H i c ~SE= 1 •^ C " ■« 5 iS^sGIr^*^ •MOK^AI^IIEBtr. \'.\ A ^h % .h i.^0$i lli^^l SOCIAL LIFE IN GERMANY. VOL. I. MRS. JAMESON'S WORKS. 1. WINTER STUDIES AND SUMMER RAMBLES IN CANADA. 3 vols. 2. THE LIVES OF CELEBRATED FEMALE SOVE- REIGNS. 2 vols. 2nd Edition. 3. FEMALE CHARACTERS OF SHAKSPEARE'S PLAYS, OR CHARACTERISTICS OF WOMEN. 2 vols. 2nd Edition. 4. VISITS AND SKETCHES AT HOME AND ABROAD. 2 vols. 3rd Edition. " ]Mrs. Jameson is lively, eloquent, and discriminating; she has great quickness of fancy, readiness of illustration, and a sense of what- ever is noble, heroic, and natural ; she speculates upon the character of her sex with singular ease and boldness, and inclines generally to the gentle and affectionate side. We never tire in the company of this intelligent and exuberant lady : when she sees we are weary of her spriglitliness, she tries what her eloquence can do, and when words fail, she begins to scatter ilowers of all hues and odours." — AthencEum. A SOCIAL LIFE IN GERMANY, ILLUSTRATED IN THE ACTED DRAMAS OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS AMELIA OF SAXONY. TRANSLATED FROM THB GERMAN, WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES, EXPLANATORY OF THE GERMAN LANGUAGE AND MANNERS. BY MRS. JAMESON, AUTHOR OF VISITS AND SKETCHES AT HOME AND ABROAD, CHARACTBRISTICS OP WOMEN, WINTER STUDIES AND SUMMER RAMBLES IN CANADA, &C. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON : ^SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, CONDUIT STREET. MDCCCXL. LONDON : raiNTEli BV IBOTSON AND PALMER. SAVDY STREET. I i CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. AN intiio}jl;ctoky sketch ... I^aye vii FALSEHOOD AND TKLTH - - - - 7 THK UNCLE . - . . . \•2^ AN INTEODUCTORY DIALOGUE CONCERNING THESE DRAMAS, THE PRINCESS AME- LIA OF SAXONY, AND A VARIETY OF MATTERS THERETO APPERTAINING. Alda — Medon. MEDON. No ! I remain unconvinced. I still think that translation is not jonr forte: and if it were, I think there are many German works much more in harmony with the English taste, and — I speak it with all respect for your Princess Amelia — better worth translating than these Dramas, which I have not read, 'tis true ; but, whatever Vni INTRODUCTION. be their merit, you would not, I presume, rank them with the first-rate or classical literature of Germany ? ALDA. Assuredly not. MEDON. Nor equal them with many works which have even very lately proceeded from the German press, which, if well translated, as I have heard you assert yourself, would make a rich addition to the mass of thought and information in this country ? ALDA. No : but you must bear in mind the particular purpose I had in view. English readers, English travellers, even English critics, had been, in some degree, interested by the very slight and imperfect sketches of German life and literature scattered through my little books. Now it happened that, when these comedies came under my notice, I was just looking round for some vehicle through INTRODUCTION. IX which I might hope to convey a more detailed and finished picture of the actual state of society in a country which I have learned to love as my own. You will allow that we know little of it, and do not understand what we know, and still less sympathise with what we understand ? MEDON. I allow it ; but why not do what has been so often suggested to you — write a novel, and place the scene in Germany ? You laugh! ALDA. Yes, I laugh at the idea of my writing a novel. I could not do it any more than I could paint a picture. A work of fiction, such as I conceive it ought to be, requires genius, a power of creat- ing and combining, which I have not. " Let not the cobbler go beyond his last !" Leave me my own trade, to work with my own tools and ma- terials, nor tempt me into a career, already crowded with brilliant names, where, not to w^ork up to my own idea of excellence, were to h 5 X INTRODUCTION. me the worst of failures. The study and appre- ciation of character, and motives, and feelings, for which you and others give me credit, would no more enable me to invent a good fiction, than my perception and passionate love of the great and beautiful in art would enable me to paint a fine picture. MEDON. I see ; but since you will try your hand at translating, and with a particular purpose, why not translate some of the exquisite fictions and philosophical novels of the modern German school ? — it presents a wide and fair field for choice both of authors and subjects. ALDA. It does so ; many of these works have singular merit, and contain interesting matter for specu- lation in regard to the direction of the German mind in these days ; but, besides that I would not take upon myself to propagate, through the medium of my own language, sentiments or INTRODUCTION. XI principles which I do not quite approve — views of the sanity of which I could not feel sure,™ none of these works which fell in my way struck me by their aptitude for my purpose. For the style in which they are written our English taste is either not ripe, or, it may be, too ripe — shall I say — even to morbidity ? or they do not reflect, in one graceful and comprehensive picture, the actual state of manners, and the nicer shades of national and individual character : and these were what I required. MEDON. You think these are best represented in the dramatic form? I doubt it. You exclude re- flection, description, analysis : you give us surface merely — results, not causes. ALDA. Yet consider this : In the most celebrated of those narratives, biographies, autobiographies, be they fictitious or otherwise, which portray common life, are not the best portions — those Xn INTRODUCTION. which convey the most direct and lively impres- sion of the truth of character — thrown into the dialogue form, which is good just in proportion as it is dramatic ? MEDON. And it is your deliberate opinion, that these dramas, as pictures of manners and portraits of character, are calculated to please the English taste ? ALDA. I think — I hope — that, for many reasons be- sides their own merit, they will interest some English readers : that they will please the Eng- lish taste generally, is more than doubtful. A ^evf years ago — even five years ago — I would not have ventured to give this translation to the public. MEDON. For fear of the public ? or for fear of critics — such as INTRODUCTION. ALDA. O never mind names ! Even such critics as you allude to, liave changed their tactics of late. The general tone of criticism in England is much elevated and enlarged, even within a very few years. There existed, there still exists, in some degree, one strong distinction between the spirit of German and the spirit of English cri- ticism : the Germans have deep sympathy, honest appreciation for what is most opposite to their own national nature and habits of life, united with a singular degree of nationality and individuality of character. Their very indepen- dence, in this sense, is the cause of their indulgence and universal spirit. The English critics, on the contrary, were long infected with the exclu- sive spirit which, in its excess, we thought so ridiculous in the old French school. Whatever was foreign to our own mode of existence was misunderstood ; whatever was not within the circle of our experience was worthless ; whatever XIV INTRODUCTION. was beyond the customary sphere of our obser- vation and interests, trivial or even vulgar. Has not Werter's Charlotte cutting bread and butter served as a perpetual jest? But all this is pass- ing away. This intolerant and exclusive spirit of criticism would now be contemned and dis- avowed by any newspaper reviewer. Nay, in another half century I should not wonder if Jean Paul became the fashion : — you shake your head? MEDON. ' Not to look forward quite so far, do you not foresee that if the personages of these dramas represent genuine Germans in act and speech ALDA. They will be thought very wn-English ? Ex- actly so. It is because these dramas are so essentially German in spirit and in style, that I have translated them with such close fidelity to INTRODUCTION. XV the spirit, and such an ahnost literal adherence to the style. In -this, as it appears to me, lies their true interest, their real value. MEDON. And, meantime, if it displease the English taste ? ALDA. I make it here not a question of taste, but of curiosity and information. The question, me- thinks, is not how should men and women behave and express themselves in England, but how is daily homely life arrayed in Germany ? what appearance does it put on ? — in what do their manner and modes of expression differ from ours ? And when we have taken this in at one rapid glance, we may reflect on it at leisure — go deeper, and amuse ourselves with tracing to their source the differences and affinities in na- tional manners. And we may also ask how it is, and why it is, that dramas so popular in Germany, so unaffected, so elegant, so refined, would be XVI INTRODUCTION, insufferable, or at least ineffective, on tlie Eng- lish stage ? — a question not speedily nor easily answered ! MEDON. You tell me that these productions are more remarkable for the delineation of character and manner than for effect and situation ; but that which renders them unfit for our theatre may render them better worth perusal. It were difficult to make an English audience sit out, during four or five long acts, the gradual de- velopment of a character ; we require on the stage the mere exhibition of passion and situation ; how certain passions and certain situations act upon individual character and call it forth, is not the question. You will find, generally, in the most successful of our modern plays, a series of striking scenes, instead of a regular well-con- structed plot, cohering in all its parts ; and representations of passions, of which we may say that, like the winds, we know not w^hence they come, nor whither they go. INTRODUCTION. XVll ALDA. But this, as it seems to iiie, is not the fault ol' the public. MEDON. The fault, then, of our dramatists ? ALDA. Hardly theirs, for in the present state of things it appears to me that they are placed under the necessity of writing for certain actors — not for an audience, still less for a public. But, I beseech you, when you read these dramas, let it be without reference to actors or audiences — English tastes, or English manners. Take them as what they are. The Princess Amelia wrote them for the German stage — the German people — her own people : you must not try them by the present state of our English stage. MEDON. It is an experiment — a hazardous one. XVni INTRODUCTION. ALDA. I will abide the issue. Is it very, very unrea- sonable to hope that what has so charmed me in these comedies, their unexceptionable moral tone, their exceeding elegance and unexaggerated truth, their earnestness of purpose, that some- thing, warm from the heart, beyond the flight of eloquence or the play of wit, will charm others too ? And then I wished to give a sample of what has pleased a cultivated people through all grades of society from highest to lowest — even " in these most brisk and giddy-paced times," these days of operas, politics, and vaudevilles ; and then — I had another motive. MEDON. No doubt you had — woman like ! — two or three motives lying perdus behind the ostensible one. ALDA, None which I wish to conceal. The origin of these dramas is so remarkable, that had their INTRODUCTION. XIX merit been less, I think I should still have been tempted to try the new vocation of translator, for the purpose of introducing them to the English public. MEDON. I allow it to be most remarkable, and will confess that it excited my attention and curiosity, before I knew anything of these plays or their writer but from report. Among the signs of the times, and they are many and various ALDA Taking now and then, and here and there, rather startling forms ! MEDON. Not one of the least startling, nor the least hopeful and interesting to a speculative mind, is the appearance of these dramas in a continued series at the German theatres. The preten- sions of princess royal, and of a professed and successful writer for the stage and for the peo- XX INTRODUCTION. pie, assuredly were never before combined in tale or history. There was indeed an Electress of Saxony who composed operas * ALDA. Yes : the grandmother of my Princess Amelia, and a woman of real genius, — a born artist ; but here are pretensions of quite a different order. Here is a princess of one of the proudest and most ancient of the sovereign houses of Europe, the sister of a reigning king, one hedged round from infancy by an almost impassable barrier of court etiquette, and in mind, manners, and appearance, a most feminine and unassuming- creature, who suddenly steps forward in a de- partment of literature the most arduous in itself, the farthest removed from her position in * In alluding to the literary accomplishments of the reigning fa- mily, it should not be omitted that the present King of Saxony, brother of the Princess Amelia, published, when Crown Prince, a work on Botany and Mineralogy ; and that the Princess's younger brother. Prince John, has translated Dante into German verse, of which the first part, containing the Inferno, appeared a few months since, and the second part is, I am informed, on the eve of publica- tion, (1840). INTRODUCTION. XXI society, and her sphere of observation and ex- perience — the drama of actual common life: — grant that till now it is a thing unheard of? MEDON. Granted ! — but grant also, that this princess- playwright may owe some part of her popularity to her very high rank — high enough to dazzle criticism into absolute blindness. ALDA. Possibly ; but she had attained a high degree of popularity before her real name and rank were even surmised. What makes it all yet more piquant, is the fact, that at her own theatre, the court theatre of Dresden, her first drama was rejected, and never performed, till its success at Berlin and Hamburg had given it the stamp of public approbation, — so little was the real authorship suspected. And if you allow the origin of these plays to be at least remarkable, not less remarkable are the means by which the public favour has been Avon and kept. Without XXU INTRODUCTION. the exhibition of romantic incident or tumul- tuous distress ; with little of passion or poetry, without the usual witty surprises and disguises, without any appeal to the passing interests or topics of the day : merely by adhering to the truth of nature, to the affections and events of daily life, and clothing simple, genuine feeling in easy and elegant language, this extraordinary woman has achieved a great triumph for herself and her sex, and has really conferred a benefit on the community, by the moral lessons she has conveyed, the pure sympathies she has awakened through the enchanting vehicle of scenic illusion. MEDON. Do not forget that it is without any such enchanting scenic illusion you are now present- ing these productions to the public ; — on the con- trary, in all the stiffness of a close translation : in short, be not too sanguine in behalf of your Princess. INTRODUCTION. XXlil ALDA. I will not ; yet must I respect her for the good she has done, and think it honour to be the means of making her farther known. In this kind of spiritual influence, however and wherever exercised, be it in a larger or a smaller circle, lies the true vocation, the undisputed emiDire , of the intellectual woman ; not in any of those political powers and privileges which have been demanded for us by eloquent pens and " most sweet voices," but which every woman who has looked long upon life, and well con- sidered her own nature, and the purposes for which she came into the world, would at once abjure, if offered. MEDON. Even though it were true (" and pity it were if true") that " the love of pleasure, and the love of sway," divided between them the whole female heart — the whole female world — still, me- thinks, the possession of any executive j)owers and XXIV INTRODUCTION. privileges would be poor enjoyment, most paltry empire, compared with that which, moving in meekness along your appointed path, you women are called toexercise — I will not say over the world, but in the world, and for the good of society. ALDA, I agree with you. MEDON. And yet you are supposed to be an advocate for the (so called) emancipation of woman? ALDA. It is a phrase which never escaped my pen, nor my lips — unless to ask its meaning ; for it seems to bear a different signification wherever I have heard it in France, Germany, and England. Emancipation from what? — from the high duties to which we are born, or from the virtues on which the whole frame of socHl life may be said to rest, and in which alone there is hope of a better order of things? God forbid! — nay, he INTRODUCTION. XXV has forbidden it by a law not to be gainsaid — stronger than all conventional laws — the law of Nature herself! MEDON. Still, though I dislike the phrase for the ridicu- lous use which has been made of it on all sides — I could wish to see the emancipation of woman from the despotism of opinion, and her mind and conduct under so'me higher guidance than the fear of censure and the fear of shame. Men — that is, shallow and thoughtless men— depend on this early inculcated fear as their best se- curity for the subservience and the moral conduct of woman, and dread to see a loftier principle, a higher responsibility, substituted in its stead. " He for God only — she for God in him," has been often quoted ; it sounds fine ; and for my own part, and speaking as a man, I should not object to the principle, if I could claim for my own sex absolute infallibility, though only so far as regards women : otherwise, that the VOL. I. c XXVI INTRODUCTION. man, erring and responsible, should in any way stand between the woman and her responsibility as an immortal and rational being to the great God of both, seems to me a most profane assumption on the poet's part, though that poet were Milton. Another poet has been more just to you. " Thrice happy she, that is so well assur'd Unto herself, and settled so in heart, That neither will for better be allur'd, Nor feared with worse of anj chance to start ; But, like, a steady ship, doth strongly part The raging waves, and bear her course aright. Ne aught for tempest doth from it depart, Ne aught for fairer weather's false delight. Such self-assurance need not fear the spite Of grudging foes, nor favour seek of friends ; But, in the stay of her own stedfast might. Neither to one nor to the other bends. Most happy she, that so assured doth rest. But he most happy who such one loves best !* ALDA. Most happy — did he but know his bliss ! * Spenser, INTRODUCTION. XXVll MEDON. You smile significantly ; but rest assured, that more men than you are aware of, think on this point as you do — nay, are inclined to carry the principle much farther than you would venture to carry it. ALDA. And thereby do us much mischief. My good friend, I appeal from such advocacy, and from your two poets — from him who saw in us the subservient toy, and him who would have trans- lated us into poetical divinities, to the gospel law : that has emancipated us religiously and morally speaking. Emancipation from such trammels and disabilities, be they legal or con- ventional, as are manifestly injurious — shutting us out from honourable redress where we are oppressed, and from the means of honest subsist- ence where we are destitute — we shall work out for ourselves in due time, or win it from public opinion. Meantime be it permitted to a wo- c 2 XXVIU INTRODUCTION. man hopefully to anticipate, and gently to pro- mote, such a consummation, without being sub- jected to imputations or insinuations, such as make the whole womanly nature shrink back in teiTor and disgust. MEDON. Surely — but meantime take care that you be not misunderstood. To confound together the social duties of the two sexes, is surely a most dano:erous and a most absurd mistake — and this is the point at issue. ALDA. My astonishment is, that it could ever have been mooted : it never had been, were woman in her natural position. MEDON. And what do you call her natural position ? ALDA. She is the helpmate of man. The squaw who INTRODUCTION. XXIX bears her husband's hunting tackle, and cooks his meal, is in her natural position, relatively to the state of society in which she lives. So was Madame Roland, when she acted as her hus- band's secretary, wrote for him, spoke for him, and died for him. MEDON. Then, whatever man may do, woman may do ? ALDA. Can she ? — but it is not a question — she can- not ! — you cannot overcome organic differences. My profession of faith, since you call for it, may be summed up in few words. I believe that men and women were created one in species ; equally rational beings with improvable facul- ties ; equally responsible to God for the use or abuse of the faculties entrusted to them ; equally free to choose the good, and refuse the evil ; equally destined to an equal immortality. MEDON. Ail this I devoutly believe. XXX INTRODUCTION. ALDA. Well then, this being granted, I do not see that the divine gospel law under which we live makes any distinction in the amount of virtue, purity of heart and person, and self-control required in the two sexes. Do you admit this ? MEDON. I must admit it : {aside) in theory ! ALDA, Then, as a consequence, will you not admit that any merely conventional law which permits or creates inequality in this respect, must be productive of gross injustice and mutual depra- vation ; and that if woman could resist it — she were right to do so ? MEDON. If she could INTRODUCTION. XXXI ALDA. She icould, believe ine ! But to proceed : this christian principle of the moral equality of the two sexes being fully recognised, then it appears to me that the ordering of domestic life is our sacred province, indissolubly linked with the pri- vileges and pleasures as well as the pains and duties of maternity ; that it is our vocation, in the real and in the figurative sense, to keep the fire burning pure and clear on the domestic hearth ; and that the exclusive management of the execu- tive affairs of the community at large belongs to men, as the natural result of their exemption from those duties and infirmities which the ma- ternal organisation has entailed on the female half of the creation. MEDON. Your theory, like that of the writer of " Wo- man's Mission," supposes all women to be mothers, or to have a home — and this is not the fact. XXXll INTRODUCTION. ALDA. That it is not the fact, is a consideration which would lead us to the source of many contradic- tions and disorders. But you have had my theory ; the practical part of the question would lead us too far at present — another time — MEDON. Wlien you please : meantime return we to your Princess. The salique law, I believe, pre- vails in the Saxon constitution,* and the Princess Amelia, the eldest daughter of her father's house, had she been the sole daughter of her father's house, could never have sat on the throne of her ancestors ; but what a far higher and more ex- tended