mercy, my father ! I 
 love him stilJ. 
 
 Gov. Shame on thee ! Rise, and spare thy words, for 
 they are a disgrace to thee and me. Ilast thou forgotten 
 that thy father's life and honour are at stake ? Are they 
 become indifferent to thee ? 
 
 Athan, Oh, no ! With my blood 
 
 Gov. That I expect from my daughter. We must pro- 
 ceed without delay, for the danger is at hand. Sit down, 
 and write. 
 
 Athan. (Alarmed.) What ! 
 
 Gov. Benyowsky is the ring-leader. When we have him 
 in our power, the rest will be useless members without a 
 head. Write, 
 
 Athan. ( Trembling.) What shall I write ? 
 
 Gov. He will suspect his fate, and refuse to obey my 
 summons. You ajone can entice him hither. Measure for 
 measure. Write an affectionate note invite him 
 
 Athan. Never ! 
 
 Gov. How ! Would you 
 
 Athan. I cannot, my father. 
 
 Gov. Ungrateful girl ! Shall thy mother's blessing bo 
 counteracted by thy father's curse? 
 
 Athan. Hold, I beseech you. 
 
 Gov. Sit down, then, and write. 
 
 Athun. (Seats hfrself' at the table.) His death warrant? 
 
 Gov. It may be so. 
 
 Athun. Then is it mine too. 
 
 Gov. Immaterial ! 
 
 Athan. 1 am ready. fCovernor dictates, and she with a 
 trenhUng hand writes his words.) "Dear Count, I must 
 speak to you to night. Come immediately. Theodora 
 will admit you at the little gate. Hy into the arms of your 
 affectionate Athanasia." 
 
 I have done.
 
 Act IF. uc'jNT B^Nyowbkv. '277 
 
 Guv. (Reads nhut nhe has uritlen.) It is scarcely legi- 
 ble, but it will answer its purpose. Seal it. (Athanasia, 
 as she is sealing it, draws, unobserved by her father, a piece of 
 red riband from her bosom, and puts it in the letter.) Paul ! 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Take this note to Count Benyowsky, and say that Athana- 
 sia sent it. Do you hear ? 
 
 Ser. I shall obey your Excellency's directions. [Exit. 
 
 Gov. Go to sleep, Athanasia. I will be your safeguard. 
 Go, and in your prayers beseech the Almighty to root this 
 passion from your breast. Think of your mother (Aluch 
 affected, and taking her hand.) Think of your old father. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Alhan. Father! Mother! Heaven forgive me ! I think 
 but of him. To sleep ! When Benyowsky is in danger ! 
 Pray ! Alas ! That will not rescue him. Away with female 
 timidity ! Unite with me, ye unknown friends, courage and 
 resolution. A sword, a sword for this weak hand ! Deli-r 
 verance to the beloved of my soul ! Be my breast his shield. 
 At his side, and fighting in his defence, will Athanasia die. 
 
 END OF ACT IV.
 
 'i?li CO! NT Hlk^OUShy, jict V. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCEKE, CrUSTIEw's llut. 
 
 The Conspirators are stretched asleep vpon the earth in 
 Groups. Each has a Gun near him, and a Brace of Pis- 
 tols in his Belt. Ckustiew sits on the Bench with his 
 Eyes closed; but his uneasiness etinces that his attempts 
 to sleep are ineffectual. At length he rises. 
 
 Crus. I cannot sleep. Whether I turn my head this 
 way or that, I hear a pulse. My blood courses through 
 my veins. A voice seems every moment to shout in my 
 ear, to-morrow, to-morrow thou wilt be dead or free. 
 The clear warm sun of liberty dispels the cold shadows 
 of the night. To-morrow is my birth-day. To-morrow 
 I again begin to live in this world or another. Fare- 
 well, thou gloomy abode of misery. Unwillingly I leave 
 thee, for custom bestows charms even on a prison. 
 Every spider is become dear to me every mouse is my 
 friend. The world too is but a prison, to which custom 
 binds us. In this we are at home ; in another we are un- 
 known, and it is unpleasant to be transported into the so- 
 ciety of strangers. 
 
 Enter SxEPiNOFF. 
 
 Where have you been again ? 
 St^. Out of doors.
 
 AlI v. count JlKN-^O'.VSKY. 279 
 
 Cms. You seem to run from one place to another, as if 
 you were uneasy. 
 
 Step. Are you easy ? 
 
 Cms. Is all quiet without? 
 
 Step. The wolves howl. 
 
 Cms. Their howl is tlie death-song of slavery. 
 
 Step. Perhaps it may be so perhaps it may not. 
 
 Crus. Hope inspires me with confidence. 
 
 Step. We all hope, but hope is only a rainbow. 
 
 Cms. Is it late ? 
 
 Step. Past midnight. 
 
 Crus. I am anxious respecting the Count. 
 
 Step. So am I. 
 
 Crus. Indeed ! 
 
 Step. Why not ? He is married, and Athanasia mine. 
 
 Crus. Does she love you ? 
 
