University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Dorimond and Eugenia meeting.
Dorimond.
My Morning's Joy, may all its dearest Blessings,
As fall its Dews on Earth, descend upon you.
Sure my Eugenia, rising with the Morn,
Steals her Complexion from her. Why those Blushes!
A Father's Praise is but th' Excess of Fondness,
The Over-flowing of a Heart, that loves you.

Eugenia.
And can I wish it more? This tender Proof,
That your Eugenia's not displeasing to you,
Is far beyond all Praise.

Dorimond.
My Life's first Blessing;
But yet its tender Care, and soft Anxiety—
For while my Heart, with pleasurable Fondness,
Pours its Affections o'er you, still it trembles
With strongly imag'd Fears.

Eugenia.
Alas! my Father!

Dorimond.
If Heaven's Indulgence should no longer spare me
To this delightful Task, to form your Youth—
But I'll not pain thy gentle Disposition.
I came to talk to you of Happiness,
Thou Fondness of my Soul.

Eugenia
aside.
Where will this end?

Dorimond.
Tell me, Eugenia, can a Virgin's Heart
Conceive the chaste Delights, the pure Endearments,
That dwell with wedded Love; where holy Friendship
Inspires the mutual Wish; where equal Interests
Produce an equal Bliss; where each is happy
In th' other's Happiness?

Eugenia.
Sir, may I own,
If the Acquaintance of a Man of Worth
Be truly valuable, how much more dear
Must his Alliance be, his kindred Virtues?
To have my Understanding form'd, improv'd,
Enlarg'd by his superior Sense; to share
In the Esteem, that's paid him by his Friends,
Or by the public Voice, that speaks his Worth—
If there were such a Man—

Dorimond.
There is, there is.
Whom his own Sex esteems for manly Virtue,
And yours might love for every softer Art,
Which makes that Virtue amiable.
But as the highest Proof how dear I hold him,
(For Nature bids me love him, as my Kinsman)
I dare to trust him with Eugenia's Happiness.

Eugenia
aside.
It is—be still my Heart—It must be Clerval.
To Dorimond.
What has my Soul, but Gratitude and Love,
What has my Duty, Sir, but its Obedience,
To pay you back this wondrous Tenderness?

Dorimond.
Then take him from my Hand, my Heart, my Judgment,
My happy Nephew Mercour. Ha! that trembling,
That pale Confusion on your frighted Cheek,
What can it mean? Whence are those Tears, Eugenia?

Eugenia.
They are not mine; they start involuntary
From Passions, not my own. But, Sir, my Will,
My Duty, Love, and Gratitude are mine,
And they shall all obey you.

Dorimond.
No, my Child;
I am a Father; would be thought a Friend,
Whom Nature has entrusted with your Happiness;
Whose more experienc'd Age might influence,
But not controul, your Choice. Yet this hereafter.
For now my Heart's too full—of Tenderness.

[Going.
Eugenia.
Yet stay, Oh! stay; I'll stop these gushing Tears,
Since they displease you. Do not leave me thus.
This the first Time (think how my Heart must feel it)
I ever knew your Anger, your Displeasure.

Dorimond
embracing her.
Is this to be displeas'd? Is this like Anger?
Indulgent Nature hovers o'er her Works,
As they yet rise to Life, with less fond Pleasure
Than fills thy Father's Breast; nor will I ask
Why you are thus alarm'd—Some other Time—
Enter Orphisa.
Orphisa, take my Daughter to your Care.
[Exit Dorimond.

Eugenia, Orphisa.
Orphisa.
Your Father strangely mov'd, and you in Tears!
Could you offend him, or can he be angry?

Eugenia.
Tho' always most indulgent, yet this Morning—
Sure never was a Father's Fondness shewn
In such exceeding Tenderness.

Orphisa.
Then what
Afflicts you thus?