empire is hers 1 ALDA. Yes — it is the enchanter's wand compared to the constable's staff. * The law of succession in Saxony does not absolutely exclude a female sovereign, but no female can succeed as long as there is a male heir of either line (the Albertine or Ernestine) surviving. INTRODUCTION. XXXHl MEDON. But what upon earth put it into the head of a princess to write plays ? ALDA. A question to be asked ! MEDON. And not to be answered ? ALDA. I am not sure that I can answer it satisfac- torily, and mere conjecture were here imperti- nence. The few particulars I learned from her Royal Highness herself, and gathered from other trust-worthy sources, you shall have. To begin at the beginning ; — the Princess Amelia, or, ac- cording to the veracious Almanac de Gotha, Amelia-Maria-Frederica-Augusta, Duchess and Princess of Saxony, was born in 1794. Her father Prince Maximilian, was the youngest of tlie three sons of the Elector Frederic Christian. c 5 XXXIV I^TTRODUCTION, His eldest brother, Frederic-Augustus, elec- tor, and, in 1806, king, ruled Saxony for sixty- four years, from 1763 to 1827. His fate and for- tunes were so mingled with the history of Napo- leon, and with all the great political vicissitudes springing out of the revolutionary war, that I pre- sume you know a great deal more about him than I do — not pluming myself on the extent of my historical and chronological lore. He appears to have been in some respects an admirable prince, and remembered with gratitude for the improve- ments he made in the laws and finances of his country. MEDON. I have always admired Frederic Augustus for the stanch fidelity with which, having once allied himself vvith Napoleon, he adhered to him through good and evil fortune, almost to the last moment of his political existence — at least, until absolved from all bond of obligation by Napoleon himself after the battle of Leipzic. INTRODUCTIO.N. ALDA. He seems to have had a sound and a true heart within him, towards his peojile and towards his friends : to him, I believe, belongs the credit of having founded the present commercial prosperity of Saxony. His youngest brother, Prince Max, the father of our Princess Amelia, does not appear to have mingled much in politics, but to have been deeply attached to his brother, whose fortunes he shared and followed. He was described to me as a most amiable and accomplished man, and happy in his union with Caroline, Princess of Parma, with whom he lived a retired and do- mestic life, in the bosom of his family. His wife- died in 1804, leaving several children. The Princess Amelia, then ten years old, was educated by her two aunts, the Queen Maria Amelia and the Princess Maria Theresa,* wife of her uncle Antony, both distinguished Avomen. The etiquette of the court of Saxony Avas exceedingly minute and severe. The princesses were brought up in * T)aii[;hter of the Emperor Leopold II. XXXVl INTRODUCTION. strict seclusion. " Their foot," as tlie song says, " might never touch the ground ;" and I have heard that one of them, when these punctilious disabilities v, ere removed, made it her first request to he allowed to cross on foot the beautiful bridge over the Elbe on which she had looked daily from her palace window for twenty years of her life. Had the old order of things gone on in the old orderly way, I cannot conceive the possibility of a Saxon princess becoming a writer for the pub- lic stage : but the world-convulsion had begun before the birth of the Princess Amelia, and, by the time she was twelve years old, it had shaken to their very foundations the thrones, powers, and princedoms of Germany. Old grandeurs sat lamenting, and cut but a sorry figure, and old forms became as old rags. MEDON. And what is more, all the patching and be- dizening they have had since, does not seem to have entirely restored them to public respect. INTRODUCTION. XXXVll ALDA. From this time till 1815, the Princess Amelia shared in all the vicissitudes of her family : saw her uncle-king twice exiled from his estates, and twice restored, a prisoner — and again on his throne ; and during these chances, and changes and reverses, which occurred during the most momentous period of a woman's life, from the age of twelve to that of three-and-twenty, what Amelia of Saxony, with all her good and rare gifts of nature, her quick perceptions and quick sympathies, might be feeling and thinking and suffering and learning, we have no means of ascertaining ; only the result is before us, and it is most remarkable. Would not any one have imagined that the tremendous drama played before her eyes, the sound of battle-thunder in her ears, would have given a high poetical turn to her mind — inspired gorgeous themes of tragedy, wondrous and pitiful ? A kingdom for a stage—princes to act, And monarchs to behold the swelling scene ? XXXVlll INTRODUCTION. No such thing ! Borne on the surface of that great wave which had wrecked and overwhelmed empires, she was floated, as it were, into quite another hemisphere — the new world of real and popular life ; awakening far more curiosity, sym- pathy, and interest, than the game of war and ambition played by her equals around her. What opportunities were granted to study variety of scenes and variety of characters — " to grapple with real nature" — to extend on every side her sjDhere of observation, at an age when the fresh youthful mind v/as warm to every impression, were not then lost — were, on the contrary, put to most profitable use, though, perhaps, uncon- sciously. From their retreat at Prague, she re- turned with her family, in 1815, to inhabit the palace of her ancestors at Dresden — a very dif- ferent being, I imagine, from what she would have been had she never left it ; yet — no, I cor- rect myself — not different in being, but different in wwMng. The nature would have been there — the power ; but would it ever have received the current stamp of authenticity, which only act 1 1 I i INTRODUCTION. XXXIX and performance could give it? — that is the point. MEDON. And a very doubtful point ! If " many a gem of purest ray serene" lie hidden in dark unfathom- able depths of poverty and misery, many a flov^^er, born to diffuse fragrance and blessedness through God's world, droops faint, or runs rank in the confined atmosphere of a court, or in some simi- lar hotbed, where light and heat (which are truth and love) are admitted by measure. It were to be wished that the two extremes of so- ciety could be a little more just to each other ; while you shall hear the vulgar great wondering and speculating over genius and refinement in a Ploughman Poet and a Corn Law Rhymer, you shall see the vulgar little, incredulous of the human sympathies, the tender yearnings, the brilliant though often unemployed capa- cities of those lifted above their sordid wants and cares : yet are they all one brotherhood and sisterhood : ay, " one touch of nature makes the -^1 INTRODUCTION. whole world kin !" Many a genius rests mute and inglorious within a trophied vault as well as in a village churchyard, equally stifled and smothered up by impediments and obstructions infinite. I should adore your Princess Amelia, if it were only for giving us a proof of this great truth. How came this Princess, for example, to be the first of her sex who stepped forth from the recesses of her palace to be judged by her people at the common bar of public criticism ? In others of her class, the same or some correspond- ing power may have existed ; but where got she the courage to manifest it in a country still under the influence of the old system of eti- quettes and usages ? Would she have had this courage, think you, while her uncle Frederic Augustus lived ? ALDA. If my impression of his character be just, he would never have permitted such an infraction of all royal rule of right, and she would never have disobeyed liira. Her two brothers, the INTRODUCTION. xli present king and the accomplislied and li- beral-minded Prince Jolm, have grown ii]> under a different order of things : to their sister's literary efforts they have not only given their sanction, but their approving sym- pathy also. After the restoration of the royal family, the Princess Amelia accompanied her father. Prince Max, to Italy, one of her younger sisters, the Princess Maria, having married in 1817 the present Grand Duke Leopold of Tus- cany, and another of her sisters, the Princess Louisa, having married his father, the late Grand Duke Ferdinand of Tuscany, in 1821 ; in 1819, her younger sister, Josepha, married Ferdinand VI L of Spain. It was said that Ferdinand had first offered his hand to the Princess Amelia, and that she declined it, as she has invariably re- jected every proposal of the same kind. She paid a visit to her sister in Spain, in company with her father, in 1824, and remained there some months. She also visited France, but was never, I believe, in England. In 1827, her uncle, King- Frederic Augustus, died, leaving a daughter only. xlli INTRODUCTION, (the Princess Augusta,) and was succeeded hy his brother Anthony, a good-natured but weak and superstitious old man, who had no children, and was exceedingly attached to the Princess Amelia. I have been told that the manner in which she used her influence over him endeared her not only to the court, but to the people. Then, in 1830, occurred the revolution which changed the government of Saxony from a des- potism to a limited monarchy, with an upper and lower house of assembly : at the same time, Prince Max, the next heir, resigned his claims in favour of his son, Frederic, who took the reins of government with the title of Crown Prince and Co-regent of Saxony. King Anthony died in 1836. Good old Prince Max, whose health had long been failing, lived from this time in complete seclusion, and we hear no more of him till his death, which occurred about two years since. These circumstances, already well known to you, I have thrown together briefly, and under one point of view, that you might form a picture INTRODUCTION. xliii in your own mind of the relation in which Prin- cess Amelia stood to the events and personages around her — the circle in which she moved, lived, and worked, silently, as it should seem, for a long while at least. To all appearance, she was passing her time much as usual, dividing her year between Dresden and the beautiful sum- mer palace of Pillnitz on the banks of the Elbe ; — when, in 1833, she sent her drama of " Llige und Wahrheit," (Falsehood and Truth,) to the principal theatre (the Hof- Theatre) at Berlin, under the name of Amelia Heiter. Not the slightest suspicion seems to have been entertained of the real name and rank of the authoress, and it remained unnoticed till February 1834. On the birthday of the young Princess of Meck- lenberg, (a daughter of the king of Prus- sia,) it was got up at the private theatre of the Prinzessinnen-Pallast, apparently because they had nothing else ready for the occasion ; it pleased a royal and courtly audience, was im- mediately produced publicly at the Hof Theatre at Berlin with complete success, and soon after- xliv IXTRODUCTIOX. wards upon every stage in Germany. I have translated it, not because it is by any means one of the best of the Princess's plays, but being the first, and one of the most generally-popular, it shows what could excite so much attention at that time. It is very elegantly conceived and written, yet I am afraid that when you read it, you will say, as poor Marie Antoinette said of one of Florian's novels : " II me semble que je mange de la soupe-au-lait !" MEDON. And is it possible that, without any striking- novelty or merit, and the name of the authoress as yet unknown, its appearance formed an epoch in the history of the German stage ? — for, as I have heard, this was really the case. ALDA. There is exaggeration in this view of the matter, but some truth also. Not this first play, but the four or five dramas which succeeded each other rapidly within the space of two years, may INTRODUCTION. xlv be said, from the effect they produced, to form a sort of epoch ; and to understand this, it is ne- cessary to go back to the period at which they first appeared. The German stage was then in a miserable state, overrun (like our own) with versions of Scribe and adaptations of French vaudevilles, French melodramatic horrors, imi- tated from Victor Hugo and Damas, and French operas of Auber, and nowhere so completely Frenchified as at Berlin. MEDON. As if the national drama of Germany was des- tined to sink again into the abyss from which it had but so lately emerged, and one short half century, were to witness its rise, its transcendent grandeur, and its decay ! It is curious, that at the time when France and England both pos- sessed a national theatre and national dramatists, Germany should have had neither the one nor the other. I have read somewhere, that the first dramatic representations were solemn, bombastic translations, or rather caricatures of the French xlvi IKTRODUCTION. tragedy of Louis the Fourteentli's time. When was it that the Hanswurst, the clown, or Vice of the old barbarous comedy, till then the indis- pensable accompaniment to all stage entertain- ments, was burned in effigy by a procession of poets and actors at Leipsig ? ALDA. Somewhere about 1760, at the very time when Garrick was playing Lear and Othello, and Ranger and Don Felix, to English audi- ences ! there was a woman, Johanna Neuber, at this period manager and director of the best theatrical company in Germany, who assisted at this ceremony, in conjunction with Gotts- ched and Lessing, and had very considerable influence in introducing a higher tone and more natural taste into the dramatic exhibitions of her time ; but, as yet, anything like a national drama did not exist ; it began with Lessing, who first turned the attention of his countrymen from the stilted productions of the French school of tragedy to the great creations of Shakspeare. INTRODUCTION. xlvii MEDON. And this despite old Frederic the Great and liis ally Voltaire ! If at this time Frederic could have put an extinguisher on Shakspeare, and snuffed out Goethe, he would. The very language of Germany, as a vehicle of literature, was then held in profoundest contempt. ALDA. An old lady who had lived in the court of Frederic the Great, told me that she well re- collected being invited to a soiree given by Prince Henry of Prussia, who had been with infinite difficulty persuaded to allow a transla- tion of Voltaire's Mahomet into German verse to be read aloud. The translation was by a young poet of the name of Goethe, and she humor- ously imitated the contemptuous impatience of Prince Henry, and the air with which he took snuff and pronounced it " Not so very bad !" But our argument is not now the grand tragic and classical drama of Germany, her Goethes, xlviii IICTIJODUCTION. Schillers, &c. ; but what is termed the Biirger- liche, or domestic drama, of which Lessing gave the first example, and which was carried to the highest degree of excellence by Schroder and Iffland. Those who would form a correct idea of the manners and habits of German social life, towards the close of the last and the beginning of the present century, should read the works of Iffland. They present a gallery of portraits from the life ; and though now old-fashioned in point of costume and character, and voted ennuy- cux to the highest degree, a few keep possession of the stage, and are occasionally given. These Familien-Gem'dlde {family pictures) became the , rage ; the facility and invention and 23opularity ofKotzebue assisted in keeping up the fashion, which degenerated into the most vapid washy sentiment, and infected at one time both the French and English stage. But this, too, wore Itself out, and produced a reaction of a strange kind ; the rage was then for Fate tragedies, {Schicksal Tragodie,) such as Grillparzer's Ahnfrau, and Milliner's Sckuld, gloomy, ro- INTRODUCTION. xlix mantic, supernatural, and unnatural. " Ger- many," as Carlyle says so quaintly, " liad its fate-dramatists, just as we have our gingham- weavers and inkle- weavers." Nay, this fate- machinery descended even to homely life, and the stage exhibited millers' daughters, farmers' wives, and gamekeepers' sons, victims, like the race of Atreus, to a dark o'erruling destiny. As for the Biirgerliche comedy, it had almost ceased to exist : and instead of it the " Wienerstucke," (Vienna pieces,) for so the Germans call the romantic and grotesque allegories (admirable in their way) of Ferdinand Raimund, were played from one end of Germany to the other, alter- nately with operas, French vaudevilles, and " Ritterstiicke," or chivalry pieces. MEDON, If such was the state of things when the Princess Amelia produced her first drama, no wonder that even soupe-au-lait was felt as some relief. VOL. I. d INTRODUCTION, ALDA. Writers who had been popular, even most deservedly popular, had, by adapting themselves to the taste of the public, lowered themselves in the opinion of the public — a natural consequence ! I will just mention two or three writers for the people who were in possession of the German staae at the time when the Princess Amelia began her dramatic career. There was Bau- pach, one of the most prolific of playwrights, chiefly known, however, as a manufacturer of his- torical tragedies in a sort of wholesale fashion ;* but also the author of some very popular comedies and farces, good in their way, and German, too, in spirit and character. Johanna von Weissenthurm of Vienna, formerly an ac- tress, has been for many years a popular writer for the theatre. Her works fill twelve or four- * Dr. Raupach has written the whole history of the Hohen- stauffen Dynasty in a series of tragedies, filling eight volumes. His dramatic works altogether fill twenty-two volumes. INTRODUCTION. H teen, volumes, and some of them are what we call stock-pieces — keeping possession of the pub- lic favour : they seem, however, rather remark- able for easy and elegant dialogue and lively plot, than for variety and discrimination of cha- racter. Another lady, Charlotte Birch-Pfeiffer, I found popular as a writer of Effect- St'dcke (pieces of effect) for the people. She is not remarkable for her literary pretensions, nor for knowledge of character or originality of inven- tion ; but for knowledge of stage effect, and a power of seizing on the popular imagina- tion, almost unrivalled. In this style was her drama of " Giittenberg," where she gave, in a series of tableaux, the life and fortunes of the famous inventor of printing. This drama, stuffed full of love, piety, and protestantism, had a great run, as it is called, in Germany. I saw it frequently, and if ennuyee to death by the piece itself, I was always interested by the interest it excited. I remember seeing it well performed at Dresden, where, I pray you to observe, the d 2 lii INTRODUCTION. theatre belongs to the court, and the court is Roman Catholic. MEDON. Yet Saxony is Protestant surely, though I do not exactly recollect what proportion the Roman Catholics bear to the Protestants in that country ; I believe it is very small. ALDA. When I was last in Saxony, the census gave, in round numbers, a population of one million five hundred thousand Protestants, and fifty thousand Catholics. In truth, the present state of Saxony, with regard to church arrangements, must appear, especially at this time, almost in- comprehensible, if not absolutely incredible to many well-meaning people of our own country. From the period when the Saxon princes were the distinguished proselytes and protectors of Luther, the electoral family professed the reformed faith until the reign of Augustus II. That profligate INTRODUCTION. Hii monarch, as you may remember, turned Roman Catholic in order to obtain the crown of Poland ; but it was so well understood to be a mere poli- tical expedient, that his Saxon subjects took it very quietly ; and his eldest son was educated a Protestant, (for which our Queen Anne wrote the Elector a letter of compliments and thanks ;) but the young prince returned from his tour in Italy a zealous Catholic, and the reigning family have ever since held the same faith.