 Step. I will take her with me by force. 
 
 Crus. Will she love you for that ? 
 
 Step. It is immaterial whether she will or not. 
 
 Crus. Shame on thy brutal passion ! 
 
 Step. Age fancies love youth feels it. 
 
 Crus. A noble minded youth will never feel what a 
 old man may not fancy. 
 
 Step, Fine words ! 
 
 Crus. Which are thrown away on you. 
 
 Step. Would it were day, and every thing settled one 
 way or the other. 
 
 Crus. The hours steal along 
 
 Step. Very true. 
 
 Crus. Like treachery in the dark. 
 
 Step. (Starts.) What do you mean by that ^ 
 
 Crus. Nothing. Why does the allusion affect you 
 thus .? 
 
 Step. Because because I ara impatient.
 
 2U0 COtM Cl .N'iO-.\>KV. Ait V, 
 
 Enter Bemyowsky. 
 
 Crus. Ha, Benyowsky ! At length you are come. 
 
 Step. (Aside.) The devil protects hiui. (Aloud.) 
 Welcome ! 
 
 C7-US. We were uneasy. 
 
 Ben. And with justice. Suspicion and distrust have 
 taken possession of the whole village. We must use dis- 
 patch. 
 
 Crus. All is ready. 
 
 Ben. So much the better. Kudrin had brought ns to 
 the brink of ruin by his idle prattle. But for female arti- 
 fice we liad been lost. 
 
 Step. (Aside.) lie knows nothing, I perceive. 
 
 Crus. Where is Kudrin ? 
 
 Ben. I sent him to the vessel. 
 
 Crus. There he is secure. 
 
 Ben. How are our comrades divided ? 
 
 Crus. A strong party guards the haven, and another 
 patrols through the village. 
 
 Step. The largest waits in the church, for the signal of 
 the bcl!. 
 
 Crus. Those in whom we place most confidence lie here 
 asleep. 
 
 Ben. They do right. They are collecting vigour, and 
 will 'exert it. Is the bridge destroyed .'' 
 
 Crus. That was done in the evening. 
 
 Ben. The powder and ball 
 
 Crus. Are properly distributed. 
 
 Ben. And the ambush at the river 
 
 Crus. Is entrusted to Boskaref s directions.
 
 Act V. cor .XT nrNYowsKY. 281 
 
 Ben. Then we may be at case. StepaiKjff, liow fare 
 you ? Are we friends ? 
 
 Step. Keep your promise, and wc are. 
 Beji. What did I promise you ? 
 Step. The possession of Athanasia. 
 Ben. She alone can bestow that. 
 
 Enter a Conspirator. 
 
 Con. -(To Benyowsky.^^ Kasurinoff wishes to sec 
 you. 
 
 Ben. At tliis late hour ! Admit him. 
 
 [Exit Conspirator. 
 Step, A stranger ? 
 
 Cr'us. If he be aware of our pre[)arati()ns 
 
 Ben- Ileed not that. I am surety for him. 
 
 Enter Kasakinoff hastilt/, 
 
 Kas. Save yourself, Benyowsky. 
 
 Ben. Why? 
 
 Kas. You are betrayed. [Stepanofi' w alarmed^ 
 
 Ben, By wtiom ? 
 
 Kas. By Kudrin the Cossack. 
 
 Ben. I thank you. 
 
 Kas. Nothing more ? 
 
 Ben, I already knew 
 
 Kas. And are yet so calm ? 
 
 Ben. Kudrin is in safety. 
 
 Kas. Yes indeed he is. 
 
 Ben. In our vessel. 
 
 Kas. In prison. 
 
 Ben. What say you ? 
 
 Kas. But a few minutes since he was dragged before
 
 282 COTNT BEKYOWSKV. /ic/ J', 
 
 the Governor, aiu! came from flie citadel euarrlod hy 
 I wan Fed^o\vit^;ch liiiiisclt'. lie lias cont'cised evciy 
 thing. 
 
 Be?i. (Stanipint;.) Damnation ! The Idockliead suf- 
 fered himself to be caught, then ! 
 
 Kits. Tlie captain will soon he here witli a strong force 
 to secure you. 
 
 hen. Enousrh ! We must spring the mine rather sooner 
 than we intended. > 
 
 Kus. Farewell ! 
 
 hen. Whither go you ? 
 
 Kas. Home. My wife and children will be alarmed at 
 the commotion. 
 
 hen. Farewell, honest Kasarinoff. To-morrow you 
 shall receive the thanks of a free man. (Exit Kasarinoif.) 
 Double your caution. At the first signal all must be 
 under arms. 
 
 Cms. Shall I ring the boll ? 
 
 hen. Not yet. ( Lool:s at his rrtitcfi.) Two o'clock. 
 Would it were day ! 
 
 Slcp. XN'iiy not jtrocccd ii)uiic(liatcly ? 
 
 hen. That in the dark our brethren may not destroy 
 each other. 
 
 Enter a Skrvant, accoynp'ivicd hi/ one n/' tht 
 Co.vsriiiAioii'^. 
 