Eugenia.
His Tenderness, Orphisa,
Afflicting, as his Anger. Yet even now
He thinks me disobedient, base, ungrateful.
[Looking after Dorimond.
Oh! Sir—these Tears—this Sorrow of my Soul—
Is this like Disobedience? This, Ingratitude?
[Turning to Orphisa.
You, Madam, who have form'd my Heart, must know it:
Am I ungrateful? Can Ingratitude,
(The basest Vice that taints the human Heart)
Dwell with the Lessons you have planted there?

Orphisa.
Yet may I understand you?

Eugenia.
Pray forgive me.
While he pronounc'd his Morning-Blessings o'er me,
His Looks were full of Care and soft Anxiety.
He talk'd to me of Happiness; of Marriage;
And earnest wish'd to see my Fate united
With one, whom he describ'd with every Art,
With every Charm, that gains Esteem and Love.

Orphisa
aside.
Sure I once knew the dear Original
Of this delightful Picture—Pray go on.

Eugenia.
With conscious Eye, where Joy and Rapture shone,
I view'd the pleasing Portrait; I compar'd it
With that, which Love had pictur'd on my Heart,
And found the Likeness real. Think, Orphisa,
What Horrors fill'd my Eye, my Heart, my Brain,
When, with a much unusual Warmth, he cry'd,
“Then take him from my Hand, my Heart, my Judgment,
My happy Nephew—Mercour”

Orphisa
aside.
Poor Eugenia!
Perceiv'd he your Confusion?

Eugenia.
It was not in Power of Artifice,
Sure not in my Simplicity to hide,
Or to disguise it. While my Tongue stopp'd, faultering,
Unknowing how to answer; every Feature
Too strongly told th' Aversion of my Soul.

Orphisa.
Whence this Aversion? In the World's Opinion,
(Which seldom judges wrong, when it commends)
Mercour has Merit; an extentive Knowledge,
In Letters and in Men, with every Elegance,
That's form'd and polish'd by the Arts of Courts.
May I not fear, that Mercour's greatest Fault
Is Clerval's being amiable?

Eugenia.
No, Madam.
It is not that my Judgment disesteems him.
There's somewhat in him, that my Nature starts at,
An Instinct of Aversion.

Orphisa.
But his Brother—
I will allow his Worth—Yet all Engagements—

Eugenia.
That never shall transgress the Bounds of Duty,
Not even in Thought—Will you condemn them, Madam?

Orphisa.
I do; I must; without your Father's Knowledge.
The Maid, who loves her Innocence, should blush
If e'er her wandering Eye excite the Hope
Of secret Love; 'tis ev'n a Crime to please,
Which Virtue startles at. Oh! would Eugenia
Exert the Spirit of Virtue; let the Sense
Of filial Piety inspire her Breast,
And at the Marriage-Altar offer up
The Passions of the Heart; that noblest Sacrifice,
Worthy of her, of Virtue, and of Heaven—

Eugenia.
And will high Heaven be mock'd with such a Sacrifice?
And shall I give my Hand, that sacred Pledge
Of Love and Truth, to him my Soul abhors?
Shall I deceive even him? Shall I profane
The Altar and its Rites with Vows of Falshood?
There shall I learn Dissimulation? there
First speak a Language, foreign to my Heart?
Ye blessed Saints and Angels, shall ye hear
My unhallow'd Lips pronounce the solemn Promise
Of everlasting Love to one I hate?

Orphisa.
All holy Things forbid. I durst not think it.
Yet when th' Affections hear the Voice of Reason,
They rise, like purest Incense, from the Heart.
Then, who shall rob the Father of his Right,
His Child's Obedience? Not his Voice alone,
'Tis Nature's primal Law, that bids, obey;
And Heaven has promis'd to this first of Duties
Its first of Blessings.

Eugenia.
But to live, Orphisa,
A mean Dissembler of the Heart's Affections,
While Duty coldly acts the part of Love—
Guide of my Youth, Directress of my Life,
Teach me, for sure you know, th' unerring Path,
That leads to Happiness.