* This anomalous state of things has now lasted more than a century without t)ie least jealousy, or any disturbance whatever, on account of religion, between the princes and the people. The royal family is Catholic; the court mostly Catholic ; the government and ministry Protestant ; the nation Protestant, and proud that their country was the birthplace of Luther, the cradle of the reformed faith ; but not the less affectionately attached to their princes — nay, justly proud of them, as being- distinguished by unblemished moral character, * The three branches of the elder Saxon line, Saxe Weimar, Saxe Coburg, and Saxe Meiningen, remain stanch Protestants. liv INTRODUCTION. liberal, enlightened patriotism, and general ac- complishments, among the reigning houses of Europe. When I saw the play of Giittenberg at Dresden, old King Anthony was, of course, absent from his usual seat in the front of the royal box. He might have been, for aught 1 know, and for aught his subjects seemed to care, telling his beads in his Roman Catholic chapel, while the audience, open-mouthed, were listening to the most passionate appeals to their Protestant feelings, and the most exaggerated pictures of papal turpitude. Madame Birch- PfeifFer has represented the German artisan and mechanic as a kind of religious martyr and missionary, as having invented printing solely as a means of propagating the scriptures among the poor and ignorant, consequently persecuted by hard-hearted priests, and protected by tender women. I do not clearly recollect either plot or catastrophe, but in the last scene Giittenberg comes forward to the very stage-lights, with a large Bible in his hand, and makes a speech, which, if delivered in a church instead of a profane theatre, INTRODUCTION. Iv would have been called a sermon, and produced, I think, quite the same effect, if one might trust to the solemn, serious, and well-satisfied looks of the audience. Bauernfeld of Vienna (he will not thank me for naming him after the Birch- Pfeiffer) is a writer of light and elegant comedy, who takes a high rank in Germany I have seen some charming pieces of his ; but he, dis- couraged by the tracasseries of the Burg- Theatre, and unable to give full scope to his real genius, seemed at this time to have resigned himself to write for the day, and for the powers that be. To give you an idea of the rank assigned to the Princess among the dramatic authors of the time, that is, about two years after the appearance of her first drama, I shall read you, in English, a sample of contemporary criticism. I know not the name of the writer, but he is evidently a man of talent, belonging, as I suppose from the general tenor of his book, to the ultra-liberals of Germany — a very radical, if not one of the Junge-Deutschland ; and so far from being inclined to pay homage to the IVl INTRODUCTION. authoress on account of her lofty rank, he does not even name her by her conventional title. Here is the passage. After deploring the state of the German stage, as given over to " a sick Melpomene and a melancholy Thalia," he pro- ceeds to describe what the genuine familiar comedy ought to be, as a reflection of the prevail- ing tone of manners and of general civilisation, as well as a portraiture of individual character ; in short, as the representation of man in a threefold point of view ; as the sentient being ; as the reasoning being ; and as the civilised social being, having relation to other feeling, reasoning, social beings like himself; — he then goes on, " It is here that Bauernfeld, Amelia of Saxony, and Blum (of Berlin,) all three formed on the model of elegant French comedy, but all inspired by a true German spirit, have gathered their laurels. They are the only poets of the modern German stage who have represented character under this three- fold point of view, and have given us genuine hu- man beings, not mere theatrical machines. ( Cou- lissenwesen is the German word.) These poets re- INTRODUCTION. Ivii semble each other in this particular only, and in all others stand distinctly contrasted. Amelia of Saxony has more invention, more heart and soul, than Bauernfeld and Blum : strange to say, she has so completely seized the very spirit of po^auiar and familiar life, that every, even the slightest word, is fraught with significance, and has a be- neficent influence on the mind and feelings. {Wohlth'dtig auf die Seele wirkt.) Blum has more genius than Bauernfeld ; the latter is more of an artist ;" — and so on. MEDON. This is all very well — and, confess it — very Ger- man : fancy one of our fashionable playwrights — writers — I beg their pardon ! ~- sitting down to consider man in his threefold capacity, or any capacity whatever ! — passons par-Id —and go on, for heaven's sake ! Methinks you are " drawing out the thread of your discourse finer than the staple of your argument." I am quite ready to believe in the popularity of your Princess without fur- ther evidence. I still have to learn how she d 5 Iviii INTRODUCTION. obtained it — what she has done — how she has done it. ALDA. Well then, to take things in order, we must go back to her first acted production — " False- hood and Truth." She gave in the same year, 1 834, her second, " Die Braut aus der Residenz," (the Bride from Town) : the most comic of all her plays — pure, genuine, German humour — touching the heart, while it shook one's sides with laughter. The character of Jacob Wehringer, as a portrait from common life, is admirably and — considering the hand that drew it — wonderfully true. Her next was the " Verlobungs-Ring," (the Bridal Ring,) played at Berlin, early in the next year, 1835. This comedy belongs to the style called in Germany i^amiZiew- Gem'dlde, (Family Pictures,) and Conversation-pieces. A young girl is betrothed {verloht) to an amiable and sensible man, her father's choice, but fancies herself in love with a sentimental cousin, who threatens to shoot himself for her sake, et cetera : the be- INTRODUCTION. Hx tro tiled lover g-enerously resigns his pretensions to the younger inamorato ; and the discovery of the frivolity and unworthiness of the latter, and the return of Francisca's heart to her first affec- tion, form the very slight plot of this very pretty little drama, which charms by the spirited truth of the characters, and the terseness and elegance of the dialogue. Soon afterwards she gave Die Fiirstenbraut, (the Princely Bride,) played for the first time at Dresden. I have translated this comedy in pre- ference to others more generally popular, for rea- sons which shall be given in proper time and place.* It has not been frequently played in Germany, but I recollect Mr. Charles Kemble, whose judgment is worth something in these matters, mentioned it to me as one of the most exquisite things in its way that he had ever seen on the stage. In the same year she produced " Der Oheim," (the Uncle,) which many consider as her masterpiece, and which is unquestionably the most * See the introductory Remarks to the Princely Bride. Vol. i. p. 151. INTRODUCTION. universally popular of all her dramas : it was performed for the first time at Berlin, Emile Devrient personating the principal character ; and immediately afterwards on every stage, from one end of Germany to the other ; everywhere it was received with the most cordial approbation ; nay, a pamphlet appeared containing an elaborate critical analysis of its character and merits — (which said pamphlet I have never seen ;) and it has also been performed in an Italian transla- tion at Florence. What amused me particularly, and pleased me too, was the enthusiasm which the character of the Doctor excited among the women — the young women especially. I am afraid, that to young Englishwomen, the good Dr. Lowe, with his dried butterflies, his unfashionable coat, and the " grave of his Marie," would ap- pear, as a lover, not so irresistible as irresistibly ridiculous. It may, however, remind you of what Segur said, truly enough, of the German women generally, that " they have more sagacity in dis- covering the qualities of the heart, than acute- ness in discerning those of the head ;" or, as I INTRODUCTION. Ixi should rather express it, they are more suscep- tible of impressions conveyed through the medium of sentiment and association, than easily affected by external advantages or disad- vantages of person, dress, or manner, and much less under the influence of conventional caprice, or ridicule, than we are. MEDON. They are to be congratulated 1 ALDA. You say that with such a look, as if it might be taken in two senses, and cut both ways — but I will not so understand it : they are to be con- gratulated. Well, the rapidity with which these dramas succeeded each other, is not the least remarkable thing about them. People were still in all the enthusiasm excited by " Der Olieim," when she produced, early in 1836, one of her most tinished dramas, " Der Landwirth," (The Farmer.) It was performed for the first time at Dresden, and Eniile Devrient played the Ixii INTRODUCTION. beautiful part of Rudolph to admiration. In the public estimation, this play ranks next to " The Uncle," but as far as my individual taste is con- cerned, I should give it the preference over all. The simplicity yet originality of the plot, the spirit and grace of the dialogue, the humour of some of the situations, the finely imagined cha- racter of Rudolph, the impressive scene in which he burns the paper which contains the evidence of his birthright, struck me so much, that I forthwith translated it freely, and not without a view to the English stage,* for which some good judges pronounced it " too elegant ;" others were of opinion that " we had no actor to whom the character of Rudolph could be entrusted." Of its pretensions you may judge yourself, as you will find it at the end of the second volume, under the title of " The Country Cousin." At Weimar, very soon after, appeared the elegant comedy of " Der Zogling," literally " The * This drama was in the hands of Mr. Macready during the months of April, May, June, 1839, and then politely returned, as he was about to give up the management of tlie theatre. INTRODUCTION. Ixiii Pupil," wliicli I have translated under the title of " The Young Ward," as more accurately ex- pressing the meaning of the German word in this particular instance. I was at Weimar at the time, and had the pleasure of witnessing the complete success of this beautiful tableau cle so- cittt. It was about this period, as I recollect, that the real authorship of these dramas began to be talked of: there was, indeed, one circum- stance, rather interesting in itself, which ren- dered it difficult to keep up the incognita for any length of time. Most of these dramas, be- fore they were given to the public, were per- formed in the private theatre of the country palace at Pillnitz. I met with several persons who had witnessed these representations, who informed me that the Princess Amelia was herself the original Countess in the " Pupil," and her brother, Prince John, so distinguished in the political history of his country, the ori- ginal Rudolph of the " Country Cousin." At Berlin, in the same year, she gave " Das Frau- lein vom Lande," (the Country Girl,) which I Ixiv INTRODUCTION. never saw, but have been told it is a sort of pendant to the " Landwirth," " Der Unent- schlossene" (the Irresokite Man) was performed at Dresden in the course of the same year. It is a piece of portrait painting, and written, I suspect, for Emile Devrient, whose artist-like impersonation must have assisted in giving it popularity. The nervous irresolution of the hero ajDpears a physical as well as a moral de- fect, and the amusement it excites is mingled with pity. The plot of this play is slight, but it contains some admirable touches of naivete and humour. " Vetter Heinrich" (Cousin Henry) was played at Berlin in 1837. This drama belongs to the class of Familien- Gemdlde, (Family Pictures,) and the story is simple enough. Agnes, the daughter of a rich manufacturer, is intended by her father to marry her " cousin Henry," the traveller, orcom- mis voyageiir of the firm. Meantime she visits the capital (die Residenz) with a foolish novel-read- ing old aunt, and there becomes acquainted witli a gambling adventurer, with whom she fancies INTRODUCTION. IxV herself very much in love, and consequently gets into all manner of scrapes, from which she is extricated by her true-hearted but unpolished cousin. The rough simplicity and generosity of " Vetter Heinrich," aided by a happy accident, put to rout the intrigues of the adventurer, and restore Agnes to her sober senses. There is con- siderable humour in this play, and the characters are very distinctly and firmly drawn. In the same year she gave at Berlin " Der Pflegevater," (the Foster-father,) which I have not met with. " Der Majorats-erbe" was the next : it was played at Berlin early in 1838. In Ger- many, where the law of primogenture is most strictly enforced, the heir to the title and estates of a noble family is the " Majorats-erbe.* This drama I should like to have translated, as a pic- ture of manners peculiarly German : but I had already exceeded the bounds to which, with a due regard to the patience of my readers, I had • The " Majorat," in the German law, is not exactly the right of primogeniture, but a particular species of entail, of which I am not learned enough to give an exact explanation. Ixvi INTRODUCTION. resolved to confine myself. The characters in this piece are well imagined : we have two young men of noble family, first cousins ; hut Count Edmond, as the representative of the family dig- nities, has lands, power, and immense wealth ; Count Leo has no resource but poverty, celi- bacy, and the cross of Malta. The manner in which this difference of position acts on the characters of the two young relatives, whose natural gifts are not unequal, is well deli- neated. Edmond, brought up in luxury, and with a high opinion of his own consequence, is indolent, half educated, a victim of ennui, but with generous and noble qualities of head and heart, which only require to be roused to action. Leo, with faculties sharpened by poverty, feel- ings embittered by his false position, clever, satirical, and hypocritical, at once envies and despises his cousin, whom he flatters before his face, and ridicules behind his back. Count Edmond is engaged to marry a spirited, accom- plished girl of his own rank in life, the Countess Bertha, who is at first thoroughly disgusted by INTRODUCTION. Ixvii the self-sufficient airs and indolence of her affi- anced bridegroom ; but as the action of the play proceeds, and by a thousand little delicate touches in conversation, the real character of the two cousins is gradually developed before her, she becomes first interested, then captivated, I)y Edmond's almost unconscious magnanimity, and employs the influence she gains over his heart, to rouse him to energy and usefulness. MEDON. This is like the character of Lord Glenthoin in Miss Edgeworth's " Ennui." ALDA. Not unlike ; but whether imitated or not, it is very happily and delicately drawn. The help- lessness, and the insolent pretensions of the ele- gant and not ungenerous egotist, are made inte- resting as well as laughable ; a sort of pathos is mixed up with the ridicule, which proves how closely the writer had studied the nicer shades of character. The next drama from her fertile pen Ixviii INTRODUCTION. was " Die Unbelesene," {i. e. " the woman who has read no books") In this piece,as in many others, the story is merely the development of a particular individuality. The portrait is that of a young girl, designedly brought up in total ignorance both of the world and of books. She is sur- rounded by a group of selfish plotters, each car- rying on some particular intrigue, of which she is the object or intended victim. Without any perception of her true position — without any suspicion of the treachery by which she is sur- rounded — without any counter-contrivance — she escapes them all by mere straightforward sim- plicity and integrity ; nay, by the very igno- rance in which she has been educated as a means of subjecting her, she, in a series of humorous scenes, puts the schemers, one after another, en deroute. MEDON. But this is Wycherly's " Country Girl " over again. INTRODUCTION, Ixix ALDA, No, most unlike ; for Sophie lias neither wit, nor cunning, nor coquetry, to come in aid of her ignorance; it is the triumph of -genuine truth and purity of heart instinctively putting aside the false and the evil, rather than resisting or overcoming them. This play reads well ; but, un- less supported by good acting, it is rather ineffec- tive on the stage. I should imagine it was in- tended by the authoress as a pendant to her first piece, " Falsehood and Truth." Since I left Germany, two others have appear- ed ; but whether the Princess has exhausted her comic vein, or the public begin to weary of so many pieces in the same style, the success has not been brilliant, as far as I can learn. MEDON. Why, one may have too much of a good thing and soupe-au-lait has had its day. Don't look so comically angry ! IXX INTRODUCTION. ALDA. I am angry with myself for having suggested that ridiculous phrase — which is most unjust besides. MEDON. Then, fairly and honestly speaking— and edi- torial and other partiality set aside — what rank would you assign to these royal dramas in point of intrinsic and literary excellence ? I will allow them to be on some accounts remarkable, but are they anything else ? ALDA. Unquestionably they are ; taken altogether, they bear a certain stamp of original power, the stamp of the individual mind which produced them. I regard the Princess Amelia as a woman of genius, and genius of no common kind. I have heard critics, in fully admitting this, regret that her genius had not thrown itself forth in forms less trivial, more durable, than the mere INTRODUCTION. Ixxi reflex of certain aspects of society, in themselves transient. I do not share this regret : she has given much unreproved pleasure, earned much gratitude. Her dramas are of unequal merit, as literary works, but we may be assured that they are the productions of a clear-sighted, noble- minded, truth-loving woman : the best of them I could not read or see without a glow of admira- tion for, and sympathy with, the writer ; the tone of feeling is throughout so healthy, the satire so good-humoured, the pictures of man- ner so true to the life. There is a total absence of poetical colouring in the structure and style of her plays, which, of course, places her out of all comparison with such a writer as our own Joanna Baillie. The moving accident is not her trade, To freeze the blood she hath no ready arts ; ]>ut a most keen and delicate perception of cha- racter, and, if not wit, humour — genuine German humour ; a style exceedingly clear, elegant, vigo- rous, and in the highest degree dramatic — these Ixxii IKTRODUCTIOX. she has. Her dramas bear the same relation to the classical and romantic drama that the novels of Jane Austen bear to those of Walter Scott ; and have, indeed, the same sort of merit — that of delicate and refined portraiture, rather than strik- ing incident or romantic passion. When I am told that such dramas as those of the Princess Amelia, which have pleased a whole people, and that too a reflective and intelligent people, are too refined for our stage, that no process of adap- tation could render them endurable to an English audience, I admit the truth — but I must also regret it. MEDON. And yet you would not place our theatres under such influences as those which direct the theatres of Germany, where almost every stage is attached to a little court, trembling at the slightest breach of hienseance and etiquette, and subjected to a censure ridiculous and vexatious beyond belief? You would not make our na- INTRODUCTION. IxxiU tional stage a school for girls of fifteen — " all mirth and innocence — all milk and water ?" ALDA. Most assuredly not ; for what then would be- come of the mightiest among us, who spoke out of the heart of man to man ! — But why must mirth and innocence be necessarily milk and water ? — why must our dramatic amusements ap- peal only to the coarser and more excitable per- ceptions of our nature ? Is it not a common, oft- reijeated observation, that delicate touches of nature and character, which are at once seized and appreciated by a French or a German par- terre, are utterly thrown away upon the duller palate of an English public ? and is not this want of refined discernment, of all susceptibility to the merely graceful and intellectual, referable to the nature of the entertainment placed before them ? MEDON. O much-abused English public ! You take it for VOL. I. e Ixxiv INTRODUCTION. g-ranted, then, that the reproach is true ? When was there ever anything really excellent placed before the jjuhlic, which was not understood and appreciated sooner or later? I could indeed wish to see less forbearance towards what is gross arid common-place, and if not bad, at least most unsatisfactory : but I believe in the people's discernment of what is good, even while I lament their toleration of what is not good — no, not for man, woman, or child ! ALDA. Do not think I have made these animadver- sions with any reference to the Princess Ame- lia, or that I claim for these elegant little dramas more than they are entitled to. I give them as what they are — as illustrations of a taste and a feeling in these matters, not English, nor subject to English rules of propriety and criti- cism, but German, and in harmony with the system of social life in that country. A royal lady, in this our nineteenth century, has stepped from her palace into the arena of literature — has INTRODUCTION. Ixxv written very beautifully and successfully for her own sex and for her own people — has exchanged etiquettes for sympathies, and lip and knee ho- mage for the fame which is " love disguised ;" and shall we not hail the JErscheinung ?* As a princess, she may truly be said to have broken through a Chinese wall of prejudices; as a woman, con- sidering the present state of feeling about lite- rary women in Germany, she has set an example which may prove of incalculable advantage ; as a writer, too, in the long-forgotten style of Cha- racterschilderungen, (dramatic portrait painting,) she has opened new ground, and has already found imitators and emulators ; for example, in those beautiful little pieces, Die Geschwister, (the Bro- ther and Sister, not Goethe's drama of that name ;) Die Verirrungen, (the Errors ;) and in particular, Die Isolirten, (the people who stand alone in the world.) In this most elegant tableau de societe, a number of persons are grouped together, all of whom, either from accident or character, are with- * Anglice, an appearance, or phenomenon, generally of a bright and agreeable kind. Ixxvi INTRODUCTION. out any near social ties, {i. e. isolated.) There is a widowed, childless old Baroness ; an unacknow- ledged daughter ; a young man, an orphan, fight- ing his way unaided through the world ; a wife, separated from a worthless husband ; a prim, elderly chanoinesse, as hard as flint ; a selfish, epi- curean old bachelor, who has bribed his kindred to leave him alone ; and a benevolent old bache- lor who laments his loneliness. The ingenuity with which these isolated personages are placed in re- lation to each other, — the exquisite tact with which they are contrasted, — the delicate indica- tions of hidden motives, — the conflict of petty vanities and petty interests, and deep feelings and vile passions, but just visible through the superficial veil of conventional elegance, — ren- dered this little thing a gem in its way. MEDON. But the mis-en-scene of such a piece must have required a style of acting of which we have no example ? INTRODUCTION. Ixxvii ALDA. Yes, the acting of acting, so to speak. This piece is attributed to a Prince Charles of Meck- lenberg, who died two or three years ago, but how truly I know not ; while I was in Germany it was yet unpublished, and confined to the thea- trical Repertoires. The Princess Amelia has allow- ed some of her works to be collected into volumes and printed, (under the modest title of Beitrdye, " Essays for the German Stage,") for the benefit of a charitable association of ladies at Dresden ; the motive, as she told me herself, was to escape the imputed authorship of several things which were not really hers. It will, perhaps, be a satisfaction to you to know that I thought her deportment and personal appearance very much in harmony with the benign and womanly character of her works. She has a fine open brow, a clear, pene- trating blue eye, and a mingled expression of be- nevolence and finesse lurking round her small mouth. Her manners are, for a Princess, not so much what you would call yracioiis, as simple Ixxviii INTRODUCTION. and cordial ; altogether, slie struck me as a very pleasing, lively, kind-hearted person. Such she is: you may now judge for yourself, in part at least, of what she has done : out of fifteen or sixteen dramas, I have given five, and these not, perhaps, the best I could have chosen, had my aim been merely to amuse. I think the two pieces already mentioned. The Bride from Town and The Bridal Ring, have more of comic spirit in them, but they are less decidedly national in their costume than those I have selected as suited to my particular purpose. My translation is, I am afraid, too close to do justice to the general beauty of style in these comedies ; it is indeed faithful even to literalness, except where such extreme fidelity, by becoming ridiculous, would be false to the meaning and spirit of the original. I have even, that my picture might be complete in all its details, retained particular idioms and modes of expression wherever it was possible, and where impossible, have generally given them in the margin ; and in the use of titles and conventional phrases, I have been guided by INTRODUCTION. Ixxix my own taste, and my perception of nice shades of distinction, more easily felt than explained. I believe