 5fr. My lady sends this note. 
 
 hen. Did she herself deliver it to you ? 
 
 Ser. Siie herself. 
 
 hen. (Opens the vote, and the piece <f icd rilKiml ftdls 
 from it.) Ila ! I understand thi.'^. Accept my thanks 
 dear girl. Tiiou hast fultllled tiiy promise. I5e (hi-, 
 riband the emblem of our order ! ( Faflcnsitlo hia butto/i- 
 /jo/t'.j Take that fellow into custody.
 
 Act V. COUNT EKNYOWSKY. 2o3 
 
 Ser.( Afihghletl.) Why} . 
 
 Ben. Your words are false, 
 
 Ser. I am innocent. 
 
 Ben. Away with him ! 
 
 Con. Come, honest friend, I'll shew you yonr habita- 
 tion. iDrags him out. 
 
 Ben. Danger advances towards us witli huge strides. 
 We must no longer delay our operations. Cheer up, my 
 comrades. The important hour is arri\'ed. We must 
 begin even before the dawn of day. Perha{)s the morn- 
 ing sun will be a witness of our triunij)!). Rise, sluggards, 
 rise ! I'lic voice of freedom calls to you. They sleep as if 
 to-morrow were a holiday. Holla! Will none of you 
 awake? (A drum is heard without.) Tla, Ha! The cap- 
 tain, I see, takes upon himself the trouble of waking them. 
 {Alt spring up as soon as thej/ hear (he sound of the 
 drum, and g7-asp their guns.) Rouse yourselves, my com- 
 rades. The enemy is at the door. 
 
 AH. (Rush towards the door.) We are awake. Wc 
 are ready. 
 
 Ben. Hidt ! Order ! Silence ! Extinguish the lights. 
 {He is obn/ed.) Go, two of you, to that window, open 
 it, and hold yourselves in readiness to fire. Go, two more 
 of you, to tlie other window, and do the same. You, 
 C'rustiew and Stepanoff, will guard the door. Let any per- 
 son in, but no one out. {2'he drums are again heard, and 
 Benyowsky goes to the window.) What is the matter 
 there ? Who disturbs our rest } 
 
 laan. (Without.) -Count Benyowsky, I arrest you in 
 the name of her Imperial Majesty. 
 
 Ben. Is it you captain ? Come in, come in. An unex- 
 pected visitor is not less welcome. 
 
 Juan. Yield ! Surrender !
 
 584 COUNT BENYOWSKV. Act V. 
 
 Ben. Allow me first to dress myself. I have just sprung 
 out of bed, and am half naked. 
 
 Iwan. Put on your clotiies, then, 
 
 Ben. Will you not coine a little nearer in the mean 
 time ? 
 
 Iwan. No. 
 
 Ben. I have a flask of good Hungarian wine, which is 
 very comfortable in this cold weather, 1 assure you. 
 
 Iwan. {Pricking up his ears.) What f 
 
 Ben. Absolute nectar. 
 
 hcan. Genuine Hungarian? 
 
 Ben. I acknowledge it as my countryman. Come in and 
 taste it. 
 
 hcan. Are you alone ? 
 
 Ben. Quite alone. 
 
 luan. Very well. I'll come, then. (To his Cossacks.) 
 Corporal, and all of you, be on your guard. Watch at 
 the door with drawn swords. T shall return directly. 
 
 Ben. (Leavi)if; the niridmr.) That is false, old 
 
 blockhead. The footsteps of the lion's den point only in- 
 wards. 
 
 Enter Iwan. 
 
 (Stepanoff and Crusticw seize him. He stru^iiJes, and 
 ulttinpts tv rail to his ntc/t.) 
 
 Ben. (Draus forth a pisto/.) Not a syllable, or I'll 
 ?]ioot you on the s|)i:)t. 
 
 luan. How ! Dare you attempt 
 
 Ben. Captain, be calm. We are on this' occasion the 
 stronger party. 
 
 luan. Damnation ! 
 
 Ben. Utlivci- up your sword.
 
 Act V. COl'.\T BEXYOWSKV. 285 
 
 Iwan. llcmeuiber who I am. 
 
 Hen. Yes you are our prisoner. 
 
 Iwan. No violence I hope 
 
 Ben. In no respect shall you be ill-treated, if you do 
 what I require. 
 
 Iwan. What do you require? 
 
 Ben. Come to this open window, call to your Cossacks, 
 in a cheerful tone, and tell them all to enter. Say there 
 is no danger, and they shall liave a glass of brandy. 
 
 Izian. I will not. 
 
 Ben. Then you must die. 
 
 Iican. That is worse than the other, 
 
 Ben. Then obey my command. 
 
 Izoan. Command ! 
 
 Ben. Or request, if you hke that better. 
 
 Itcan. Request ! Oh, that's another affair, 
 
 [Approaches the zvindow. 
 
 Ben. (Holding the pistol before him.) This ball shall 
 pass through your head, if, by a single ambiguous expres- 
 sion, you betray 
 
 Iwan. Stand off, and let me manage matters. (Calk ta 
 the Cossacks. ) 'My lads, all is quiet here. Come in, and 
 drink. 
 