Orphisa.
There is but one;
Not hard to find, th' unerring Path of Virtue.
Virtue, that in itself commands its Happiness,
Of every outward Object independant.
I see you're mov'd. At some more temperate Hour
We may resume the Subject. Only this,
Let not Aversion, Prejudice or Passion,
And, above all, let us not suffer Clerval
[Smiling.
To mix a Lover's Reasoning with our Councils.
You must not see him.

Eugenia.
How can I avoid him?
Look where he comes.

Orphisa.
Retire. Depend upon me.
I'll take a tender Care of all your Interests.

Eugenia
looking back as she goes out.
O Clerval. Clerval!

Enter Clerval.
Orphisa
as Clerval enters.
How her Eyes spoke a streaming Tenderness,
Beyond all Power of Language.

Clerval.
Stay, Eugenia,
Tell me my Fate, whate'er you purpose for me.
Cruel—O speak to me—unkind Eugenia.

Orphisa.
Sir, she has order'd me—

Clerval.
There needs not, Madam,
A Tale of cruel Pity to inform me—
I see it plain—that I am most undone.
Your Influence, Madam, your too rigid Virtue—

Orphisa.
You cannot, Sir, imagine me your Enemy.

Clerval.
I know you cannot be an Enemy;
But can you be the Lover's Friend, who think
That Love is Weakness? She, whose Virtue sits
Above the Passions, how can she forgive
Their least Misrule in others? Can she pity
Those softher Yieldings, which she ne'er experienc'd?

Orphisa.
I would not ,Sir, be thought insensible
Even to the softest Yieldings of the Heart,
For I have known them all.

[Aside.
Clerval.
Then tell Eugenia,
Let me conjure you tell her, that my Heart
Ne'er felt the Power of Beauty for another,
Nor Hopes, nor Fears, nor Wishes; that my Eye,
Ne'er gaz'd with Joy on any other Form.
Witness, ye Powers, who view our inmost Thoughts,
And see the Mind yet rising into Action,
Did I e'er think of Happiness without her,
Or feel a Grief, but as it gave her Pain.

Orphisa.
Is there not too much Warmth, too much of Passion
In this Protesting? When that Youth and Beauty
(Whose very Nature is Decay and Frailty)
Which now inspire these Transports, shall decay,
Will they not alter too? Will they not change?

Clerval.
Yes, Madam, when Discretion, Sense, and Honour,
(These are Eugenia's Beauties) change their Nature;
Then shall my Passion change. If it be Passion,
'Tis form'd of purer Fire, than that which warms
Our Sense to Beauty.

Orphisa.
Sir, I must confess,
These Sentiments most noble. I acknowledge,
When Virtue rules the Passions, they are virtuous.
But how can I oblige you? Is it fitting—
Shall I, the Guardian of Eugenia's Youth,
I, who should aid her to controul her Heart,
Fill her soft Soul with Love's tumultuous Cares?
With Love, that in itself is all the Passions?

Clerval.
I am perhaps, but an improper Judge
Of this calm, temperate Reasoning. But my Uncle—
No Motive there of Duty can restrain you.
I know how highly he esteems your Merit.
Let me conjure you then.—

Orphisa.
I must not hear you.
My Duty, Sir, forbids me, lest my Heart—
It must not yield even to its own Esteem,
[Aside, seeing Mercour.
Nor shall it, Mercour, to my just Resentment
Even for that bold, unworthy Bribe, you offer'd me.

Enter Dorimond, Mercour.
Mercour.
[Aside to Dorimond.
Good Heaven, forbid, that I should do her wrong
By my Suspicions.

Dorimond.
I much fear you do not.
I have myself observ'd—But I'll be satisfied.

Mercour.
There is a foolish Softness in my Nature,
That cannot see, what I so late esteem'd,
In the Distress of Guilt, Your Pardon, Sir;
I must retire. Now Mischief do thy Pleasure.

[Aside.
[Exit.
Dorimond
, to Orphisa.
How happy, Madam, did I think my Daughter
Beneath your Care? With what Delight behold her?
Confiding to your Truth the dearest Treasure
A Father's Love possesses.