I have now said all I can say in the way of apology and prologue. Are you con- tent ? MEDON. I am content. ALDA. Then the curtain rises ! Here sit, and see ! Minding things true by what their mockeries be I Henry V, \ FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [guQC un5 ^al}xf)Qit.] A PLAY. IN FOUR ACTS. VOL. I. EEMARKS. The play of" Falsehood and Truth" was the first of the Princess Amelia's productions which was publicly represented. It was per- formed at the Royal Theatre of Berlin, in the spring of 1834, under the circumstances already detailed in the Introduction. This drama, though written in the original with much sjiirit and elegance, strikes me as inferior in the interest of the story, in variety of incident, and conception of character, to many which succeeded ; it proved, however, one of her most popular pieces, and is very frequently performed. The part of Juliana was origi- nally played by Mademoiselle Hagen, the first actress in elegant comedy at Berlin : her exquisite impersonation of the part, and the success of the piece, made it a fashion for the best actresses to exert their powers in Juliana. Mrs. Butler tells us in her journal, that she has known actresses " who, in the performance of unvir- tuous and unlovely characters, seemed anxious to impress the audience with the wide difference between their assumed and their real disposition, by acting as ill and looking as cross as they possibly could ; which, she humorously adds, " could not but be a great satisfaction to any moral audience." This vulgar mis- B 2 4 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. conception of the duty and aim of an artist I never saw in Ger- many, where the part of Juliana, in the hands of such performers as Mademoiselle Hagen and Mademoiselle Bauer, is always ren- dered as captivating as the most sparkling grace of demeanour and elegance of person and costume can make it, certainly in accord- ance with the conception and intention of the author, and, let me add, in accordance with the truth of nature. In reading the play, the character of Juliana is something next to hateful ; her insolent airs and her almost gratuitous artifices come before us un- softened and unredeemed by any of the graces of look and man- ner, which give such an effect to the beautiful impersonation I liave seen on the stage. " So much the better," I hear some worthy people exclaim ; as if the notion that vice must always look ugly, were not one of the most dangerous and absurd ever circulated. Others have regarded the union of generous' and amiable qua- lities with that one revolting fault, — a total want "of integrity, as inconsistent and unnatural. Now a character is not to be pro- nounced inconsistent which exhibits the combination of opposite and apparently contradictory qualities, for such in our intercourse with society meet us at every turn. Lately, in turning over " BoswelPs Life of Johnson," I met with an account of a gen- tleman, who, at the time when the " Man of Feeling" first ap- peared, anonymously, represented himself as the author, took all the merit on himself, dined out day after day as " the man of feeling :" excited the " sensil)ilities" of tender-hearted young ladies, aud accepted of attentions and friendships on the strength of his pretended authorship. The miserable and paltry falsehoods by which he must have sustained the deception, and the mean vanity which prompted it, fill us with disgust and indignation ; yet the same man, a few years afterwards, perished in attempting to save a poor drowning boy, who was in no way connected with him. To return to Juliana. I am afraid it must be admitted that the character is both natural and consistent, and I am afraid I must add, after a good deal of experience and observation, as regards my own sex, that a turn for intrigue, and a want of courageous FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH, i) straightforward truth, are too frequent in women. Upon what conventional principle is it, that a lie is presumed to dishonour the man, and docs not dishonour the woman ? — whence that disposi- tion to subterfuge and evasion — that inclination to prefer the devious path to a given object ; to seem, rather than to be ; and — where they do not, or dare not lie, — to arrange the truth so as to serve a purpose •, — in short, all the petty artifices about tritles which have been a standing reproach against womankind from time im- memorial ? And whence that neglect of accuracy in the use of words — accuracy, one of the signs and safeguards of the spirit of truth ? I scarcely ever hear girl. JULIANA. My dear father ! FREYMANN {tO MEERFELD). And what do you think of her ? MEERFELD. My dear sir ! FREYMANN. " My dear father," and " My dear sir," — what do you mean by that ? JULIANA (politely/ to MEERFELD). You have just arrived from Hamburg ? I fear that, compared with your native city, our little town will seem very empty and dull. MEERFELD. I cannot deny it. JULIANA. "VVe have only one brilliant epoch — that of the fair ;* but on that occasion we may almost vie * The increased rapidity and facility of communication and transport throughout Europe have lately diminished the import- ance of the periodical fairs in Germany, and the concourse of people who were wont to assemble on these occasions ; still, in the smaller cities of Prussia and Saxony, and even at Dresden, Weimar, Naumberg, &c., the season is one of great bustle and brilliancy : the three principal fairs (Messe or Jahrmarkt) in Germany, are those of Frankfurt, Leipsig, and Brunswick. 54 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT II, with London or Paris. We have specimens of every nation congregated here, and lay both the old and the new world under contribution : 'tis a pity you were not here six weeks ago. MEERFELD. It is of no consequence ; for I am not come here to see the many, but to learn to know a few. JULIANA. You will be horribly ennuye. MEERFELD. no ! {looking at her with a smile) I shall observe. JULIANA. 1 doubt whether you will find anything worthy of observation. MEERFELD. Everything is worth observation. JULIANA. Indeed ! then the honour of exciting your observation is no distinction ? MEERFELD. None whatever, when such observation leads to nothing farther. JULIANA (pointedly). In that case, pray honour me with your obser- vation. Are you musical, Herr Meerfeld ? ACT II.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 55 MEERFELD. I play a little on the violin. JULIANA. You love music ? MEERFELD. From my soul ! JULIANA. To-morrow there will be a good concert at the Merchants' Hall. I shall not go, but my father will have great pleasure in introducing you, MEERFELD. If Herr Freymann will have the goodness — {turning to him.) JULIANA (aside). A most gallant suitor truly ! MEERFELD. I have heard much of your concerts here. JULIANA. I am engaged to-morrow to Hofrath Thieler, to hear the reading of a new tragedy, by a poet of this town. MEERFELD. I must confess I do not envy you. JULIANA. I shall probably be ennuyte to death myself. MEERFELD. Then why go ? 56 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT II. JULIANA. I should prefer the concert. MEERFELD. Then pray come to the concert : it would add to my gratification. JULIANA. I am afraid I cannot, in civility, decline the reading : the Hofrath is an intimate friend of our family. I have, however, the privilege of taking any one I like. MEERFELD. I mlist beg to be excused, JULIANA {with quickness). I mean acquaintances of course. {Aside.) The man is such a clown, he is quite diverting. FREYMANN. But, children, can you talk of nothing but concerts and tragedies? I see no end to it, if you are to go on in that fashion : perhaps I am in your way — shall I go ? MEERFELD. If you would be so obliging ! FREYMANN. Well, then, I'm gone ; but for heaven's sake settle it all quickly : in a quarter of an hour I hope to see you in my study, my dear Meerfeld. \_He goes out. ACT II.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 57 Juliana and Meerfeld. MEERFELD {aside). Now for it ! JULIANA {aside). He is silent : it is not my part to speak first, I presume. MEERFELD {aside). There's something- about this girl altogether singular — an air of decision — something, in short, which in any other would perhaps have repelled me ; but it becomes her. The shortest way is the best: so have at her.* {Aloud.) Mamsell! JULIANA. Sir? MEERFELD. You know, doubtless, why I am here ? JULIANA. How should I know ? MEERFELD. Nay, no dissembling, to the point at once — I am come to — to — marry you ! JULIANA. That is coming to the point indeed. MEERFELD, But you understand — not unless you like me ! * The German idiom is hardly translatable : "3d) \oXU mit t»ev Sf)uce in'6 ^aug .'" D 5 58 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT II. JULIANA. Young ladies are scarce in Hamburg, I pre- sume ? MEERFELD. On the contrary, tliey abound there, as they do everywhere else ; but I suppose I am phleg- matic ; and then I am always engaged in im- portant business : and so it has happened that I have not yet been in love regularly. JULIANA. Then I am the first woman you were ever in love with ? MEERFELD. Pardon me, I did not say I was in love with you; if I had said so, you might with reason have been offended : it would have appeared as if I thought you could believe such a thing. No, {smiling archly) I am not yet in love with you ! JULIANA. You have said so once already, sir ! MEERFELD. Pray allow me to finish what I had to say : I am not yet in love with you, but I feel that I might easily be so, for you please me right well : and now tell me, do I jjlease you ? JULIANA. That is a most insidious question. ACT II.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. o9 MEERFELD. Not in the least, if you will speak frankly : neither shall I regard your answer as decisive for at present we can only speak of the general impression my appearance may have made on you. JULIANA. You take it for granted, then, that you have made an impression on me ? MEERFELD. Do not trifle with me thus — I am not used to it, and I do not quite like it. JULIANA. You speak plainly enough, I must confess. MEERFELD. This sort of conversation is not at all in my way ; I shall make no hand of it at all. Let us return to the main point, and as you will not tell me what you think of me, or perhaps do not deem it worth while to think about me at all, let me tell you what I am. You may trust to my description, for I know myself better than any one else knows me, having all my life long thought more than I spoke. I am serious, perhaps rather dull ; inflexible in all that regards prin- ciple ; not much accustomed to female society, and rather rough than courtly ; incapable of flattery, and even of concealing my disgust when 60 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH, [aCT II. I meet with anything unworthy. I feel both warmly and deeply, but I am not in the habit of expressing my feelings, and therefore often ap- pear harsh and cold. I would sacrifice my life for a friend, but I cannot sit and sympathise Avith him when he has the toothache. In short, I should make a sorry lover, but perhaps a toler- able husband ; for, with all my faults, I have a true and an honest heart : and my signature to my marriage contract were at least as sacred as to a bill of exchange. My own tastes would not lead me to take my wife much into fine society, but every pleasure that friendship and art could bestow I would endeavour to assemble round my home. I would keep the reins of domestic government in my own hands, but then I would have my wife for my sole confidant and prime minister. As I would never oppose but from con- viction, so I would never yield but from convic- tion. In conclusion, I would not treat my wife as a divinity when young, even that I might honour her in age. Now I have done. As for my person, you see it is no great things, but neither is it one to scare children ; and I am thirty-four next birtliday — now speak ! JULIANA {after a pause). Do you require the catalogue of my defects in return for yours ! ACT II.J FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 61 MEERFELD. O no — that were a poor price to ask for my sincerity : for I should not suppose you have many faults to confess. There are, however one or two things I have remarked, which I could wish otherwise. JULIANA {ironically). Indeed ! perhaps you will do me the favour to point them out ? MEERFELD. You will not be offended with my frankness ? JULIANA. On the contrary, I request it of you. MEERFELD. You are not sincere enough for me, and you have a good deal of vanity. JULIANA. A novel style of compliment truly ! MEERFELD. I was not thinking of paying compliments. JULIANA. And can you think of marrying a woman o whom you entertain such an opinion ? MEERFELD. Why not ? I hope to see you changed in some things, if you ever become my wife. JULIANA. As I am now, so I shall ever be to the end of my life. 62 FALSEHOOD AND TEUTH. [aCT II. MEERFELD. Forgive me, but I cannot believe it. Self- improvement should be the aim of all, and will be yours no doubt. JULIANA. When I see you bent on the same laudable purpose — perhaps. MEERFELD. I am so, on my honour : and therefore if it be the will of Providence that we should be united, I would beg of you to call my attention to my faults and deficiencies, as I should certainly take the liberty of pointing out yours. We should thus both be gainers. Enter Johann. JOHANN. Sir, the servant of the Collector Wild is with- out, and begs to speak to you. MEERFELD, Ah, yes, I remember. {To Jtdiana.) With your permission we will resume our conversation half an hour hence. JULIANA. Certainly, I have still much to say to you. [^Meerf eld hows, and goes out, followed hy Johann. JULIANA. A very strange man ! I declare, for the lirst ACT II.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 63 time in my life, I felt almost intimidated ; he is rough, unpolished, yet in such an original style that I was quite thrown out of all my common- places. It was absolutely provoking to hear him say in such an indifferent tone that he was not in love with me : however, 'tis better as it is ; it will be so much the easier to get rid of him. Enter Willmar. wiLLMAR {in a tone of irritation). So I find you alone at last ? JULIANA. I have seen and talked to your rival; and have comfortable news for you. WILLMAR. Your father has already announced Meerfeld as your bridegroom to the whole household JULIANA. Herr Meerfeld will return bootless home to Hamburg in less than a week, for all that. WILLMAR. You will discover all to your father then ? JULIANA. I ! heaven forbid ! WILLMAR. Or perhaps to Meerfeld himself? JULIANA. Still less. 64 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT IF, WILLMAR. Juliana ! what do you mean to do ? JULIANA. That is my secret ; you are to know nothing about it. Be satisfied with the assurance that this stranger shall not be my husband, happen what may. WILLMAR. O possibly Lieutenant Kramer may have a better chance ! JULIANA. What do you mean ? WILLMAR. Your father let fall a few words this morning, which have given rise to some reflections. JULIANA. Is it possible you can doubt me, Willmar ? WILLMAR. Why should I not doubt you ? JULIANA. Willmar ! you offend me ! WILLMAR. I'm sorry JULIANA. Methinks that a woman who has sacrificed such brilliant prospects for the sake of the man she prefers, deserves his confidence at least. ACT II.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 65 WILLMAR. And does not that tender father, who never refused his daughter's slightest wish, deserve to hear the truth from her ? JULIANA. Ungrateful ! what am I to understand by this t For whose sake have I prevailed on myself to deceive my father ? WILLMAR. For mine — perhaps JULIANA. Perhaps ? WILLMAR. Mistrust is the bitter fruit of falsehood.' I love you, Juliana ; I would give the universe to believe in you ; but alas ! your words have no longer power to convince me. I know how little a false assertion costs you, and more than once I have doubted whether love for me be really the motive of your conduct. JULIANA. I do not in the least comprehend you. WILLMAR. It seems to me, Juliana, that with true love, truth had been the breath of life. If you had really felt what you pretended to feel, you had not stooped to intrigue and deception — you had not been ashamed of your preference for a poor 66 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT II. but honest man — you would have thrown yourself at once into your father's arms, and he — O you heard what he said this morning — he would have united us, and we should now have been at the summit of our wishes, without guilt or re- proach. JULIANA {struggling icitk her emotion). There is some difference between a hasty expression from his lips and his signature to a marriage contract. My father thought he might say this morning anything that came into his head, regarding me already as the bride of Meer- feld. WILLMAR. No — any one might have seen that he spoke from the heart ; and that you could have heard him so unmoved, pained me to the soul. JULIANA. Willmar, you really assume a singular tone towards me ; however, I must forgive you, for you are jealous, poor man ! WILLMAR. Perhaps — a little ; — but that is not what most occupies me at this moment. JULIANA. Then what is it ? WILLMAR. O Juliana ! I would rather, far rather, see vou ACT II.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 67 false to me tlian to yourself! I would rather not dare to love you, than feel that I could not love you !-^the peace, the happiness of my future life are in your hands. By my deep love for you, I do conjure you, grant me one request ! JULIANA, You alarm me with your vehemence ; but speak — what is it ? WILLMAR. O let the falsehood uttered this morning be the last ! Let our fate be what it may, we shall have courage, I trust, to bear it. Happiness unmerit- ed is shame and disgrace ; while no calamity un- deserved can absolutely degrade us. JULIANA. What a gloomy moralist you have turned on a sudden ! — really, any one to hear you would think that I was a cheat and a liar by profession ;* and all this about one or two trifling white liesf — told for your sake too ! And then, as regards the rest of my conduct, it was prudent, not false; and I defy Lieutenant Kramer to say I ever uttered a word which gave him reason to hope. I gave him no more encouragement * SJaff id) Icbte unb webte nur in 2ug unb !Sru9/ is the pecu- liar German idiom. t in German, SflottjlUQCn. 68 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT II, than was absolutely necessary to put those who suspected our love on a wrong scent. WILLMAR. You did give him encouragement, then ? Another victim of deceit and artifice?— O Juliana ! JULIANA. Herr Willmar, I must say you use very harsh expressions ; but I know why you are so inexo- rably stern — you love me no longer. There loas a time when these little artifices showed only as proofs of my love, and when my wilfulness was but a charm in your eyes. That time is past, and now you exaggerate my faults merely to ex- cuse your own inconstancy. WILLMAR. You can doubt me ? JULIANA. To be sure — doubts are the fashion, it seems ; allow me to have my doubts too. WILLMAR. You were my first, as you are my only love ; I know not how I could endure to lose you. The change of which you accuse me is in my mind, not in my heart. I know the world better than I did, and have had occasion, as a man, to observe the lamentable result of errors which, when a mere youth, did not strike me ; that turn ACT II.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 69 for trilling intrigue may in time become treachery and falsehood ; and that mockery of every serious subject, heartless indifference. O Juliana ! listen to the warning voice of a true friend ; walk in the path I have resolved to take : let it lead where it will — the end is peace. JULIANA {trying to smile). Upon my word, your sentimentality becomes almost infectious. WILLMAR. You are touched ; O do not strive against this better feeling ! Promise me — give me your hand on it— that the lie of this morning shall be the last from your lips ! JULIANA {withdrawing her hand). Lie ! what an odious vulgar expression ! WILLMAR. You would willingly laugli away the feeling I have awakened in your heart, but you shall not ; your hand, Juliana ! JULIANA. Well, then, there it is : to confess the truth, I hardly know myself how the knot is to be dis- entangled ; but so let it be — no more fibs ! Enter Freymann, {ivho stops short at the door, as Willmar seizes Julianas offered hand, and presses it to his lipts). 70 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT II. WILLMAR, You know not all you have done for me ; now I have courage to face anything. I fly to your father — I vv'ill throw myself at his feet — ac- knowledge my error, and confess my love ! JULIANA {uneasily). Willmar ! FREYMANN {coming forward). Ha ! what the plague, what's all this ? Francis ! can it be you? I took you for Meerfeld — the situation would certainly have become him better. WILLMAR. hear me, Herr Freymann ! FREYMANN. Not a word — I have heard too much already. Shame ! I never could have believed it ! — what, deceive your benefactor, your second father, and attempt an intrigue behind his back with his own daughter ? Had you acted with integrity, I should have thought you not unworthy of being my son, but now I should disdain you as a com- mon acquaintance. Hence ! and if ever we meet again, let it be as if we had never seen or known each other ! JULIANA. My dear father, you mistake. FREYMANN. And you — dissembler that you are — you would ACT II.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 71 have married Meerfeld ! If you loved another, you ought to have spoken sooner. Mistake ! why, did I not hear you talking of love ? JULIANA. Herr Willmar — was only — only speaking- to me of his love for — my cousin Frederiea ; — and I was merely promising him my support and inte- rest. FREYMANN {taking hreath). His love for Frederiea ! Francis loves Frede- riea ! Now heaven be praised 'tis no worse ; — but it was a horrible suspicion : I tremble yet in every limb. WILLMAR. Herr Freymann, think of me as you will — I must JULIANA {in a low voice). Be silent — or see me married to Meerfeld in a week. {To Freymann.) He was afraid of con- fessing his love to you, because Frederiea is your niece, and his jDarents are poor. FREYMANN. Do you think me a fool, young man ? [^What could I wish better for my niece than such a husband as yourself? Why, I could dance for joy in my old age ! One moment — I shall be back again instantly ; don't stir — you shall have her, my boy — you shall have her ! \_Hurries out. 72 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT II. WILLMAR. What is he going to do ? I must follow. JULIANA. Stay where you are — I have tangled the knot, and I must loose it. All will yet be well — that sudden thought was help in our utmost need. WILLMAR {turning from her). The need was better than the help. Enter Freymann, leading Frederica. Come along, Frederica — here's strange new^s for you ! I am going to send you away, Fre- derica — out of my house, girl! frederica. Uncle ! FREYMANN. Ay, here's the man who insists on carrying you off from us ! — here's a lover, a husband for you, Frederica ! WILLMAR. For heaven's sake, sir ! JULIANA. My dear father, you are really too quick for us all : let me speak to Frederica — leave me alone with her ; I'll question her. FREYMANN. Why alone, pray ? I don't see the meaning or the use of it. — Frederica, my girl, Willmar loves ACT III.