 Ben. (Whispering to him.) All. 
 
 Izcan. Come in, ail of you. 
 
 Ben. Unarmed. 
 
 Lean. Place your mubkets, in the mean time, against the 
 -.vail. 
 Cos. (Without.) Very well, captain, 
 
 Ben. Run out, brethren, seize them, and confine them 
 Ki the vault. [All the Conspirators rush ozii. 
 
 Iican. Do you know what this joke may cost you.? 
 
 Ben. Well? 
 
 Iioan. When I use the term joke, I mean to imply 
 fur nest. 
 
 Vol. 11. N
 
 S86 COrKT BENYOWSKY. Act V. 
 
 Ben. In earnest then, w hat may it cost mc ? 
 
 Izoan. The knout. 
 
 Ben. Indeed ! 
 
 Iwan. Your nose and ears, 
 
 Ben. Sure ! 
 
 Iwav. Let me go. 
 
 Ben. Patience ! 
 
 hvan. You are undone. Our preparations 
 
 Ben. What are tliey ? 
 Iwun. All our troops are under arms. 
 Ben. Indeed ! 
 luan. '1 hey are advancing. 
 Ben. So much tlie better. 
 luan. With artillery. 
 Ben. They do us great honour. 
 Iwan. They will set the village on fire. 
 Btn. Then the iire must be extinguished. 
 lican. They will cut you to pieces. 
 Ben. Oh, misery ! 
 
 Iwan. It will he in vain that you sue lor CjuarLer. 
 Ben. Just now, it is your turn t<j do so, c;iptain. 
 Iwan. (Aside.) Damn the lelluw, and his Hungarian 
 W'inc. 
 
 Re-enter the Coxspikatous wilh lights. 
 
 Cj'US. All is happily adjusted. 
 
 Ben. 'Tis well. The captain has been kind cnougli to 
 inform me that the enemy is advancing with artillery. 
 We must prepare to receive them. Go, comrades ; ring the 
 bell. (The bell is heard.) Captain, as no oflicer can re- 
 sign his command in such an emergency as the present, I 
 must request you to join the Cossacks in the vault. 
 
 Iwan. What ! Put me into a vault !
 
 Act V. COUNT BENYOWSKY. 287 
 
 Ben. Fancy it a wine-vault. 
 
 luan. Never, 
 
 Bcn.( Shrugging his shoulders.) I shall be sorry to use 
 compulsion. 
 
 Izcuii. I'll sooner be hewn in pieces. 
 
 Ben. That shall be done, if you please. 
 
 lu-an. How long am I to remain there? 
 
 Ben. Only till morning. 
 
 Izvan. Well be it so. You see, Count Bcnyowsky, 
 I undergo a great deal to oblige you. When I use the 
 term </ great deal, I mean to imply the fault. 
 
 [Exit guarded. 
 
 Ben. That fool is disposed of. Did none escape ? 
 
 Cms. A single man, who sprung hastily back, and avail- 
 ed himself of the darkness. 
 
 Ben. That is unfortunate. The Governor will still 
 learn, then 
 
 Athaxasia I'Hshes in, habited as a Cossack, with a drawn 
 sabre in her hand. 
 
 Alhan. TJcnyowsky ! Save yourself. 
 
 Beri. (Astonished.) Athantisia ! 
 
 Athan. (BreathU^s.)'6o\<\\Qyz\ (hi every side sol- 
 diers ! 
 
 Ben. What means this disguise ? 
 
 Athan. I wiil die with you. 
 
 Ben. Noble girl ! 
 
 Athan. You are bc^traycd, infamously betrayed, 
 
 Ben. [ know it. Kudrin v 
 
 Athan. Not Kudrin ! (Pointing to Stepanoff.J There 
 stands the traitor. 
 
 Ben. Who ? Stcpaiioff r 
 
 Athan.(To Stepanoil^ drauing forth his letter.) Do 
 you know this letter ? [Stepanolf is confounded. 
 
 N 2
 
 S88 COUNT BEXYOWSKT. Acl V. 
 
 Ben. (Tears the letter from her hand, and reads it.) 
 Ha, villain ! Dost thou know this letter ? 
 
 Step. Think'st thou I fear thee, and shall deny my hand ? 
 I wrote it. 
 
 Ben. Is it thus that thou makcst a sport of thy oath, 
 and the lives of thy brethren ? 
 
 Step. Yes, of thy life I make a sport. 
 
 Ben. {Turning to the rest.) Treachery ! 
 
 All. Down with him ! 
 
 Step. As you please. Without this girl, my life is a 
 burden to me. Let me have her, and the last drop of my 
 blood shall flow in your defence. 
 
 Athan. Let thee have me ! Cast me rather into my 
 grave than into his arms. 
 
 Step. Damnation ! \'engeance, vengeance ! Then wel- 
 come, tleath. 
 
 All. Down with him ! 
 