Orphisa.
Have I wrong'd
That Confidence?

Dorimond.
How did my Heart rejoice
To own the Obligation, and repay it?
Why must I charge you with Ingratitude?

Orphisa.
Ingratitude! Then I am fall'n indeed.
[Aside.
I am so little us'd to such Reproaches—
Forgive me, Sir,—I know not how to answer them.

Dorimond.
Madam, this haughty Air but ill befits
The Woman, who can mix in dark Intrigues
To hurt the Peace of Families.

Orphisa.
Am I
This Character? Am I so represented?

Dorimond.
I need not say, how highly I esteem'd you;
I honour'd, as I thought, superiour Merit;
But when I know, you practise on my Daughter
To turn her Heart aside from its Obedience,
And scorn or hate, whom I esteem and love—

Orphisa.
Sir, if you know this of me, 'tis in vain
To justify my Conduct.

Dorimond.
'Tis indeed.
A Maid of such a gentle Disposition—
Who taught her Passions? Who these stranger Aversions?
But, Madam, for the little Time Eugenia
Shall have occasion for your Services,
Let me desire, you may confine your Cares
Within their proper Bounds.

Orphisa.
'Tis fitting, Sir,
That I obey you.

[Exit.
Dorimond, Clerval.
Dorimond.
Ha! such matchless Insolence!
'Tis ever thus; when Guilt is near Discovery,
It boldly takes the conscious Pride of Innocence.

Clerval
. [Aside.
Then my best Hopes are lost. Much wrong'd Orphisa!
O Virtue, ill rewarded!

Dorimond.
Tell me, Nephew,
Why is my House become the dark Retreat
Of Persons in Disguise? Can Clerval fall
To such low Intimates, such mean Society,
As this appears to be?

Clerval.
Your Pardon, Sir;
They, who, of late, have gain'd your Confidence,
Have much abus'd it. You yourself oft told us,
The brave Unfortunate are our best Acquaintance.
They shew us, Virtue may be much distress'd,
And give us their Example how to suffer.

Dorimond.
'Tis true. But wherefore in Disguise? For Virtue,
When justly conscious of her native Worth,
Disdains to walk in Darkness and Disguise.
Or is he what he seems? A common Soldier?

Clerval.
As highly eminent in Birth, as Merit.
Sir, a few Hours shall give him to your Friendship,
The Man, to whom I owe my Life, my Honour,
And France her Share of Glory.

Dorimond.
I believe you.
Suspicion shocks my Nature. I rely
On your Discretion to avoid Engagements,
Where Friendship has a greater Share, than Prudence,
Nor will I ask the Secret of your Friend;
When I can serve him, tell me. But this Action,
This gallant Deed, so glorious to his Country,
May sure be told. 'Tis Honour to repeat it.

Clerval.
'Tis Gratitude; 'tis Friendship; and my Heart,
Whenever you permit me, will with Joy—

Dorimond.
Then, come to my Apartment; I would talk with you
Of somewhat that concerns your Happiness.

[Exeunt Dor. Cler.
Enter Mercour.
Joy! Friendship! Gratitude! This gallant Deed!
Now some romantic Tale shall quite subdue
My Uncle's Spirit. Clerval too regains
His Confidence. No matter. All my Views
Are fixing to their Point; for now, Eugenia,
My haughty, virtuous Maid, [shewing a Paper]
Here lies thy Fate,
And I the Ruler of it. Rapturous Thought!
To see her kneeling in the Dust for Pity,
And in her Pride's Despair, imploring me
To save her from her Shame; from Poverty!

While he is reading, Æmilia enters.
Æmilia.
Is it my own disturb'd Imagination,
Or do I see strange Terrour and Confusion
In every Face I meet? No; there's a Face,
That knows no Change; inflexible in Mischief.
What! can he smile! 'Tis more than common Villainy,
When Mercour deigns to smile. And now he frowns,
As if some Thought of Goodness smote his Heart.