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 73 you — wishes to marry you — what do you say to it ? there's the question put at once. FREDERiCA {in the utmost confusion and astonish- ment.) Willmar ! no — impossible ! FREYMANN. 'Tis true, I tell you— he told me so himself: did you know nothing of his love till this mo- ment ? FREDERICA. I never had the slightest suspicion of it. FREYMANN. Bravo, my good Francis ! right honest and honourable, and like you — to win the uncle be- fore you wooed the niece ; — right, that was the way in 4he good old times :— but what's the matter, Frederica ? you look confounded. FREDERICA. It is so astonishing ! FREYMANN. But not disagreeable — eh ? come, come, I will not have my Francis rejected. FREDERICA. It is not come to that, dear uncle ; give me, O give me time to think ! FREYMANN. Tears — tears, Frederica !— that is at once the VOL. I. E 74 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT II. most becoming, and the most intelligible of all answers ; if you did not like him, the eyes would have been idle, but the tongue would have wag- ged fast enough. I will give you three thousand dollars for your portion, and your trousseau be- sides : come with me and choose yourself a couple of gowns. ' As Juliana will not give Meer- feld his answer* yet, to punish her, you shall have the first choice —come to my room: and you Madam Shilly-shally {to Juliana) must be content with what your cousin leaves. {^Leads Frederica out. WILLMAR. There — see what you have done ! JULIANA. No harm, some good rather — for poor Frede- rica is in a fair way to have a couj^le of new gowns, which I am heartily glad of with all my heart. WILLMAR. You think, then, to heal the insulted feelings of an amiable girl with a fashionable gown ? JULIANA. Nonsense, she's too childish — she has no feel- ings to be insulted. * Answer does not render the beautiful expression for this and similar occasions — jawort, literally " Yea-icord.^'' I ACT II.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 75 WILLMAR. You have hitherto held your cousin in such contemptuous dependence, that you can know no- thing of her feelings. JULIANA. I know thus much, that I should not have allowed the jest to go so far, if I did not know her to be a mere nonentity. WILLMAR. Juliana, your opinion of your cousin will not prevent me from instantly undeceiving both her and your father. ^ JULIANA. Take care what you do ! WILLMAR. I have already told you that my obedience is at an end. JULIANA. You forget that I hold the power of vengeance in my own hands. WILLMAR. And you forget what you promised me half an hour ago. JULIANA. Willmar ! you are absolutely metamorphosed ! WILLMAR. And you, Juliana, appear in no favourable light, I assure you. e2 76 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT II. JULIANA. I knew not liow mightily interested you were about Frederica. WILLMAR. And I knew not that there was a female heart in the world capable of sporting so cruelly with innocence and poverty. JULIANA. I don't think the girl knows whether she has a heart or not. WILLMAR. That is not my business to inquire ; and even if it were so, it would not release me from a duty which I — I regret I must say it — am resolved to fulfil in any case. JULIANA. What do you mean to do ? WILLMAR. I will reveal everything. JULIANA. And if I renounce you 1 WILLMAR. You will renounce an honest heart — that's all. JULIANA. Willmar ! do you desire to break with me — really ? WILLMAR. Better so, than to attain happiness by such crooked means. [Exit. ACT II.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 77 JULIANA. Contradictory, headstrong man that he is ! there he goes — to risk the whole sum-total of our happiness upon one cast, and that out of mere obstinacy and sophistry. I must follow him, and prevent him from going to my father ; if I can only hinder him from speaking to him for to- day — night brings good counsel* — perhaps he will think better of it to-morrow. • This is a German proverb : •&{€ na(i)t brtngt Siatt) . END OF THE SECOND ACT. 78 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [ACT III. ACT IIL Scene I. — The same Apartment. Juliana alone. I never closed my eyes all niglit ; — 'twas lucky that the prince sent for Willmar, and so all further talk was avoided : for, before he returned, I got Frederica off to the theatre : but what is delayed is not done,* and I must settle the busi- ness at once, or Willmar's abrupt honesty will bring me into a scrape. I don't understand his exaggerated ideas. It is possible that his propo- sal may have pleased Frederica : it is the first, I fancy, in her whole life ; but that's no reason why she should be in love with him : and yet — I don't know how it is — I am ill at ease. My wits won't fail me at a pinch ; but I am getting entangled in my own net ; I can't deny it ; and I am bound to ask myself if I have acted thus from actual ne- * The German proverb is " 3Cufge6clt)oben ift md)t auf9et)ot»en." ACT III.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 79 -cessity ? Willmar thinks not — Willmar let me know plainly enough that he thinks I have a turn for intrigue. The expression vexed me ; I can- not easily forgive him for it ; but at the same time, when I reflect on myself, I cannot but con- fess a certain pleasure in such harmless plotting : it amuses me to exercise my superior wit, and to get the better of inferior minds ; and it is thus I have accustomed myself to this vile trick of fib- bing, which is detestable after all, and which 1 will 'get the better of — will lay aside for ever — that is, as soon as I have got rid of this Meer- feld. I sent to tell him I wished to speak to him this morning, as I could not wait his return yesterday : he might have been here already. As the man confesses he does not love me, it is plainly my fortune which tempts him. It would be a good thing to hint that my father is threat- ened with bankruptcy — he will retreat of course, and as soon as he finds out the truth, I will de- clare that I only wished to try him, because I could never love any man who thought only of my dowry. This shall absolutely be the last de- viation from truth I will allow myself: it is ne- cessary, and can do no possible harm to any one.* * This long soliloquy, in which Juliana is more sincere with herself than she ever is with others, and dramatic soliloquies in 80 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT III. Enter Meerfeld. MEERFELD. You inquired for me, Mamsell Juliana? — I am here at your service. general, I have heard censured as unnatural, or at least so unusual as to be inadmissible, except on the plea of necessity, and as the only means by which we can be let into the mind of the speaker ; however, the fact is, that soliloquy is natural, and not so unusual as many people suppose. Not only are children of all ages found talking to themselves, but grown-up persons, under the influence of any strong excitement, which for a time overpowers the self- command arising from inculcated habits of reserve and mistrust, fall into soliloquy. I have frequently seen the Chippewa Indians talking and gesticulating to themselves. In one of Goethe's novels, the catastrophe arises from a revelation made by the hero when unconsciously soliloquising : this was criticised as absolutely grotesque and unnatural. Goethe might have been trusted as one who knew all qualities with a learned spirit. The fact is, he drew from himself, and had, besides, another example of the same in a near relative. Goethe was in the habit of walking up and down his room, and talking audibly to himself, and was not pleased to be overheard or observed. One evening — it was summer-time, and about sunset, when the streets are nearly deserted — I was walking up Portland Place, and before me walked a lady perfectly well dressed, and leading a little child of four or five years old; she was speaking audibly — in fact, soliloquising, — reproaching herself bitterly for some mis- take committed, and settling a plan of operations, by which she would engage a brother to do something she required. She went through an imaginary conversation : " He will say So and so ; — then I will say So and so," perfectly coherent, and well and even eloquently expressed. ACT III.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. §1 JULIANA. I thank you for your punctuality. Herr Meer- feld, will you pardon me for running away from you yesterday ? I had an engagement to tea — was obliged to dress. MEERFELD, Make no ceremony with me, I trust we shall see enough of each other in the course of our lives, not to grudge a quarter of an hour one way or another. JULIANA. That is just the question. MEERFELD. Question ! — why should it be a question ? Look you, I feel nothing but kindness towards you :* — a more agreeable man you might easily find, but not a truer heart ; and if, as I am assured, your affections are free, I cannot conceive why you should reject my hand. JULIANA {seriously). My doubts have nothing to do with the state of my heart. • This phrase ill expresses the cordial German 3^) t)in S^ncil i)erjlid) gut ! id) wurbe 6ie ben ^finben tragen ! But to translate more literally were to make honest Meerfeld say much more than he feels or means, which, however true to the literal sense, were false to the character. £ 5 82 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT III. MEERFELD. If your understanding is to decide, I have no fears. JULIANA. It is an affair of conscience. Permit me to ask you one thing, Herr Meerfeld? [At tills moment Wiesel opens a door softly, and looks in ; hut on seeing Meerfeld and Juliana, draws hack ; he remains, however, listening, un- perceived hy them, during the remainder of the scene, his head appearing from time to ti?ne through the half open door. When you proposed to me, you believed me a rich heiress — did you not ? MEERFELD. True, I did. JULIANA. And this belief was the real cause of your proposal — was it not? MEERFELD. Partly, I confess it ; for do you see, I cannot lie for the soul of me ! JULIANA. You would not have chosen me, then, had I been poor ? MEERFELD. Hardly, for in that case I had not been here. ACT III,] PALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 83 JULIANA. You have no objection to money, I see : you tliink a good fortune a good thing ? MEERFELD. Why, money is not to be despised, as we in trade know full well ; but on this point make yourself easy ; I am not covetous, and regard riches as an instrument, not an object. I am not such a bad calculator, believe me, as to sacrifice my happiness or my inclinations for money. If you did not please me, I would not take you with all your fortune. JULIANA {smiling). I have the honour to please you, then ? MEERFELD. You do please me. JULIANA. Yet you say you are not in love with me ? MEERFELD. I suspect I am on the high road to it. JULIANA. Then it becomes my duty to tell you, ere the blow fall, that my father is on the eve of bank- ruptcy. MEERFELD. Bankruptcy ! — ^^impossible ! — you jest ! JULIANA. It is hardly a subject for jesting, Herr Meerfeld ! 84 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT III. MEERFELD. But, g-reat Heaven ! — what can have happened so suddenly ? JULIANA. It has not happened suddenly : he had terrible losses some time ago, and then ensued the failure of a great house at Frankfort. He kept these circumstances secret, and hoped in time to recover them ; but the splendid establishment he has been obliged to keep up for the sake of conceal- ing his embarrassments has completely ruined him ; and now things have gone so far, that he must close his accounts. MEERFELD. Are you certain of what you say ? JULIANA. I have it from my father's lips. MEERFELD {walking up and down). It does not jolease me, — it does not please me at all ! JULIANA. That I can easily believe. MEERFELD. That he should not think proper to divulge his embarrassed circumstances, I can understand — but to me ! — surely he might have treated me fairly and honestly. ACT III.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 85 JULIANA. Forgive him this reserve : you can conceive that his last dependence was on his rich son-in- law. MEERFELD. Worse and worse ! JULIANA. • It does not sound well, I confess. MEERFELD {after a pause). I thank you, Mamsell Juliana, for this commu- nication ; but I could almost wish you had not made it. JULIANA. Why so ? MEERFELD. I must give up all thought of marrying you. JULIANA. Of course — I understand. MEERFELD. No — do not w^^sunderstand me, Juliana. I cannot endure it. Now that I have seen you — that your charms have touched my heart — it is not the loss of your fortune that would prevent my persisting in my suit — no ; but your father has not treated me well — has not acted towards me as a man of honour, and therefore cannot be my father-in-law. I take my leave {he kisses her hand with emotion) with a sad heart — {he goes 86 FALSEHOOD AND -TRUTH. [aCT III. towards the door, then returns, and kisses her hand once more) — farewell ! [^He hurries out — a pause — Juliana looks after him anxiously. JULIANA. Well, I have accomplished my object. I ought to Ise satisfied, and am not — far from it. The man almost made me tremble, and I could have sunk with shame ; and then that he should go and think unworthily of my father ; — that error at least I will not leave him long. [As she is going, Wiesel creeps into the room with a sort of cat-like precaution. What brings you here, Herr Wiesel ? WIESEL {howing). Only come to pay my respectful compliments, and ask after your health ; also to inquire if I can have the honour of waiting on Herr Frey- mann ? JULIANA {going to the door). Johann ! Enter Johann. Do you know where my father is ?* * In addressing the servant, Juliana uses the third person sin- gular @r, only adopted towards inferiors and domestics, and not generally used even in this case. ACT III.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 87 JOHANN. He is still in liis dressing--room, and the door locked. JTTLIANA. In his dressing-room ! and it is nearly nine o'clock ! JOHANN. I brought him a letter from the post this morning at six o'clock, and since then no one has seen him : he has not even rung for breakfast. JULIANA. Knock at his door, and announce Herr Wiesel. {Johann goes). {Aside.) I am in a fit mood indeed to listen to his idle gossip. [^Exit. WIESEL. Herr Freymann — bankrupt ! I am in a cold perspiration all over. Bankrupt ! — what a hor- rid word, and not good German either : another proof that all mischief comes from foreign parts. Herr Freymann {sinking his voice) bankrupt ! Who in the wide world is to be trusted ? Lucky for me that I am the first to know it. Listen- ing in the doorway is no bad thing at times. I don't know why it should be thought wrong, for my part — it is only one's laudable anxiety after truth ; and this time it will be, perhaps, the saving of my little income,* and of use to my * 93lein bigcl;en 3CrmUt{),— literally, my bit of poverty. 88 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. . [aCT III. friends beside ; for, as soon as I have my own twenty thousand dollars safe, I will warn the Baroness Barnow, Fraiilein von Werneck, and the old Landrath Sturm,* who I know have money in Freymann's hands. Enter Freymann. freymann {rather out of humour). You inquired for me, Herr Wiesel? If your visit has anything to do with business, I am at your service, — otherwise I must beg to be ex- cused. WIESEL {faivningly). My most important business is to inquire after the health of my respected friend. FREYMANN. I'm quite well, thank you. WIESEL. My dear sir, are you sure of it ? You have a frown on your brow — a certain twitch of your eyebrows, which does not please me, FREYMANN. Those who have their heads full of business cannot escape anxious moments ; the idle and empty-headed can always go about with a smooth * Landrath is a provincial office of some importance in^ Ger- many. ACT III.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 89 brow. And so, if you came here only to make notes on my physiognomy WIESEL. Excuse me, I came to speak on another, but far less interesting- affair. FREYMANN. Speak, then. WIESEL. About my poor twenty thousand dollars. FREYMANN. You have received your half year's interest ? WIESEL. Yes, I believe for the last time. FREYMANN. How mean you ? WIESEL. I wish to withdraw my capital. FREYMANN. So suddenly ? WIESEL. I think of buying a little estate. You see, my very good Herr Freymann, these times make one uneasy : if one has a few dollars, one finds it safest to invest them in land, which at least stands fast — no one can run away with it. FREYMANN. I hear no talk of war : the last advices confirm the peace. 90 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT III.' WIESEL. That may be a feint, my clear sir. So just have the goodness to tell down my twenty thou- sand dollars : to any other banker such a sudden demand might be perplexing ; but for you, twenty thousand dollars are, I know, a mere beggarly trifle. freymann. Twenty thousand dollars at once ! — even for me the sum is not quite insignificant. WIESEL. Why, it cannot ruin you ? FREYMANN. No, no ; but have you seriously made up your mind ? WIESEL. To purchase land ? — yes. I intend to live for the beauties of nature — quite rural : I shall set up a brewery. FREYMANN. Take time to reflect. WIESEL. Time to reflect ! This is the first time I ever heard you give such advice to any one ; but per- haps my request is particularly unseasonable ? FREYMANN. I am ready to meet it, of course ; but you are in no great hurry, I presume ? ACT III.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 91 WIE8EL. Excuse me ; in a most prodigious hurry. FREYMANN. Well, you shall have it immediately. (Aside.) I must not let the fool know that his demand could never have come at a worse time. [He goes out. WIESEL. Ay, it's all true — he's bankrupt. I must warn my friends instantly. [He goes out. Scene II. — Frederica's room ; on one side there is a small bookcase, with several hooks ; on the other a table ivith work and writing materials ; near the window, glasses containing faded fiowers. Enter Willmar. WILLMAR. She is not here ; she must be at church still. I have a moment to collect myself: and truly it is no light matter to have to tell an amiable and respectable girl that one does not like her well enough to marry her. What can I say ? I shall never know how to begin, nor what words to use : she was so agitated when her uncle spoke of my supposed love for her ! — Poor Frederica ! — I think perhaps she might love me, and truly, 92 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT III* if I tried to win her love ; and to what am I about to sacrifice her ? — to a blind passion, which, I feel it to-day more than ever, can never, never conduce to the happiness of my life : but neither is Frederica the wife for me, after all. Mere good-nature, without intelligence or education, would make a marriage of peace, but it would be the peace of the tomb. {He looks round.) I won- der what her occupations are when alone — {he goes to the book-case) — " The Roman History," History of Germany," Essays on Natural His- tory," Geography," and a map beside it. She seems to have a turn for study, and serious study too ; — but what's this ? Schiller's " Wallenstein," and his " Maid of Orleans ?" Indeed ! the mas- terpieces of our literature are not unknown to her ; she enjoys them here alone, and is modestly silent while Juliana amuses herself with jests on her ignorance. {Opens a hook.) Passages marked with her pencil, I see. {He replaces the hook thoughtfully, and goes to the table and seats himself.) Her embroidery, {taking it up,) hew beautiful and delicate ! — her account-book — {opens it, then opens another) — and this, " Extraits de I'Histoire Romaine." Ha ! she not only reads, but she understands well what she reads, and writes French fluently. {Rising.) I know not which is most admirable, the studious industry ACT III.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH, 93 of this girl, wlio, while she faithfully discharges her duties, finds time to cultivate her mind, or the modest concealment of her own talents. Enter Christine : she has a bouquet of flowers in her hand: after looking at Willmar attentively, she smiles and curtsies. CHRISTINE. I beg pardon, sir ; I have the honour to see Herr Willmar, I believe ? WILLMAR. How do you know my name 1 CHRISTINE. In Mamsell Frederica's own room what other young man could I expect to find but her bridegroom ? WILLMAR {with a start). Her bridegroom! — {Aside.) So it is already all over the house. CHRISTINE. You do not mean to make a secret of it, sir ? You are to be married in a week, Herr Frey- raann says. Do pray tell me how it has all been settled so quick. WILLMAR. It is — it was — but you seem to take an in- terest in Frederica. 94 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [ACT III. CHRISTINE. I was lier nurse — I brought her up, God bless her ! Ah, Herr Wilhnar, you are a happy man ! you have won a treasure — a very jewel ! I know Frederica's heart better than any one in the world, and I can tell you what she is — an angel ! You see me, sir, a poor old woman, almost helpless, and yet I am always comfortably dressed, and never know cold or hunger ; for Mamsell Frederica sometimes sits up all night to work for my support. WILLMAR. Has she not a kind uncle ? CHRISTINE. O, but she will not have me receive alms from any one ; so she says. WILLMAR. Excellent, noble creature ! CHRISTINE. You didn't know that of her, did you ? O how I have wept to be such a burthen to her ! Often I wished that I could die, that she might be rid of me ; but now it is all over. Heaven took pity on us, and has rewarded the dear child as I scarcely dared to hope. How I long- to see her ! — How happy she will be ! — for I know how her heart was towards you — I saw it long ago. ACT III.