 Ben. Hold ! Punish him by contempt. 
 
 Step. {In a phrcnzi/.) Contempt! ?tlc! [JIastih/ 
 
 draws his sziord, and aims a blmo at Bcnyowsky.) 
 
 Athan. {Holding him hack.) Heavens ! 
 
 (Conspirators seize him from behind, and disarm him. 
 
 Step. {Endcarojiring to suppress his fury.) Release 
 me. I surrender. Benyowsky, you have conrpiered 
 She was your guardian angel I feel penitent forgive mc 
 kill me 
 
 Ben. Lead him away. 
 
 Step. Only once more, Athanasia, once more, stretch 
 forth your soft hand as a token of forgiveness to the cri- 
 minal I^t me press my lips to it 
 
 Athan. {Compassionately presenting her hand to him.) 
 Unfortunate man ! (Stepanoffsia/f/eK/j/ draws out a hnfr, 
 and attempts to stab her.)
 
 Act V, COUNT BENYOWSKY. 28^ 
 
 Ben. (Pttshes her asirfe.) Ha ! Monster ! 
 
 Step. That too has failed. 
 
 Ben. Now dispatch him. [All draw their swords. 
 
 Step. That pleasure you shall not have. (Plunges the 
 knife into his breast. Athanasia starts back with horror, 
 and hides her face in Benyowsky's bosom.) 
 
 Ben. Madman ! 
 
 Step. (Writhing.) Well aimed Well aimed .'Curse 
 on thee, Benyowsky ! Curse 
 
 Beri. Drag him out. 
 
 Step. Curse on Benyowsky ! [He is carried out, 
 
 Ben. Compose yourself, dear Athanasia. 
 
 Athan. {Trembling.) [s he dead? 
 
 Ben, Happily for us. 
 
 Athan. Yet I pity him. 
 
 Ben. He was his own executioner. 
 
 Athan. Love 
 
 Ben, Profane not the name. 
 
 {A discharge of muskets, S(C. is heard at a distance, and 
 gradually increases through this scene.) 
 
 Ben. What is that ? 
 
 Athan. The Soldiers 
 
 Ben. Have they met already ? 
 
 Crus. 'Tis well. The decisive hour is arrived. 
 
 ?i^era CoNSPiEATOK. 
 
 Con. We hear a discharge of muskets. 
 
 Crus. So do we. 
 
 Ben. To arms, comrades ! 
 
 Crus, Ring the bell.
 
 4iH> i-ijVXi JU.NTOWSJ-V, .'tli J', 
 
 (From time to time the hell is heard, and is again iyito-' 
 rupted by the noise of the muskets, S^c) 
 
 Ben. Where will you stay, Athanasia ? 
 Athan. With you. 
 
 Ben. Bui tlie danger 
 
 Athan. I'll share it with you. 
 
 Enter another Conspikator. 
 
 5 Con. The firing increases, 
 Ben. In what quarter ? 
 
 2 Con. The sound seems to come up the river. 
 Crus, Probably Boskareff 
 
 Unter a third Coa'Spieator. 
 
 3 Con. Help ! Help ! 
 Ben. What now ? 
 
 3 Con, The enemy is too strong for us below in the 
 valley 
 
 Ben. AviQ^j ! Away ! Be our watch word, liberty or 
 death. [Buxhes out. 
 
 AIL {Brandishing their swords.) Liberty or death ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene, an Apartment in the Citadel. 
 
 The Governor is walking uneasily vp and down. 
 
 Gov. Not one returned as yet ! What can this mean ? 
 Where is Iwan ? Where are all the men whom he pro- 
 mised to scud with accounts of his proccedi'ngs ? Whcif"
 
 Art V, tOtM IirNVO'.V;KV. SfM 
 
 is my servant ? I hear shot after shot. These few men 
 defend themselves most obstinately. Oh, Benyowsky, 
 dreadful will be thy lot, if my vengeance be equal to thy 
 ingratitude. 
 
 A Soldier ruihes in. 
 
 SoVl have escaped. 
 
 Gov. Where is your captain ? 
 
 Sol. A prisoner. 
 
 Gov. Where is my Servant .? 
 
 Sol. A prisoner. They deceived the cs^tain. 
 
 Gov. Do you know nothing more ? - 
 
 Sol. They are coming hither. 
 
 Gov. Who.? 
 
 Sol. The rebels. 
 
 Gov. Are there many ? 
 
 Sol. A multitude. 
 
 Gov. Are there any free men among them ? 
 
 Sol. I believe there are. 
 
 Gov. (With asperity) Ay, most likely, for rebellion 
 is infectious as the plague. He who attempts to gain the 
 hearts of the populace by kindnesses, has %vrltten his ac- 
 count on the surface of ihe sea. What means this dis- 
 charge of muskets ? 
 
 Sol. The carna-^c in the valley is dreadful. 
 
 Gov. Are our men victorious? 
 
 Sol. The reverse. They fly. 
 
 Gov. Which way ? 
 
 Sol, Towards the forest. 
 