Mercour
. [starting.
Æmilia! most unlucky—but perhaps—

Æmilia.
I fear, Sir, I disturb some hopeful Project
Of most important Goodness.

Mercour.
No; Æmilia;
'Twas nothing but some light and trivial Thinking.
But may I hope we meet on other Terms,
Than when we parted last? The Tempest over,
Reason enjoys the Calm, and temperate hears
The Voice of Friendship.

Æmilia.
Ay, my temperate Monitor,
Thus far have I regain'd my native Temper,
Not to reproach the Author of my Ruin,
Or call the violated Host of Heaven
To witness to his Perjuries. No, Mercour;
The Fault I own, was mine; for oh! one Night,
One false, betraying Night, yet hear it not,
Ye holy Matrons, and ye stainless Virgins,
Feebly I listen'd to the Voice of Virtue,
And gave away my Soul to Love—and Ruin.

Mercour.
Thus let me thank you for the dear Remembrance
That gives the blissful Hour—

Æmilia.
And dare you think,
That I could mean, with riotous Intent,
To call Imagination loosely forth
To view the guilty Scene. Too well I see
How vilely you esteem me. I deserve it.
Yet think not, Sir, I'll stand a cold Spectator
To view the Ruins of this happy Dwelling;
For by Eugenia's Tears, too well I know
Thy Terrours are abroad.

Mercour.
I will not answer
Th' unkind Suspicion; all will soon be well,
And you, my best Æmilia, shall be made
The Pledge of Peace.

Æmilia.
Ah! Me, the Pledge of Peace!

Mercour.
Dear to my Heart, as in the rapturous Hour,
That gave you to my Arms—but Poverty—
Distress and Penury—how should I support them,
Were you to share them with me? Thus compell'd,
Sure Proof of Love, I force my Heart to yield
Thy Beauties to another; never more
To gaze delighted on Thee; to exchange
The melting Sounds of Tenderness and Love
For the cold Name of Sister.

Æmilia.
What new Horrours!

Mercour.
To save your Fame, procure you Wealth and Honour,
By my Advice my Uncle is this Moment,
Proposing you to Clerval—

Æmilia.
As his Wife!
What! shall I stain the holy Marriage-Bed!
Give to a noble, unsuspecting Youth
The foul Pollution of his Brother's Passions!

Mercour.
These are among the many Things, Æmilia,
Which, if not known, are not.

Æmilia.
Do not I know them?

Mercour.
But not to tell.

Æmilia.
Heaven will in Thunders tell them.

Mercour.
If Heaven told Secrets of this Kind in Thunder,
Sure it must roll unceasing.

Æmilia.
Hear me, Mercour,
Tho' Heaven and Hell should keep the guilty Secret,
There is, who will discover it.

Mercour.
Who can?

Æmilia.
By my distracted Soul; by these new Horrours,
Fast-gathering round me; by my future Woes,
I will.

Mercour.
You will? Expose yourself to Infamy?

Æmilia.
Tho' Men and Angels saw it.

Mercour.
Most amazing!
Is this Æmilia? This the tender Maid
Of such unpassion'd Gentleness of Manners?

Æmilia.
No, Sir, I am the Creature you have made me.
Behold your Work, and as you taught me Passions,
Now teach me how to rule them in their Wildness.
But from this Moment I renounce the World:
Fly from all Converse with destructive Man,
His Oaths, his Vows, his Cruelty, his Baseness;
And chiefly Thee; false and inhuman Mercour.
[Exit Æmilia.

Mercour.
Why, what a wilful, wayward Thing is Woman?
Even in their best Pursuits so loose of Soul,
That every Breath of Passion shakes their Frame,
And every Fancy turns them. But her Threats—
They too are weak and womanish. Eugenia—
If she has aught of Woman in her Form,
Their universal Vanity, their Pride,
Their wandering Appetites, their Sense of Shame,
And Dread of Infamy—She must be mine.

[Exit.