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 95 WILLMAR. Indeed ! CHRISTINE. I don't think she was conscious of it herself, dear child ! And so, sir, just imagine my astonish- ment, when I was at early prayers this morning, to hear the banns published. WILLMAR. What banns ? CHRISTINE. Why yours and Mamsell Frederica's, to be sure. The old gentleman gave directions yester- day evening, as I learned afterwards. WILLMAR {aside). Just like him ! fatal precipitancy ! CHRISTINE. Well, I was all over hot and cold in a mo- ment, and then I began to weep ; so that every- body in church turned round to look at me. WILLMAR {aside). And yet who knows ? it may be a hint from heaven. CHRISTINE. As soon as church was over, I ran home, and gathered all the flowers in my flower-pots, that I might decorate her little room here. I think I hear her. {She goes to the window^ throws out the 96 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT III. faded flowers, and begins to arrange the others in the empty glasses. willmar {aside). She is coming — what can I say or do ? I must have a moment to think. \_IIe steps aide, so as to he concealed hy the window curtain. Enter Frederica. CHRISTINE {meeting her). At last ! my dear, sweet Frederica ! I have heard strange news — wonderful things, my child ! but how are you? — what do you say to it all? — you find here — {she looks round) — why, what has become of him ? FREDERICA. Of whom ? CHRISTINE. Your bridegroom, Herr Willmar. FREDERICA. Was he here ? CHRISTINE. He was talking to me a minute ago — a strange man! He must have vanished just when I was putting the flowers in the glasses. FREDERICA. Do you know him, then ? ACT III.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 97 CHRISTINE. O he told me who he was, and we talked an immensity.* FREDERICA. And Avhat did he say ? CHRISTINE. O ! a great deal — but I don't exactly remem- ber what. FREDERICA {with CI melancholy smile). You had all the talk to yourself, I., suspect, my good Christine. CHRISTINE. no, indeed ! — he said — he said — just what he ought to say. FREDERICA. Did he look pleased, or the contrary 1 CHRISTINE. 1 dare say he might be a little vexed not to find you here, but he will come back directly ; and meantime you will tell me everything. I am quite anxious to know how it all happened : when did Willmar declare his love for you ? FREDERICA. He never declared his love — he never uttered one word of it to me. • SBiv gpvacl)en ein Sanger unb 93reite§ '. is the German idiom. VOL. I. F 98 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT III, CHRISTINE. That is most unaccountable, and yet you are liis bride. FREDERICA. His bride ! O no ! I do not yet consider my- self as such. CHRISTINE. But, for heaven's sake, how is it ? FREDERICA. My uncle called me yesterday into the drawing- room, where I found Willmar and Juliana. He told me that Willmar loved me, and had offered me his hand. I know not how I felt at the moment ; the fright, and I believe the joy too, struck me speechless. I trembled, and burst into tears : my uncle understood my tears to signify consent — drew me into his own room — forced on me the most beautiful presents of dresses and ornaments. • Meantime Prince Adolphus sent to command Willmar's attendance ; and, half an hour before the usual hour, my cousin Juliana dragged me in a manner to the theatre, whence I did not return till very late. And that is all I'can tell you of the matter. CHRISTINE. That is certainly quite a new style of niatch- makino-. ACT III.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 99 FREDERICA. Alas, Christine ! my good uncle, I fear, has again been in too great a hurry ; he is so quick with everything : he loves Willmar, he feels kindly towards me ; what he wished, he j^ersuaded himself to believe, and on this supposition he has acted. CHRISTINE. And must I then lock up all my joy again ?* It cannot be — the banns have already been pub- lished. FREf)ERICA. Yes, as I heard with terror. CHRISTINE. And why with terror ? FREDERICA. Because, till now, I have been unobserved, unknown ; I am now rendered an object of re- mark, only to be, at the same time, an object of ridicule, CHRISTINE. Ridicule ! — if you are married to Herr Will- mar ! And, after all, he must marry you — he cannot go back. FREDERICA. And do you, Christine, think me base enough ♦ This is a Germanism — " soteitic frenbe wifbev in ben (Sdjcan! gpenen." F 2 100 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT III. to accept his hand, unless assured of his love ? and — (in a melancholy tone) — he does not love me. CHRISTINE. And why should he not love you, I should like to know ? frederica. As long as I never dreamed of such a thing, I was tranquil, and even happy ; hut all is changed now. One moment of hope that I might pos- sess such a heart, has destroyed my peace for ever. wiLLMAR (suddenly steps forward in uncontrollable emotion, and snatches her hand, which he presses to his lips. 'Tis yours, and wholly yours — this erring heart ! — generous, noble girl, I offer it to you — O deign to sanctify it, to heal its wounds ! — And now to my benefactor, to thank him on my knees for the gem he has bestowed on me. [He rushes out ; Frederica stands breath- less, gazing on him, and then throws herself into Christine's arms. The curtain falls. END OF THE THIRD ACT. ACT IV.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 101 ACT IV. Scene — A Room in Freymann s House. Frederica is discovered putting the room in order. Now all is ready : every thing goes on well with me to-day, because I am so happy ! Good Willmar ! I feel now how long I have loved him. He is secretary to the Prince — is well off in the world, and might have had his choice among the richest and fairest of our town — and he has chosen the poor Frederica ! No, never will I forget it in my whole life, which shall be devoted henceforth to make him as happy as he deserves. 102 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH, [aCT IV. Enter Juliana. JULIANA. Good morning, Frederica ! — blushes ! and spark- ling triumph in your eyes ! what's the matter 1 FREDERICA {suddenly -abashed). I was not aware JULIANA. Have you seen Willmar? FREDERICA. Yes, a few minutes ago. JULIANA. Soh ! and did he say anything ? FREDERICA. Only a few words. JULIANA {examining her). And you are satisfied, Frederica ? FREDERICA. Surely — why not ? JULIANA. You are a reasonable, good girl : but you shall be no loser by it ; — I will provide for you ; I will share my dowry with you, if need be, to get you a good husband FREDERICA. Have I not, poor as I am, already found one ? JULIANA. Found a husband ! who — in the name of good- ness? ACT IV.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 103 FREDERICA. The only man whom I would ever have accepted ; the man whom I suspect you yourself have obtained for me. Am I not Willmar's bride ? JULIANA. My dear Frederica, hear me : this affair with Willmar seems a little doubtful still ; what did he say to you ? — tell me plainly. FREDERICA {lookhig dowil). He told me that — that he loved me — that his heart was wholly mine. JULIANA. He told you that ? FREDERICA. Why should he not ? JULIANA {s^ippressing her vexation). To be sure he should — he ought to say no less, and I only wish that I could be sure there was no mistake in the case. FREDERICA. I could not misunderstand his words. JULIANA. Tell me, Frederica — do you really love Will- mar 1 FREDERICA. I was not sure of it till to-day. 104 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT IV. JULIANA. And before yesterday you had never thought of him ? FREDERICA. yes, I thought of him constantly from the first moment I knew him — but I did not suppose — I dared not hope — I did not imagine [She stops in confusion. JULIANA. Well — 'tis all very well — but you are wanted below ; all the servants are calling after you. FREDERICA {approaches Juliana timidly). 1 found you here yesterday with Willmar when your father led me into the room ; — if you had any share in bringing this about, be glad to know that you have secured the happiness of my life. [She presses JuliancCs hand to her lips, and goes out. JULIANA. What can all this mean ? — is it possible that Willmar ? I must speak to him — I must have it cleared up :* ah heaven ! he is here ! Enter Willmar {who starts hack on seeing her). JULIANA, Pray come in, Herr Willmar — whom were you seeking ? * " Sd) muff £tdt)t t)aben/"— literally, " I must have light." ACT IV.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 105 WILLMAR. Your father — I found his door locked. JULIANA. And what do you want with my father ? WILLMAR. I wished to thank him JULIANA {ironically). For giving you Frederica, I suppose ? WILLMAR. I feel the full value of the gift, believe me. JULIANA. Willmar, I am not pleased with you ; a jest may be carried so far as to become too serious at last. You reproached me yesterday with the falsehood, inconsiderately uttered, on the spur of the moment, and accused me of cruelty to Fre- derica ; do you make no scruple now to confirm this poor girl in her error — and in cold blood too? WILLMAR. What error? is it not in consequence of your own words, spoken in my name, and which I had not the courage to contradict, that Frederica is now my acknowledged bride? and assuredly 1 am not such a wretch as to abandon a woman under such circumstances. JULIANA. Willmar ! F 5 106 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT IV, WILLMAB. Your father has proclaimed to every one my supposed declaration, and the banns have been asked in church, JULIANA. And you are, like all your sex, faithless : you love Frederica, or have taken a sort of fancy to her, and are glad to find some excuse for end- ing a liaison of which you were tired — is it not so ? WILLMAR. Juliana, it was hard, very hard, to tear my heart from you — and that self-inflicted wound is still bleeding, still aching ; but do not accuse me of inconstancy : so completely had your charms entangled me, that even on this last occasion I might again — as before — have sacrificed duty to love : 'twas yourself alone gave me power to be free — by destroying the ideal excellence I had worshipped in my heart. JULIANA. And pray is Frederica now this fair ideal ex- cellence ? WILLMAR. I have learned to know Frederica — she is not the ignorant, silly creature you suppose her ; and if she do not aim at dazzling the imagination, ACT IV.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 107 slie is not the less capable of forming the perma- nent happiness of a true-hearted man. JULIANA. In other words, she will make an excellent cook and housekeeper. WILLMAR. And a friend, Juliana — a friend, when the illu- sions of youth are over. JULIANA. Upon my word, Willmar, you grow quite pro- saic : well, I wish you joy of your paradise of pantries and nurseries, in which I fancy I see the venerable couple — spectacles on nose — Ha ! ha ! ha ! [Forcing a laugh. WILLMAR. Do not mock that humble happiness for which you may one day sigh in vain. Juliana, I once truly loved you ; listen to the prayer of a friend, to whom your destiny can never be indifferent. You have beauty, talents — you are not ill-natured — O be but true, that I may still confess with pride that you were my heart's first love. juiLANA {struggling loith her emotion). Quite unnecessary — I think it will be better in future to treat each other as if we were entire strangers. \_She hursts into tears. WILLMAR. You weep ! 108 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT IV. JULIANA. Yes — but — but not for you. I always cry when I'm angry, and you say such disagreeable things ! Go, sir ! leave me for heaven's sake — I choose to be alone. Enter Freymann. FREYMANN. Are you there, Francis, and you, Juliana? — I am glad I find you both together : I wished to speak to you, children — but on no pleasant sub- ject. JULIANA. What is it, papa ? FREYMANN. Do you know or suspect anything already, my child l — you seem agitated. JULIANA. I know of nothing whatever. FREYMANN. Well, I will not keep you in suspense with a long preface — better to be knocked on the head thaji racked. I am on the eve of bankruptcy ! WILLMAR. What do you say ? JULIANA. Is it possible ? ACT IV.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 109 FREYMANN. It is even so. I grieve for you, my Juliana, for who knows if Meerfelcl will not now be off? I grieve for you, Francis, for I am no longer able to give a dower to Frederica : but most I grieve for myself, who, without any fault of my own, am doomed to dishonour and disgrace in my old JULIANA. Have you, then, suffered any serious loss ? FREYMANN. Yes, I received this morning information of the failure of the house of Van der Werft in Amsterdam, in whose hands I had placed a con- siderable sum ; but from this blow I might have recovered — it is not this which brings me to ruin. JULIANA. What, then, my dear father? FREYMANN. It is the report — I know not by what incon- ceivable means spread through the whole town — that I am threatened with bankruptcy — that my credit is gone, and all who have funds in my hands are drawing them at once, and without notice. JULIANA. Ah, what a dreadful thought comes across me ! 110 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT IV- FREYMANN. Wiesel, it seems, was the first to give the alarm, and I immediately received letters from the Landratli Sturm, and the Baroness von Bar- now, requiring their money. The Baroness writes in plain words that she can no longer entrust me with her property, having heard from Wiesel of the failure of a great house with which I am connected, and which Wiesel declares he had from your lips, Juliana. JULIANA. heaven ! O wretch that I am ! FREYMANN. Nay, my child, do not tremble — do not be alarmed — I know it is impossible — I know you could not even have heard of this embarrass- ment. JULIANA. And yet — O my father ! — spurn me from you — it is I — it is I who have brought you to ruin ! FREYMANN. Girl ! — you know not what you are saying : don't drive me distracted. JULIANA {starting up). Did you not say it was Wiesel who — where were my senses? — did I not meet him just at the door when Meerfeld left me ? — he, with his vile intrusive curiosity, must have overheard all ! ACT IV.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. Ill FREYMANN. Overheard ! — whom, and what, in heaven's name ? JULIANA (wringing her hmids). O ask not ! ask not ! My poor father ! — ruined, undone in his old age — branded with dishonour — and through me — through me, {runs to the door) — here Johann — Johann ! FREYMANN. What are you about ? Enter Johann. JOHANN. Mamsell? JULIANA. Go instantly to Herr Meerfeld — tell him I request he will come down here immediately — this very moment. JOHANN. Herr Meerfeld is not in the house — he went out about half an hour ago, and has since sent for his portmanteau. JULIANA. So ! and where has he ordered it to be sent to 1 JOHANN. His servant told me he had ordered it to be packed on his carriage ; post-horses are ordered at the Golden Lion at eleven exactly, for his 112 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT IV. master is obliged to return to Hamburg in all haste. JULIANA {commanding herself). Of course we know all about it — {suddenly changing her tojie) — O no, no, no ! I will never lie again — we know nothing — go — you may go ! {Johann goes out). Meerfeld going, and with this unworthy opinion of my father! — I will not en- dure it : I must speak to him, or die. Willmar, if ever my father deserved your gratitude, fly to the inn, and bring Meerfeld to me this in- stant. WILLMAR. What can you have to say to a man who has forsaken you, only because fortune has forsaken you ? Let him go ; your father shall not suffer. I have now an income ; what is mine is his : and at my leisure hours I can earn something by copying. My benefactor shall never know the want of any comfort during his life ; and Frederica — she too will work hard. We will defer our marriage till FREYMANN. Francis, you are a fine fellow ; if I could ever accept assistance from any man's hand, I would from yours ; but I shall not need it — my plans are already settled. I shall give up all I possess to my creditors, and try to get a place as steward ACT IV.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 113 on some estate ; which, with such an extensive conneifion, can hardly fail me. JULIANA (strugyling to speak). I am content with all — I must be — but I will see Meerfeld. FREYMANN. Not for the universe. I will not have you exchange one word with that man, or we shall fall out, Juliana, for the first time in our lives. JULIANA. You do not think I would ask him to assist you ! I am not yet fallen so low as that. But this stranger shall not carry this degrading ojjinion of us back to his own home, nor be allowed to trample on my father's honour. Willmar {lowering her voice,) you loved me once — bring me Meerfeld, or see me despair ! WILLMAR. I^^;^7Zbring him. Whatever may be your rea- sons for wishing to speak to him, unworthy of your father you cannot be. [jye goes out. FREYMANN {following). Francis, stay — I command you. JULIANA {throwing herself at his feet). O my father ! let him go ; and you — hear the confession of all my guilt ! 114 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT IV. FREYMANN. Don't distract me, child ! * JULIANA. 'Twas I told Meerfeld that you were on the eve of bankruptcy ; and Wiesel must have over- heard us. FREYMANN. Nonsense ! how could you tell him what you did not know? JULIANA. I thought to lie, and knew not I spoke truth. I wished to try Meerfeld's love — O no, no ! 'twas not that — I wished to get rid of him, because I loved Willmar. FREYMANN. Willmar! and you could thus fool your old father ! And he — and I — what a cursed history ! But, you foolish girl, if you loved Willmar, why did you not tell me so a month ago? I would have given you to him with all my heart. JULIANA. O, I see it now ! — a fatal proj^ensity for intrigue has led me into all this error. Love itself was only attractive under a veil of mystery ; and thus have I lost the man of my choice, and re- * ajlad)e mix ben fopf X\id)t tvavruf " don't make my head hot." ACT IV.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 115 duced the "best of fathers to beggary and dis- grace ! FREYMANN. Juliana — I must needs say it — you have acted foolishly — and — and even wickedly. JULIANA. O never, never will I forgive myself! FREYMANN. Say no more — no more, child. Something must be done instantly, that Meerfeld may not regard me, for the rest of his life, as a mean, dishonour- able liar. Enter Wiesel (bowing at every step). WIESEL. Your most obedient, humble servant. FREYMANN {in a rage). There ! We did not speak loud enough to be heard outside the door, Herr Wiesel ; and that, I presume, is the reason you venture in. WIESEL. Beg pardon ; I really don't comprehend. JULIANA {scornfully). Not for want of ears then. WIESEL. {Aside.) It's a proof there's no want of money when people are so uncivil ! {Aloud.) My very 116 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT IV, dear sir, my most particular friend, I should be sorry if my visit were troublesome — FREYMANN. It is so then. WIESEL. Indeed ! and I'm come to reproach you too, my good friend. FREYMANN. Reproach ! — me ! WIESEL. Why, man,* what could you think of me ? Did you really doubt my confidence in your honour, and the stability of your house ? Why, if I had millions, I would willingly place them in your hands ! — ay, millions — and sleep as sound as if they Avere under my own lock and key. {Turning to Juliana.) Only conceive, because I said something this morning about a bit of an estate that had taken my fancy, and because I happened to say, not referring to myself in the least, that in these times it wouldn't be unad- visable to make such a purchase, my old gen- tleman here takes offence,t and sends me back half an hour after, in bills and good notes, my poor twenty thousand dollars. Now, I only ask * 5K5nd}en ! mSncl)en ! t Literally, " The old gentleman gets mustard in his nose." ACT IV.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 117 you, Mamsell Juliana, if that's the way to treat an old friend of the family ? FREYMANN. Sir, have you lost your senses, or I mine ? JULIANA. Do you mean to say that my father has paid you? WIESEL. Your excellent and worthy bridegroom, Herr Meerfeld, brought me the sum in your father's name. FREYMANN. Meerfeld ! WIESEL {taking hank notes out of a pocket-book). Yes, by your own wish ; but I have brought my poor little property back to thrive under your good care and management. FREYMANN (putting them aside). What does all this mean ? WIESEL. I hope my most excellent friend Herr Frey- mann will not make me miserable for the sake of a pitiful misunderstanding ? Where in the world shall I find so safe a house, and five per cent, interest besides ? FREYMANN {to Juliana). This would puzzle the devil himself. 118 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT IV. JULIANA. O, I begin to understand it all ! WIESEL. Yon are angry, my wortliy friend ! O pray don't be angry ! You see this lias been a day of confusion, and every man mistook his neigh- bour. And — he, he, he ! — it was just as if all your acquaintance had combined to put the stability of your house to the proof. For exam- ple, I am just come from the Landrath Sturm, who begs his respects to you, and earnestly re- quests you will not take any further notice of a certain letter he says he sent you this morn- ing. FREYMANN. I must confess it surprised me not a little. WIESEL. O you know the Landrath — he's old and nervous — listens to anything people say ; but I brought him to reason. Says I, " Herr Landrath, where upon earth could you place your money more safely than in the hands of our friend Freymann ? — a man," said I, " who was able to lay down the Baroness Barnow's thirty thousand dollars at a moment's warning ?" . FREYMANN. So the baroness has had her money, has she ? ACT IV.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 119 WIESEL. Your worthy son-in-law knows how to do busi- ness, and doesn't let the grass grow under his feet ; and his promptitude has had an effect — such an effect, my dear sir, as you can hardly con- ceive. Why, the worthy Fraiilein von Warneck was within a hair's breadth of placing her pro- perty in government securities ; but , Lord bless you ! she changed her mind in a twinkling, when she saw that Freymann's bank was as sure as the exchequer, and that it would be folly indeed to take three per cent, interest when she could get four. FREYMANN. I hope no capitalists will ever repent trusting me with their property ; but, for the present, good morning, Herr Wiesel, for I have busi- ness. WIESEL. May I take the liberty just to leave my few dollars with you ? FREYMANN. As you please — only go — pray. WIESEL. Will you not count the money ? FREYMANN. I will lock it up in your presence ; —{he throws it into a drawer of his bureau, and gives the key to 120 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT IV. Wiesel ;) here, take the key with you, and call on me this evening or to-morrow. WIESEL. Without fail ; and in the mean time I have the honour to take my most respectful leave. \_He goes out bowing. Freymann, Juliana, freymann. 'Tis well he's gone ; I was very near betraying myself to this idle fool. Did you understand one word of it all ? JULIANA. O yes — I see it all plainly. Meerfeld ! — yes, 'tis like him — excellent, honourable man ! Meerfeld it is who has saved us ! FREYMANN. Meerfeld who has abandoned us ! who was hurrying back to Hamburg ! JULIANA. O you do not know him — do not yet under- stand this singular being ! — but I do. An ex- planation with him is more necessary than ever ; he shall take back his benefits, or think of us as we deserve. Ha ! they come ! Enter Willmar with Meerfeld. WILLMAR. Here he is ! — I have redeemed my word. ACT IV.] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 121 MEERFELD. Not without some difficulty, you will allow. It was my wish never to have entered these doors again ; and only the express command of Juliana, communicated by Herr Willmar, could have induced me to alter my resolution. FREYMANN. You have paid my debts, man — have saved me from destruction, and would avoid me now as if I were the most worthless of men ! Do you not know that we have no right to treat with scorn those whom we have loaded with benefits ? MEERFELD. I would have avoided you, because the man who has treated me unfairly could never be my father-in-law ; and I paid your engagements, that you might not suppose it was the mere loss of your property which had induced me to change my mind. JULIANA. Take back your favours, Herr Meerfeld, but respect my father ! I alone am guilty. MEERFELD. You, Juliana ! — you, who so honourably dis- closed to me the real circumstances of your family ? — you, for whose sake JULIANA. Meerfeld, I resign all claim to your regard — VOL. I. G 122 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH, [aCT IV. in truth no slight sacrifice in ejjpiation of my fault. Know, that everything I told you this morning was mere invention, which a few hours later became, from unforeseen accidents, a melancholy truth. FREYMANN. Here is the fatal letter from Amsterdam — read it — observe the date : you will see I could not, by any possibility, have received it before this morning. MEERFELD, {holds the Utter loithout reading it). You were my father's friend — I will trust your word ; but — but what am I to think of you, Juliana ? JULIANA. Even what you will. I will endure your con- tempt, now that my father is fully justified. MEERFELD. But contempt is just what I cannot feel to- wards you — for you please me. Shall I tell you ? — be still now, and let me speak. You are young — young people have strange notions some- times ! and you are beautiful — and pretty women, we all know,have occasional caprices: you wanted to try me perhaps — you wanted to turn me off — who can tell what fancies may pass through the mind of a girl of eighteen ! Let us forget the past, and do better for the future. ACT IV,] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 123 JULIANA. So considerate towards me — and but a moment before so severe against my father ! MEERFELD. Yes — for, look you — I was not in love with your father, and I am in love with you, as I begin to find out. Whether it be reasonable or unreasonable, I know not : it is so, and there is no help for it. JULIANA. O Meerfeld ! [>SAe turns away, and hides her face. MEERFELD {gazes at her for a moment in silence). No, unreasonable it is not, for you have too good an understanding not to take warning from the past : and so, in your father's presence, I offer you my heart and my hand. JULIANA. Such an offer — at such a moment MEERFELD. There could not be a better moment, me- thinks : give but your hand in token of con- sent, Juliana! Your father must then accept fi'om his son-in-law what he disdains to receive from a stranger. So trust your future to me — you shall not repent it. JULIANA. Noble, excellent man ! — here is my hand, (with g2 124 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT IV. a glance at Willmar). I feel tliat in a husband I should require a guide — one too firm in cha- racter to be the sport of my caprices — one capable of inspiring at once both awe and love. I honour you, Meerfeld ! and my admiration for you must e'er long lead to love. Be the saviour of my father! — be my friend — my instructor ! Enter Frederic a. FREDERICA. Herr Meerfeld's servant has begged me to inform his master that the post-horses are wait- ing. MEERFELD. They may go back to the stable, my dear young- lady ; I remain here — the happiest of bridegrooms ! {He kisses Julianas hand.) FREDERICA. May I wish you joy, Juliana? JULIANA {embracing her). Fredepica ! I have done you much wrong — much that you know, and much more you do not know. Forgive me, Frederica ! Here stands the man who will make you amends for all my injustice and unkindness — {pointing to Willmar). WILLMAR. Whose whole life shall be devoted to making you as hajjpy as you deserve. ACT IV,] FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. 125 FREYMANN. Well, then, after so many troubles and per- plexities, all is as it should be. Victoria ! and long life to reason, which has redeemed the fol- lies of love ! To-morrow we will have the be- trothing, in a week the wedding, and in half a year, Herr Meerfeld, I will come to Hamburg and settle accounts with you. A-propos — Juliana, have you tried on any of the dresses? Why, bless my heart, all the people I had collected together are, I dare say, running different ways by this time. Excuse me if I leave you— I must go : I shall have time enough to give you all my blessing afterwards. [Exii. FREDERicA {to Juliano). May you be but as happy as I am ! wiLLMAR {kissing Julianas hand). Continue in the path you have had the courage to take, and you will command the respect of every honourable mind. \He goes out with Frederica. JULIANA {to Meerfeld, after a pause). You have spared me a terrible confession, Meerfeld ; but at some future day you shall hear what, for the present, I willingly conceal : when my conduct has won your entire respect and confidence, then you shall know all ; and I trust you will never repent the goodness which has 126 FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. [aCT IV. raised me from humiliation and despair to a ca- pability of better things. You love truth, Meer- feld — let truth be the pledge of our union ! O I have learned to-day that falsehood weaves the net in which the deceiver is sooner or later en- tangled, while truth stands fast amid all the storms of life ! THE END. THE UNCLE. (S)er Ol^dm.) A PLAY. IN FIVE ACTS. REMARKS. The Play of the Uncle was performed for the first time at Berlin, in the autumn of 1835 ; where Emile Devrient, one of the greatest actors, not only of Germany, but of all Europe, played Dr. Lowe.* It was immediately afterwards produced at the Court theatre at Weimar ; where Durand, an excellent actor, and a very amiable and accomplished man, performed the principal character with almost equal eftect. The success of the comedy was com- plete in both capitals, and it has since appeared on every stage in Germany, and everywhere with applause. Of all the Princess Amelia's dramas the Uncle has been perhaps the most frequentlj'^ played, and has given the most general and unmingled pleasure • the causes of its success lie deep in the peculiar haljits and sympa- thies of the German character ; it is, in fact, the most essentially German of all these comedies, the one least likely to be under- stood in England. Some of those scenes which I remember to have been most effective on the stage, would not be comprehendeti by any English audience, would appear perhaps flat in effect and puerile in sentiment — perhaps provoke a smile, where feelings of ;i very opposite nature would be excited in Germany. We are in England almost as much the slaves of certain arbitrary associations * Pronounced Leiive. G 5 130 THE UNCLE. as the French themselves, while the Germans are less subjected to the influence of conventional ridicule than any people among whom I have lived. To make an old bachelor, a physician, a recluse phi- osopher, who feeds birds and dries butterflies, the serious hero and lover of the drama, is an idea which certainly would not have enter- ed into the mind of any common playwright. Yet this original con- ception has been here most happily executed, without the slightest violation of nature or probability, as far as German manners and feelings are concerned. Dr. Lowe, with his personal negligence and his mental refinement, his child-like simplicity and moral grandeur, in the beautiful blending of homeliness, sentiment, hu- mour, and pathos, is one of the happiest and most perfect de- lineations I have met with in the German modern drama. The fervent approval, the tearful sympathy, it never fails to excite, particularly among the young, and the high rank it has taken in the popular estimation, strike me as a very pleasing characteristic of the Geiman public. Anna, the young English heiress, has some traits which remind us of Miss Edgeworth's admirable character of Miss Broadhurst in the " Absentee" — with beauty and the softer graces of her sex superadded. Her self-dependence, her decision of purpose, her generous yet mistaken motives for marrying Julius, without being absolutely in love with him, and the going over of her heart to the Doctor, appear tome beautifully managed. Julius is just one of those whiskered, well-di'essed, well-meaning, weak young men, so com- monly to be met with, who are inclined to do right when they are not tempted^to do wrong ; and Anna is precisely the woman to be disgusted by the want of strength of mind and truth in her lover, the moment she has a perception of his real character. The part of Anna requires to be played with exquisite delicacy and grace, lest it verge, though ever so little, on prudery and harshness. It is most charmingly performed by Mademoiselle Bauer of Dresden, and Mademoiselle Lortzing of Weimar. Madame Stiirmer, the malade imaginaire, is a part which reads THE UNCLE. 131 ill, I am afraid, — at least in English ; but it acts well, and produces much comic effect. In the second scene of the first act of this play, (page 14y,) an allusion occurs which seems to require a more detailed and satis, factory explanation than can well be given in a marginal note. Madame Stlirmer, lamenting her deceased husband, exclaims rather in the style of an Irish widow at her husband's wake — n 2f d) Warum muffle ev Stcrben !" literally. Ah why must he hm>e died?" — to which the satirical waiting-maid replies, sotto voce, II Urn 6id) ©ben cl)eit)un9§ projeff ju evfparcn !" to spare himself the trial for a divorce ; a phrase which might easily, according to our English ideas on the subject, expose the lady to most undeserved imputations. The English law admits but one plea for divorce, — the infidelity of the wife. But in Saxony the legal pleas for di- vorce are several ; viz. 1. The proved infidelity o£either party ; the wife, as in Scotland, being able on this plea to divorce her husband. 2. Bigamy on either side. 3. Desertion of home (bed and board) by either party. 4. Quasi-desertion ; that is, as I understand it, when the husband and wife have agreed to be separated for life without other cause than mutual aversion, disparity of temper or character, &c, ; and coercive measures have been tried, or appa- rently tried, without result. 5. An attempt made by either party on the life of the other. Lastly, any disgraceful crime subjecting one party to an imprisonment of not less than four years' duration, affords a legal plea for divorce to the other. In cases of divorce on the plea of the husband's infidelity, he forfeits all claim whatever on the property of his wife. The care of the children is adjudged to the party who, upon evidence pro- duced, appears most likely to give them a good education :— when very young, invariably to the mother, except where the guilt of infidelity rests with her. In no case can either parent be denied all access to the children, unless it be proved before a tribunal that the habitual course of life is so perverse as to endanger the moral well-being of the offspring : in that case, an order of prohibition is issued. The expense of the maintenance and education of the 132 THE UNCLE. children rests with the father ; but should the mother be rich and the father poor, she also must contribute to their support, in pro- portion to her wealth. Some years ago, before the late revolution in the Saxon govern- ment, divorce was more difficult than at present ; while in Prussia it was less so. The law is at present almost on an equal footing in both countries, perhaps stricter in Prussia, where it has lately been altered, public morals having suffered greatly in consequence of the facility of divorce. Again, in Saxony, it was from con- sideration for the morals of the community that the law was re- laxed : all which is worthy of reflection and investigation on deeper and higher grounds than mere suj)erficial morality and ex- pediency. The expense of procuring a legal decree for divorce may be from twelve dollars ("two pounds sterling) and upwards to a very large sum, according to the circumstances of the case. The action of this drama we may suppose to take place at one of the small capitals* in the north of Germany, as Weimar, Cobourg, Stettin, Dessau, &c., where a young lady, rich, noble, and beau- tiful, might put on her bonnet and walk through the streets un- attended, with perfect propriety. * In German " Residenzen,'''' as being the residence of the sovereign prince. PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. Julius, Baron Lowenberg. Doctor Lowe, Madame von Sturmer. Anna, Baron Riedler. Catharine, Martin, Henriette, Christian, A Notary. His uncle. Her step-daughter. A poor widoiv. The Doctor's servant. Madame Sturmer^s maid. Her footman. THE UNCLE. A CT I. Scene the First. A Street. Enter Riedler on one side, and Henriette, with a phial in her hand, on the other. riedler. Ha, Mamsell Henriette ! whither away so fast? henriette. Whither — can you ask, sir ? as if there was any way for me but from the house-door to the apothecary's shop ! 136 THE UNCLE. [aCT 1. RIEDLER. Is your good lady fallen sick again, by way of a change ? HENRIETTE. Oh, yesterday evening we had a terrible scene ! She had an inflammation of the lungs, it seems ; and because Dr. Richter wouldn't believe it, and refused to bleed her, she became downright mad, wished the doctor at the mischief, and herself in heaven ; and, in short, went so far in the height of her fury, that the doctor ran off without his hat, and swore he would never enter the house again — a catastrophe which of a sudden changed my lady's inflammation into a bilious fever. RIEDLER. Bravo ! admirable ! — and how well you tell the story ! HENRIETTE. Yes — I'm used to it — had always a knack at telling a story ; and if I had not the comfort of relating the scenes that happen at home to half a dozen of my intimate acquaintance, I'm sure I don't think I could stay another hour in such a detested service. RIEDLER. And what said Miss Anna to all this ado ? HENRIETTE. Why, Miss Anna had to play the harp to her ACT I.] THE UNCLE. 137 mamma from midnight till after one this morn- ing, to quiet her nerves forsooth ! RIEDLER. A very pleasant task ! HENRIETTE. O that's nothing ! — formerly, I remember that she had to play all night long ; and all the physic that my lady takes, she must taste it first ; and not long ago, when my lady had the toothache, they talked of pulling out one of Miss Anna's beautiful teeth, just that she might tell her mamma if it was really so very painfuLor not — ha, ha, ha ! RIEDLER (laughing). That's awful. HENRIETTE. Ay, in truth ; but so it always is, when one spoils people in that way. My young lady would bear it all, if it were ten times worse. Now, suppose a rich uncle had adopted me, and left me his sole heiress ; — " My lady mamma," says I, " for your daughter I'm not good enough, it seems, and for your waiting-maid too good; you have your jointure, I have my dowry — the world is wide — your most obedient!" {loith a mock curt- sey). RIEDLER. Pity that Miss Anna has not so much sense as Mamsell Henriette ! 138 THE UNCLE. [aCT I. HENRIETTE. Sense ! Lord knows you rich people have sel- dom much to boast of, and she hasn't a grain ; for she can never conceive that with her foolish forbearance she causes us poor servants double trouble ; and, in spite of all the pains I have taken, I have never been able to bring her to abuse the old lady yet. RIEDLER. That is really too bad. HENRIETTE. But, for all that, 1 want her to keep me in her service when she marries. RIEDLER. Is it possible she could think of discharging such a superlative attendant as Mamsell Henri- ette ?— O no ! HENRIETTE. This match with Baron Lowenberg will cer- tainly take place, will it not ? RIEDLER. I hope so. HENRIETTE, He is waiting for his mother's consent : but it cannot be refused — -that is certain, isn't it ? RIEDLER. Assuredly ; and I even hope that to-day's ACT I.] THE UNCLE. 139 post will bring it — that is, supposing the mother to be a reasonable woman. HENRIETTE. Where does she live ? RIEDLER. In Switzerland. HENRIETTE, In Switzerland ! Oh I hope we shall go there after the wedding to pay her a visit. I once saw the Swiss Family at the play — (sings) — " Who ever heard me complain ?" perhaps I may find a Jacob for myself.* RIEDLER. Of course you will : but here comes the Baron, and your lady will be asking for her medicine. HENRIETTE. O ! she'll take another in the meantime. [She goes out. * SSSec 'i)bvte ttjot)! \tmaU mid) Uaqtn, " who ever heard me complain ?" — one of the songs in a beautiful and popular opera com- posed by Weigl, now the imperial Kapell-meister at Vienna. ®te ©d)iceit5er gamilte was produced once, and but once, I believe, in England by Sontag, when she sang the part of Emmeline for her benefit : it is also a favourite part of Mad. Schroeder-Devrient, and the one, I believe, in which she first appeared as a singer. 140 THE UNCLE. [aCT I. Entei' Julius. RIEDLER. If there were siicli servants in every house, the secret police might save a good round sum.* Good morning, Lowenberg : how is it with you ? JULIUS. Ill—ill. RIEDLER. Ill ! the post is not come in then ? JULIUS. Yes, it's come ; but I wish one of those Swiss avalanches had stopped the road up, on its way. RIEDLER. You alarm me — have you had a letter from your mother ? JULIUS. Yes — that's the very thing. RIEDLER. Why, surely against a marriage with the daughter of Baron Stlirmer and Lady Temple, the sole heiress of her uncle the rich Lord Tem- ple, she can have nothing to object ? JULIUS. No, not exactly that — but hear what she writes — * i. e. Because it would not be necessary to have hired spies in almost every family, as is the case at Vienna and Munich ; and also, though-the system is there less flagrant, in some of the north- ern capitals. ACT I.] THE UNCLE. 141 {he reads) — " My dear Son," and so forth — " with regard to your project of marrying- this rich young Englishwoman, I have nothing against it, for my own part ; but as in an affair of such importance I do not trust your inexjaerience, and not knowing, besides, how far your engage- ment Avitli the Lindners may have gone, your excellent uncle must be the sole judge in this case ; what he thinks right will have my ap- proval ; and his consent shall immediately be fol- lowed by mine," — Now what do you say to that ? RIEDLEK. That women were sent into the world for no- thing else but to pull down what men have toiled to build up, JULIUS. Before I get my uncle's consent to a mar- riage with Anna, the stream shffll flow backwards to its fountain. RIEDLER. Why, it seems he has dried flowers and empaled butterflies with old Lindner, and the girl Caroline has read Matthison's poems to him — and therefore he has set his heart on the match JULIUS, And accordingly w ill never give his consent to any other. 142 THE UNCLE. [aCT I. RIEDLER. You are too easily discouraged. Your uncle is an oddity — liard as a rock one day, and the next so soft, you may twine him round your finger. JULIUS. There you mistake him : he is not hard or soft, according to the day — but according to the matter in hand. RIEDLER. But it would be really a cursed bore if he were to ruin this marriage affair : what, after all, does he mean you to do in the world ? JULIUS. He means the best, I believe — that I should become an active, useful member of society ; that's what he means. * RIEDLER. Active — useful — every journeyman labourer is that. JULIUS. And he esteems such labourers, Riedler. Don't take it ill — but really there are moments when I repent that I did not follow his advice from the beginning ; I believe I had been better off for it. Now, indeed, all return is cut off — it is now too late. ACT I.] * THE UNCLE. 143 RIEDLER. Tell tne what is it that disturbs you thus ? JULIUS. Anna speaks just as my uncle does. RIEDLER. She's a prude and a j^edant : if she hadn't so much money, I would really advise you to give her up. JULIUS. It is — I must needs say it — unpardonable, the way in which I have lately neglected my studies ! — if I go on in this manner, I shall certainly forget everything I know. RIEDLER. Pooh! JULIUS. And besides, I have got horribly into debt. RIEDLER. A splendid appointment will make all right, and that you will have through the connexion I have obtained for you ; and you shall not lose Anna's hand eithei'. I will not lay my head to rest till I have gained it for you : and {putting his hand to his forehead) — I have just thought of a stroke of Genius ! Anna is yours ! and in a month from this we shall see your cre- ditors scampering out of the way of your equi- page. 144 THE UNCLE. [aCT I. JULIUS. But hear me, Riedler — you don't mean to try your eloquence on my uncle ? That were pains thrown away, and would probably only make the mischief worse. RIEDLER. Do you think me mad ? Not a syllable shall he hear from me ; he shall not even suspect that I have any hand in it, and yet I will weave such a net around him, that I will put it out of his power to refuse his consent — JULIUS. I do not comprehend — RIEDLER. Your uncle knows nothing of this new flame of yours ? JULIUS. Assuredly not : I have never spoken of her, and he never listens to mere gossip. RIEDLER. Well, your uncle, in spite of this fancy of set- ting up for an old man at eight- and-thirty, is not absolutely insensible. Anna is beautiful, and somewhat tedious with her learning and her vir- tue — just the sort of thing to charm him — if he could see her without prejudice, and not as the beloved of his nephew ; and that is just what we have to bring about. ACT I.] THE UNCLE. 145 JULIUS. But even tlien we are still far from our object. RIEDLER. Not so far as you think. — Eh ! if your uncle now, for example, should fall in love with her ? — could he blame in his nephew an inclination in which he had got entangled himself? JULIUS. You know nothing about it. 'hlj uncle in love ! I believe that for the last eighteen years, no- thing of the feminine gender has interested him, except the wide-mouthed statue of Hope on the monument of his Marie. RIEDLER. That were precisely the jest — to make him faithless to his buried love, and so oblige him to forgive your infidelity to Caroline. JULIUS. I hope you do not mean to make my uncle ridiculous with this contrivance? I should not like that — nor would I suffer it. RIEDLER. Is love ridiculous ? JULIUS. And besides, Anna will never consent to play a part in such a farce. RIEDLER. I do not intend to let her into our plan at all — VOL. I. H 146 THE UNCLE. [aCT I. she does not know, does she, that Doctor Lowe is your uncle ? JULIUS {confused). Why, the conversation never took that turn — never gave me an opportunity RIEDLER. And then I had forbidden you to introduce yourself to these strangers at first as the son of a lately ennobled merchant. JULIUS. I cannot say it was that which prevented me RIEDLEK. Never mind what it was. — Well, I am going to Martini's to eat a hundred oysters — will you go ? JULIUS. I have no time. RIEDLER. Ah, true — you must to your mistress ; but let the heart be once satisfied, we shall have the appetite coming in for arrears. \^Exit. JULIUS. * Riedler is thoughtless, but he means well — and tlien he is not so vei^y wrong in some respects : my uncle does not know what ambition is, and I should die a sort of moral death between him and Caroline. [Exit. ACT I.] THE UNCLE. 