 Gov. And the artillery ? 
 
 Sol, Is left behind thera. 
 
 N-4
 
 292 COLM bLMOWsKV. Act t. 
 
 Gov. Cowarrlly hirelings? Go, nieseii;:cr of evil. 
 Alurm the fortress, l.ct cverv ono hasten to his post. 
 
 [Exit Soldier. 
 It growe serious. Where can I leave the women. 
 
 Thfodora. rushes in, 
 
 Thco. Oh, Heavens ! 
 
 Gov. Is my daughter asleep ? 
 
 Tfieo. She is gone. 
 
 Gov. Gone ! 
 
 Theo. Escaped in men's clothes. 
 
 Gov. Die, grey-headed father ! 
 
 Theo. (Wringing her hands.) Unhappy girl that I am ! 
 
 Gov. That pierced to my heart. 
 
 Theo. Why was I silent } 
 
 Gov, Aid me, ye sensations of my duty. 
 
 [The alarm drum is heard. 
 
 Re-enter Soldier hastili/. 
 
 Sol. We are lost. 
 Gov. More misfortunes .' 
 Sol. The rebels are victorious. 
 Gov. Where ? 
 
 Sol. They are already on the bridge. 
 Gov. Who let the bridge down ? 
 Sol. We thought they were Cossacks. 
 Gov. Bar the gate, 
 Sol. They have hewn it in pieces. 
 Cor. Without opposition } 
 Sol. They destroy all who oppose them. 
 Gov. 'Tis well. The ringleader shall not escape ny 
 vengeance. [Jw/s/icx into an (idjnininc npartihC:'. 
 
 Thco. (Sinks VII h'.r knees.) Heaven assist us !
 
 Act V, COUNT BENYOWSKV. St)D 
 
 Re-enter Governor armed with pistols. 
 
 Gov. Away towards them ! 
 
 T/ieo. (Throzos herself on the floor, and intercepts his 
 
 passage.) For God's sake, Sir 
 
 Gov. What do you want? 
 
 Theo. Your life is in danger. 
 
 Gov. If my honour be lost, of what value is my life ! 
 
 \_Pushes her away with his foot, and is going. 
 
 Enter Benyowsky, Crustiew, Baturin, and other 
 Conspirators. 
 
 (Theodora runs away.) 
 Ben. Yield. 
 
 Gov. {Retreats a step, and fires a pistol at Benyow- 
 sky.) To hell with thee ! 
 
 Ben. {Suddenly strikes his left arm.) I am wounded. 
 Gov. Not yet dead ? 
 
 (He attempts to fire the second pistol, but is disarmed.) 
 Ben. Be calm, governor. 
 Gov. {Enraged.) Calm ! 
 Ben. I came hither to protect you. 
 Gov. Thou to protect me ! 
 
 Ben. I shall not forget how much I am indebted to you. 
 Gov. Indeed ! Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! 
 Ben, Crustiew, I deliver him into your hands. 
 Crus, He is the hostage for our freedom. 
 Ben. Let his life be sacred to you. 
 Crus. To me and every one. 
 
 Ben, Conduct him to his own room, and guard the door, 
 Crus. {To Governor.) Be so kind as to follow me. 
 Gov, Oh, God ! Thy thunder is asleep. 
 
 \Exit, guarded by Crustiew, &c.
 
 '2'.)i COrM iUN'imv^KV. Art I , 
 
 Ben. The greatest difficulty is at aii end. 
 
 Bat, Thank Heaven. 
 
 Ben. And the valour of our comrades. 
 
 Bat. You said you were wounded. 
 
 Ben. I do not feel it. Go, Baturin. Let every thing 
 we want be taken on board ammunition, money, provi- 
 sions 
 
 Bat. They are already safely lodged in the vessel, be- 
 sides a costly booty. 
 
 Ben. That you may divide among you. Where is 
 Athanasia ? 
 
 Bat. I saw her last on the stairs. 
 
 Ben. Surely she will not [Going. 
 
 Athanasia rushes in. 
 
 Athan. Where is my father.? 
 Ben. In saiety. 
 Athan. Dead? 
 Ben. Alive. 
 Athan. Where? 
 Ben. In his room. 
 Athan. You deceive me. 
 Ben. Indeed I do not. 
 Athan. I heard firing. 
 Ben. He resisted. 
 
 Athan. Heavens ! you are wounded. 
 Ben. In a trifling degree. Be not alarmed. 
 Athan. I hasten to my father. 
 
 Ben. Spare him till iiis grief has in some degree sub- 
 sided. 
 
 Athan. Who is with him ? 
 
 Jit'??. Crustic'v. 
 
 A'.hi7i. .\i., : what !;ivoI <l')ije?
 
 Act r, GOVNT Br.STO-WSKV. !ii>5 
 
 Enter eCoKSPiaATOR hasli/j/. 
 
 Con, The people are surrounding the citadel. 
 
 Ben. Are they in arms ? 
 
 Cow. The troops are advancing to scorin it. 
 
 Ben. Away to the ramparts, then ! 
 