147 Scene II. An apartment in the house of Madame Stw'mer. Enter Madame Sturmer, leaning on Anna and Henriette. madame sturmer. A little farther — there — set me down : do you not see how weak I am on my feet 1 HENRIETTE. A fly in September is stronger than your lady- ship, truly. MADAME STURMER, And yet I do believe that Doctor Richter could see me in this condition, and have the audacity to prescribe me a ride for exercise. A man without a conscience is that Doctor Richter ! let him go, but when I am dying, Henriette — then do me the kindness to send for him, and bring him here, — that before I depart this life I may have the satisfaction of hearing him confess how ill I am ! Anna ! you do not speak a word ? ANNA. Will you not sit down, dear mother ? h2 148 THE UNCLE. [aCT I. MADAME STURMER. Mother ! how often must I tell you that now you have grown so tall, and are well-nigh twenty, I don't choose to be called mother any longer ? You have accustomed yourself to the word till it slips out before people ; and there are some absurd enough, or short-sighted enough, to take you really for my own daughter. ANNA. And even in such a case would you be ashamed of me ? MADAME StUrMER. A grown-up daughter of twenty is no credit to a mother who has kept her good looks as I have done ; and I think I show quite sufficient self- denial in keeping you with me. I might have sent you, after your father's death, to some boarding-school ; but it was against my feel- ings. HENRIETTE {ttside). And my interest. ANNA. Well, madam, you may be easy : I shall not ])e a burthen to you much longer, MADAME StUrMER. That is just the question — I don't know that. You are to marry this young Lowenberg ; but ACT I.] THE UNCLE. 149 he, as Baron Reidler assures me, intends to use all his influence to induce me to live in his house. ANNA. And in so far he proves his respect for me. MADAME STURMER. Certainly ; but whether I shall yield to his request, depends entirely on your behaviour. I have been dreadfully neglected of late — dread- fully ! ANNA. Will you not be pleased to sit down ? MADAME STURMER. On the sofa. (^^e sits.) Yes, dreadfully neglected, as I was saying ; but so it is always with a lonely widow. Ah, if your poor dear father could but see it all ! ANNA {aside). And if he could, I trust he would be satisfied with his daughter. MADAME STliRMER. Alas ! why did he die ? HENRIETTE (ttside). To spare himself the trouble of a divorce, 1 fancy. MADAME STliRMER (yawning). This young Lowenberg is a good sort of young man ; I hope you will be happy with him. 150 THE UNCLE. [aCT I. ANNA. I hope so too : for the motives of my attach- ment to him are sufficiently disinterested and honourable to lead to happiness. They are, com- passion for an excellent but misguided young- man ; the wish to save him from that abyss, to the very brink of which his false friends have allured him ; to be able to say in my heart, that the man of my choice owes all to me — all — that I have restored him to virtue, duty, and useful energy. MADAME STURMER. Every husband, Anna, is as a bit of rough clay, which it is the wife's part to model into some- thing graceful and ornamental. But you wil have little trouble with yours ; for I shall under- take to form him myself when I go to live with you. {She yawns.) Is Christian gone to Doctor Wilde ? HENRIETTE. Yes, my lady, but he did not find him at home. MADAME STURMER. There ! — such things happen to none but me. I did wish so urgently to see him at this very moment, for I feel that sleep coming over me — that waking sleep, you know ACT I.] THE UNCLE. 151 HENRIETTE (uside). Which lasts usually for six or seven hours together. ANNA. After a sleepless night, it is no wonder if you feel tired ; lie down on the sofa, and we will leave you alone. MADAME STURMER. Alone, indeed ! that I may sleep never to wake again ? for what I feel, you may believe it or not, isn't weariness at all, hut a horrid sort of stupor ; when I close my eyes, such strange figures float before me ! HENRIETTE (aSlde). A stranger figure before mine, when they are wide open. MADAME STllRMER {UsS doWTl). Anna, sit by me ; the cushion is too low ; lay your arm under my head — so, so : and you, Hen- riette, go away ; you have the bad habit of sighing every now and then, and that disturbs my rest. HENRIETTE. As your ladyship pleases. {Aside.) I shall know how to turn my sighs to good account for the future. [Exit. MADAME STURMER. Anna ! what was I going to say ? O yes ! 152 THE UNCLE. [ACT I. when I go to live with you and your husband, my sleeping-room must look into the court-yard, and my sitting-room into the street. My maid's room must be next to my bed-room. I should like an ante-room also, if it could be managed — and a dressing-room — and a closet besides, where the dog might sleep; — and — and — Anna! — my thouahts wander — I think I must be delirious. ANNA. Only sleepy, dear madam. MADAME STURMER. Do you know that — lately — when we were at Domfeld's — I felt— Doctor Wilde must — {her voice sinks in unintelligible murmurs, and at length she falls fast asleep.) ANNA. She was my dear father's beloved wife : I will do my duty towards her as long as it rests with me. Enter Julius. JULIUS. Not a living soul in the ante-room — so you must pardon me. ANNA. Hush ! hush ! she sleeps. Come nearer, Julius, and sit down ; I have been wishing for some time to speak to you alone. ACT I.] THE UNCLE. 153 JULIUS {brings a chair, and seats himself near her). I will vow a temple to Morpheus for this favour. ANNA. Do not be in a hurry with such vows : who knows whether you will consider yourself so mucli bound to him, when I tell you that the subject of our conference will not be love, but something much more serious ? JULIUS. Would you waste thus the few moments which fate allows us? ANNA. No — rather employ them wisely. But before I go on, Julius, have you any answer from your mother yet ? JULIUS (confused). Not yet. ANNA. No matter ; I flatter myself that I shall obtain her approbation : I have my mother's consent, and our union must take place shortly ; a circum- stance which obliges me to say, now and quickly, what is more fitly heard from the lips of the mistress than the wife. Julius, if you really do wish to make me happy, your mode of life must be in some things changed. H 5 154 THE UNCLE. [aCT I. JULIUS. How SO ? ANNA. You must, in the first place, emj)Ioy yourself steadily : I know nothing more worthless than an idle man, JULIUS. I have finished my studies, and the place I hope to obtain ANNA. Can only be deservedly obtained through hard work ; and, undeserved, I could scarcely wish you to obtain it. Secondly, there are some friends from whom I wish you to break off, for never could I count them among mine. JULIUS. Is not Riedler ANNA. He is a parasite, a flatterer, whom I endure for my mother's sake alone : and I presume it will not be difficult for you to find other society ; for many of your expressions, your whole de- meanour towards this man, prove to me that you have older, better friends, whom for him, and such as him, you have lately neglected. Julius, who was it who superintended your edu- cation ? ACT I.] THE UNCLE. 155 JULIUS. My uncle. ANNA. Have you had the misfortune to lose him ? JULIUS. no, he is still living ; but he is ANNA. He lives — and you have never yet mentioned him to me ? JULIUS {greatly emharrassed). He is — how shall I express it 1 — a man of the last century — old-fashioned — but upright, that I must allow. ANNA. 1 should wish to make his acquaintance ; does he reside in this town ? JULIUS. No — that is — yes — but he receives no visiters whatever. ANNA. He will not surely refuse the bride of his nephew ; when will you see him ? JULIUS. I was thinking to-day — perhaps ANNA. Very good — you will prepare him, then, to receive me. 156 THE u^^CLE. [act I, Enter Hiedler. RiEDLER {opening the door). May I come in ? ANNA. Hush ! RIEDLER {advancing). What do I see ? our lady mother asleep, and Miss Anna's arm doing duty as a pillow ? Never mind, I will release you from the task. {Aside to Julius.) But first, you must be off, for you are in my way here. I was just going to com- mence operations. JULIUS {aside). I fear some indiscretion. RIEDLER {aside). Fear nothing — nothing that can annoy or com- promise you ; you are out of the affair completely. But go — off with you. [Julius takes his hat. ANNA. Julius, where are you going ? JULIUS. I told you of my intention to visit my uncle. ANNA. Then I will not detain you. JULIUS {aside to Hiedler). I go — but remember, no imprudence. \_IIe kisses Annas hand, and goes out. ACT I.] THE UNCLE. 157 RiEDLER {looking after him). At last ! [He foUoios him to the door, and shuts it after him with violence. ANNA. How could you do such a thing ? MADAME STi'iRMER {wahlng with a loud shriek). Ah, an earthquake ! RIEDLER. I am in despair to have broken your ladyship's repose; but at Martini's, where I went just now to eat a few oysters, I heard of yOur being alarmingly ill. I left my breakfast in the midst, hurried hither, and a sudden draught must have forced the door from my trembling hands. MADAME STURMER. You have so terrified me — I shall never re- cover it. RIEDLER. You look dreadfully ill. MADAME STURMER. Don't I ? There, you hear that, Anna ! You are the only one. Baron, who will believe me. RIEDLER. You have really too much fortitude — too much command over yourself: you never complain till your soul is just hovering on your lips ; but, my 158 THE UNCLE. [aCT I. dear madam, if you do not take more care of yourself, tlie consequences will be terrible ! MADAME stUrmer {alarmed). You think so, really ? riedler. I hear you have parted with Doctor Bichter ? MADAME STliRMER. The scene had nearly cost me my life. Anna, tell him all about it. RIEDLER. I know it already, and have only to congra- tulate you on the chance which has delivered you from the hands of an ignoramus. Didn't this Doctor Richter presume at times to hint at your age ? as if your age could have the least influence on your health! You are yet in the prime of life, my dear madam ; it is vexation and grief which have broken down your strength. MADAME StUrMER {siglis). Vexation and grief — there, indeed, you are right. RIEDLER. Dr. Richter never understood your disorder — have nothing more to say to him ; and yet, in your precarious state, you cannot remain without a physician. MADAME STliRMER. I have sent for Doctor Wilde. ACT I.] THE UNCLE. 159 RIEDLER. That will not do either, — he inclines, I hear, to the homoeopathic system ; no, my dear madam, if I may be permitted to advise, call in Doctor Lowe, and no other. MADAME STURMER. I have heard of Doctor Lowe — have not you, Anna? ANNA. I have heard him spoken of as the first physi- cian in the place. RIEDLER. He is the man for you ! Give his prescriptions but one trial — in a month you will be as strong and hearty as you were at four-and-twenty. MADAME StUrMER. I know that this Dr. Lowe has completely set up the wife of General Seeberg, who is five years older than I am. RIEDLER. It appears to me that your speech to-day is somewhat impaired. MADAME STURMER. You think so ? RIEDLER. That your breathing is somewhat short : you will admit that ? 160 THE UNCLE. [aCT I. MADAME STURMER. Alas ! I have been aecustonied lately almost to live without breathing. RIEDLER. It would be a pity if you were prevented from going to the party to-morrow. MADAME STllRMER. Alas ! I am accustomed to sacrifices of every kind ; but medical aid I must have ; Anna, if ever I deserved your gratitude, bring me Dr. Lowe ! RIEDLER. With your permission, I will send Christian for him. MADAME STiiRMER (bitterly). That Christian has the misfortune never to find people at home : he is a fool — just such a one as would tell the doctor that his lady was slightly indisposed, and beg he would come at his leisure ; but if it be too much trouble for the the young lady ANNA. If you wish me to go to him myself MADAME STURMER. No— not I. Send Christian: my life or death I well know to be indifferent. ANNA. Where shall I find this Doctor Lowe ? ACT I.] THE UNCLE. 161 RIEDLER. In Broad Street ; but it is raining fast, I see. MADAME STllRMER. Oh, don't be uneasy : I wouldn't for the world that the young lady should catch cold on my account : my poor life is worthless to every one. I really believe those around me will never be easy till I am dead in my coffin. RIEDLER {aside). Indeed I believe so too. ANNA. I am no spoiled child : I will take an umbrella. RIEDLER, Will you not allow me to go instead of the young lady ? MADAME StUrMER. You ! poor dear man ! — no, I will not suffer such a thing ; — you, who had the rheumatism in your arm last winter ! Do you hear, Anna — the kindness of Baron Riedler ? ANNA. Pray be not uneasy : I shall not abuse his kind- ness. \_She hurries out. RIEDLER {aside). Ay, let her go ; the meeting will only be the move piquant ; 'tis a capital joke ! MADAME STURMER {calling after Anna). Anna ! — don't forget to tell the doctor that I 162 THE UNCLE. [aCT I. have pains in my chest — violent pains and cramps, and that I am so weak I can scarcely stand on my feet, and with such a giddiness in my head that I cannot move across the room. Anna ! {jumping off the sofa) — Anna ! — do you hear, I say ! [Runs out after Anna ; Riedler follows her, laughing. END OF THE FIRST ACT. ACT II.] THE UNCLE. 163 ACT II. Scene — A Room in the house of Doctor Lowe ; books, jMJjers, cases of dried insects, and other objects of 7iatural history, lie scattered about on the tables. LOWE. These butterflys have been badly packed ; the Menelaus has a wing- torn, and the Ulysses has lost half a head. Have you got the ant-eggs for the birds ? MARTIN. No ; but I got some crumbs of bread and flies for them. LOWE. I am not in spirits to-day, Martin, 164 THE UNCLE. ^ [aCT II. MARTIN. So I see, sir. LOWE. I have just had a letter from my sister-in-law, which has vexed me. MARTIN. Indeed, sir ? LOWE. This boy — this Julius — you know how my heart clings to him : since the death of my Marie, I have loved nothing on earth so well, though, in good truth, I have hut little comfort in him. MARTIN. Never mind him, sir : send him about his busi- ness. LOWE. I can't — I can't do it ; the young dissolve such ties lightly, for they can easily form new ones ; but when we arrive at a certain age MARTIN. Why, when we come to a certain age, I think as how it's time to think of ourselves first. What has the young gentleman been doing now ? LOWE. There is no occasion for you to know that. MARTIN. He seldom visits his uncle — that I know. ACT II.] THE UNCLE. 165 LOWE. Every Monday : and this is Monday. MARTIN. He never comes home at night — before morn- ing. LOWE. Because he's not sleepy, I suppose. MARTIN. Then he plays LOWE. So do I sometimes — chess. MARTIN. And he has debts. LOWE. Hush ! hush ! — I know nothing of such things : I will hear nothing. MARTIN, Well, sir, you are right ; it is rather dangerous for an uncle to ask after his nephew's debts ; for there are discoveries to be made on such ground, for which one must j)ay dearly sometimes. LOWE iiualks up and down, then stops suddenly). Martin, how is the weather ? MARTIN. Detestable, your honour. LOWE. That is provoking : I must jgo again to that }66 THE UNCLE. [aCT II, child of poor Dame Starke which was seized with the cramp yesterday. MARTIN. Why, they live five stories high ; such people get well of themselves. LOWE. Those who live five stories high, Martin, are nearer to heaven than those on the first floor ;* and then, besides, it is two days since I went to the churchyard. MARTIN. Mamsell Marie herself would not have gone out in such weather. LOWE, In any weather she would have gone to visit my last resting-place. MARTIN. Let me order the carriage for your honour. LOWE. No — no ; the horses will get wet, and the coachman too. MARTIN. Troth, one would think your honour went out * In Germany, as in France, many families inhabit the same houses, the upper stories being occupied by the poorer classes. Some of the houses are enormous : a friend of mine at Munich inhabited a suite of twenty-three rooms on one floor, all communi- cating with each other. ACT II.] THE UNCLE. 167 a riding, just for the diversion of the coachman and horses. LOWE. Let me go on my own way — you have been used to it these twenty years ; and hark ye, Martin, just attend to the weather, and tell me as soon as the rain is over. MARTIN {aside as he goes out). Now, there's all that learning's good for ; it proves that it's better to be a doctor's coachman than the doctor himself. ' [£xit. LOWE {after a pause). I believe I have taken the right method Avith Julius in leaving him free. Man acts best from his own free will, and virtue itself is burthensome when forced on us by authority. I depend on those principles which I instilled into him, and I have hopes he will come out of this giddy whirlpool of society — more experienced — and consequently more to be trusted ; yet if he be so lost as to be capable of forgetting his first love, if he thus close against himself the entrance to that haven where he was to find shelter from the storms of life — why then — then Enter- Julius. *- JULIUS. I hope I do not disturb my good uncle ! 168 THE UNCLE. [aCT II. LOWE (Jiindly). I expected you — for this is Monday, you know. Come here, and tell me liow you have spent the last week. JULIUS. Why, not well — or rather ill enough : I have been engaged on all sides : here I was obliged to pay a necessary visit ; there I could not get off joining a party ; I have really scarce had time to think these last few days. LOWE. Then you have done no work? JULIUS. Yes, from time to time — but very little, I must confess : besides, it was quite as necessary to gain friends, whose interest would forward my views, as to work at my desk all day. LOWE. You have studied for the law, Mid have brought a good certificate from the university. I wish you now to apply what you have learned to the benefit of your fellow-citizens. JULIUS. And I wish to be something more than merely useful. LfiwE. I thought, till now, that to benefit others was the highest aim of life. ACT II.] THE UNCLE. 169 JULIUS. To go through the usual carriere in the usual way is not, in my oj)inion, worth all the trouble and labour it costs. Nor should I consider my- self repaid by what people are pleased to call " earning one's bread." LOWE. Not if you could enjoy it with the conscious- ness of duty fulfilled ? — not if you could share it with Caroline ? JULIUS. What do you mean, my dear uncle ? LOWE. I mean, if you were once provided for, nothing- could stand in the way of your engagement with Caroline. JULIUS. Of course — certainly. LciWE. Why do you change colour ? JULIUS. My dear uncle — I should like to enter the diplomatic line. LOWE. Well? JULIUS. 'Tis better paid. VOL. I. I 170 THE UNCLE. [aCT II. LOWE. That's true. JULIUS. Caroline's fortune will be nothing to signify. LOWE. Her father is not poor — and I am always at hand. JULIUS. And -besides, to speak openly, Caroline and I grew up as children together, and when we first knew each other, we were much alike ; but since then I have altered in many things, and grown — I may say it— wiser ; she, on the contrary, is just the same as ever, and 1 scarcely think we should suit each other now. LOWE {startled). Soh ! JULIUS. If I should withdraw from this engagement, no one can accuse me of unfairness : I never pro- posed in form, and her father refused to bind himself beforehand by any promise. LOWE. And did you never declare your attachment to her — talk of love to her 1 JULIUS. Talk of love to her! O yes; — but — but — also, by your leave, to others besides her. ACT II.] THE UNCLE. 171 LOWE. It sounds much more serious on her part ; she has refused several oiFers for your sake. JULIUS. So young ladies always say, but I have not heard of one yet. LOWE. Hear me, Julius : you have formed some other attachment — or is it ambition only has urged you to seek the hand of another ? Your mother has written to me — I am informed of all : a young English woman, is it not ? — put her out of your head, Julius, at once, JULIUS. Perhaps you would not speak thus, if you were to give yourself the trouble to know the young lady alluded to. Yes, uncle, if you will know the truth — I love another ; fate offers me rank and riches, with the hand of an excellent, a charming woman, and I am not philosopher enough, I confess, to reject such good fortune, merely because, in earlier times, I read Gellert's Fables with Caroline, and danced with her at a village ball. LOWE. And what would poor Caroline say, if she heard you speak in this manner ? I 2 172 THE UNCLE. [aCT II. JULIUS. She? ah, my good uncle, I have reason to suspect that she has been beforehand with me in inconstancy ; she has not persuaded her father to come to town for the last two months. LOWE. Because her father is laid up with the gout. JULIUS. She writes seldom, too, and then only short letters. LOWE. Ay, because she doesn't choose to waste paper and ink on such a thankless fellow, (Sharply) How do you call this new flame of yours ? JULIUS {hesitating). Temple — she is the adopted daughter and heiress of Lord Temple. LOWE. Julius, can't you put the whole thing out of your head at once ? I lay any wager you only fancy you love this girl— eh ? JULIUS. You would lose your wager. LOWE. It is not possible ! it can't be possible ! A man can love but once in his life — as no one knows better than myself; and_ that you loved Caroline, I am convinced. ACT II.] THE UNCLE. 173 JULIUS. Good uncle, the constancy which you would prescribe to others belongs only to yourself. LOWE. I don't know much of the world, nor the world's ways, 'tis true ; — but I know the human heart as well as any one. Julius, follow my advice — try to persuade yourself that your love for this — this — how do you call her ? — Temple is her name, isn't it? — is nothing but a fever-fit, so to speak — a fever-dream, and nothing- else ; and in a short time you will confess that it is nothing more. JULIUS {after a pause of thought). What reply will you make to my mother's letter ? LOWE. I think I woul* "*?J ^=a iv^ z>' Sfi ^^ ' '•■ :; WKft^,^' ■ ^tk .3* Mij|^-.> 3 :n»»- SLaMkv':^^ . ^ j:3».. >3SHk ^ .^ ■;;t» -Ji'5i>-_Si95»?» * -SIfc- :> ► ^ » ^ SS »> Ta » 5 » "5 ^^"ir^ »• • ' »;; ». , — « P »■ ^ -.n^ > , »' ^_-— J 3» ' ■ ^ at • ^ JTif ~:> «-l^ > *>~7> ""*> :> - » ^ -» ^ > :^ ~~' ' ' '^' .