 Con. There are but few of us. Our comrades are scat- 
 tered on all sides. 
 
 Ben. (After a momenfs tnedltalion.) Drag the wo- 
 men, children and old men into the church. Then 
 threaten that you will set fire to it, unless we are allowed 
 to depart peaceably. 
 
 Con. Immediately. 
 
 Ben. Lead the governor in chains upon the rampart, 
 and shew him to the people. His head is surety for our 
 safety. \_Exit Conspirator, 
 
 Athan. Mercy ! 
 
 Ben. Be not alarmed. This is but an empty threat. 
 The people love your father. 
 
 Athan. Who does not love him ? 
 
 Ben. They will tremble for his life, and let us depart 
 immolested. 
 
 Athan. Oh, Benyowsky, as yet it is in your power to 
 rectify every thing. Restore yourself to me me to my 
 father. Release him. Open the gates. You have fought 
 like a hero now act like a man. You have conquered 
 your enemies now conquer yourself. Exchange the 
 laurel of victory for the myrtle of love the perils of 
 the ocean for repose in the arn)S of Athanasia. Come to 
 my father, nd him of his chains, and receive his blessing. 
 Your comrades will be pardoned, your own peace of mind 
 will be restored, and I shall be supremely happy. 
 
 i^cn. Athanasia, you forget I have a wife.
 
 t'J6 COUNT BENyowSKY. Act V, 
 
 Athan. Alas ! I know not what I say. 
 
 Ben. The die is cast. The great wheel of fate rolls 
 on irresistibly. Whose power can seize a spoke, and de- 
 tain it .? 
 
 Athan. Forgive me, heaven. I fear I too shall be swal- 
 lowed by this whirlpool, 
 
 Ben, Sister, I will keep my promise. 
 
 Re-enter Conspirator. 
 
 Con. Your plan succeeds, 
 
 Ben. Are they all quiet ? 
 
 Con. They tremble at our threats, and sue for peace. 
 
 Ben. And the Governor ? 
 
 Con. lie addressed them from the rampart, and desired 
 them not to spare him. 
 
 Ben. Ha ! 
 
 Con. " Storm the citadel," cried he. " I command it in 
 the name of her Imperial Majesty." 
 
 Ben. Greatly, nobly said ! 
 
 Con. But in vain, 
 
 Ben. 'Tis well. Then nothing now detains us. Beat 
 the drum, that our scattered comrades may assemble. 
 Lead the Governor to the haven in the midst of the con- 
 federates. There he shall be released. Load your mus- 
 kets and cannon. Let artillery precede and follow the 
 procession, and let several of our comrades bear lighted 
 matches in their hands. No further acts of hostility shall 
 take place, but let all proceed without tumult, without 
 shouts, or any expression likely again to rouse the fury of 
 the populace. Go. I follow you {Exit Conspirator.) 
 Come, dear Athanasia. 
 
 Athan. {Unwilling to go.) Alas! this is my paternal 
 abode.
 
 Act V. COUNT BENYOWSKY. 297 
 
 Ben. Cast no glance towards what is past. 
 
 Athan. Here I was born here have I felt the blessings 
 of a mother's of a father's love. 
 
 Ben. Do not make departure more painful than it need be. 
 
 Athan. For the last time 
 
 Ben. You are still at liberty to stay. 
 
 Athan. Never, never again shall I behold this seat of ail 
 my youthful pleasures. Never again shall I hear the mild 
 voice of my father. 
 
 Ben. You torment yourself and me. 
 
 Athan. Forgive me. [The drum isheard. 
 
 Ben. The moments are precious. 
 
 Athan. ^Suppressing her anguish.) I am ready. 
 
 Ben. Beloved Athanasia, to part with you would be hor- 
 rible, yet the choice is left to you. Stay, or go. 
 
 Athan. Stay ! Oh, my father ! Beat the drum again and 
 again, that the noise may overpower my voice. Away ! 
 Away ! Lead me away. 
 
 Ben. Lean on your brother's arm. 
 
 Athan. {Looking once more mournfully around^ Bles- 
 sings be on my aged father, [Exeunt, 
 
 ScEXE changes to a Part of the Haven. The Vessel is ready 
 to sail. The crew is diligently emploi/ed, and Co^ssvitxa- 
 yo'R'i are running to and fro. A confused Noise is heard 
 on every side. 
 
 Heave the anchor. Unfurl all the sails. The wind is 
 North-East-by-East. Pilot! There they come The whole 
 party is crowding down the hill. Luck be with us ! All is 
 ready. Huzza! Huzza ! 
 
 Enter Benyov?sky, Athanasia, Crustievv, a}id the rest oj 
 the Conspirators. The Governor, exhausted with fug-y, 
 is conducted in chains by a strong guard. Crustiew and
 
 ^Qg cot-NT BENYOWSKY. Act K 
 
 the Conspirators run up and down the deck of the vessel, 
 v,ahing preparations, and giving orders. Benyowsky ap- 
 ' proaches the Governor, zihile Athanasia fearfully re- 
 mains at a distance. 
 
 Be7i. But a few moments are in my power. Do we part 
 
 as friends ? (Governor casts a look of contempt at him, turns 
 
 amy, and gnashes his tecth.y-W^^ it a crnne that I was 
 
 made a prisoner when fighting against Russians? Is it a 
 
 crime that I this day break my cruel fetters ?-(Govcrnor 
 
 is obstinately silent. )-nononv,^ud Iho love of my native 
 
 country, led me to take this step. An oath bound my fate to 
 
 that of my comrades. (Governor returns no ansuer.)l 
 
 left a pregnant wife at home. Old man, what would you 
 
 have dune in my situation ?-(Governor preserves a sullen. 
 
 silence.}-Am I unworthy of a word or look ? Enough . 
 
 Whatancuish and ras^e now condemn, your cooler blood 
 
 xvill palliate to-morrow. Farewel [(Governor, enraged 
 
 leyond all hounds, grasps his chains, andis rusldvgUmurds 
 
 Benvowskv, but is held hack. He espies Athanasia, strikes 
 
 his forehead wiih both hands, and utters loud lamentatwns.) 
 
 Athan.{Runs to him, and falls at his feet.) I'avdon 
 
 mo, my father. 
 
 Oov.iWilh averted face.) Who speaks to me? 
 
 Athan. Your blessing ! 
 
 Gov. My curse pursue thee across the ocean ! II<^ar ii 
 when the tempest rages-Ilcar it in the arms of thy paia 
 mour. Tremble at it, when the lighlniiigs liiss around ihcc 
 and when the sun bhincs, think with horror that it shine 
 upon the grave of thy murdered fatliei murdered by thee 
 When the^thunder roars, may'st thou fancy that thou heai 
 et my curse ; and when a gentle zephyr breathes u])0 
 fhee, mav'st thou fancy it my dying groan. JMay all forsak 
 thee-at ihv last hour, except the image of thy raging fathc 
 made more uhastlv. and more horrible, by tliy feverish fa^
 
 ^'^^ ^- COINT BEXYO'.VSKY. Ogg 
 
 cy. Should'st thou bear children, be the curse of their grand- 
 father their inheritance, and may their inaratitude revenge 
 me on their mother. (Athanasia sinks speechlesH, and almost 
 senseless, into Benyowsky's arms. The Governor is deeply 
 affected.) llexn-Mn with me, my child. My poor deluded 
 chdd, remain with me. I am old and feeb'le. When your 
 mother d.ed, she said, " Do not weep-I leave you Athan- 
 asia." Will you make the words of your dyin- mother 
 false ? In a few weeks, perhaps in a few days, (how soon 
 will they pass !) I shall leave this world, and you will be 
 able to say, " I have fulfilled the command of ' my mother 
 I have closed my father's eyes." 
 
 Ben. (Much agifuicd.JSpare lier. 
 
 Gov. Thou art my only joy, my only consolation. I love 
 thee with a father's tenderness. No paramour will love 
 thee wuh such fondness. Cloyed by possession, he will re- 
 pay thy aftection with disgust, while thy a-ed father re 
 quires no further reward for his blessinc:, tlmn th^ ^entlo 
 pressure of thy hand upon his eyelids when thev wish to 
 close for ever.-Oh, that my hair were not already c.-cy for 
 at this moment it would become so, and such a sicht per- 
 haps might move thee.-(Athanasia altc.pts to use, and 
 ja'.l.i back m a szcoon.) 
 
 Ben. (Deeply ajec fed). Bear cm ! Help .'Take her 
 Bear her away. 
 
 Gov.--(Overpoaered zciLh anguish.J-Count Benyowsky 
 It thou hast any faith in a God, listen to me. I hav-e never 
 injured thee. I have been as kind towards thee as I could 
 Ihou hast robbed me of my rank and honour. Leave mo' 
 my daughter, and 1 still am rich. Count Benyowsky, if ,hou 
 hast any faith in a God, listen to me. Oh, listen to me for 
 the sakeot thy wife, who prays for thy return. How can 
 Heaven grant her prayer, if thou robbest me, a poor old 
 man, ot my only jewel ? Listen to me, and grant my re- 
 queet for % child's sake. What wouldst thou do "with
 
 300 COUNT BENYOWSKY. Act V. 
 
 mine ? See ! She is already dead. Give me, give me the 
 body of my daughter, (Falls on his knees, and raises his 
 trembling hands towards Heaven.) Count Benyowsky I 
 have no words T have no tears but God has lightnings. 
 
 Ben. (7s extremely agitated, a7id lays Athanasia, still in- 
 sensible, in the arms of herfatlicr.) Take her, old man. 
 {Draws out the picture of his wife.) Emilia ! My wife ! 
 To the vessel instantly ! (A confused noise takes place, 
 and all hasten on board.) 
 
 Gov. {Pressing his daughter to his bosom with his left 
 hand, while he stretches forth the other towards the xeisel.) 
 God bless thee, stranger. God bless thee ! 
 
 THE EKD. 
 
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