University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

The Forest.
Enter Arnold.
ARNOLD.
I cannot rest within my 'custom'd haunt.
A thousand agitating thoughts assail me,
And draw me forth to learn the fate of Herman
Now hast'ning to its crisis. Hapless youth!
Victim of guilt abhorrent from my soul—
A parent's guilt!—Oh Walstein, cruel father!
Why thus entail on me thy deadly hate,
Make me the wretched heir of thy revenge,
A vile accomplice in the degradation
Of this dear youth, whose brave and mounting spirit
Soars to that eminence from which thou drag'st him?
I can no longer act the shameful part
Thou didst enjoin me. Duty, honour, nature,
Assert their claim. I will obey their call,
Break through my trammels, and with Herman fly
These guilty shades for ever!—Who comes there?

Enter Herman.
HERMAN.
A wretch, whom even hope, the wretch's friend,
Abandons to despair. Bear with me, brother,
I need thy pitying succour to support me.
She's lost to me for ever!

ARNOLD.
Heav'n forefend!

HERMAN.
Yes, lost for ever. Think what agony
Seiz'd on my struggling heart, when, as she own'd
With blushing diffidence her pure affection,
She told me that to-morrow, aye, to-morrow
Will see her wedded to another.

ARNOLD.
How?

HERMAN.
One whom her soul detests. Amid her tears
A smile of tenderness beam'd forth, as thus
With gen'rous confidence she spoke. Alas!
I could not smile; my heart was torn with anguish;
Dumb, trembling, lost to sense I stood before her:
Though happiness appear'd within my grasp,
I dar'd not seize it.

ARNOLD.
What prevented thee?

HERMAN.
The conscious sense of my unworthiness.
Think'st thou I'm so abandon'd of all good,
So lost to ev'ry sentiment and feeling,
As thus to take advantage of her favour,
And make her unsuspecting purity
The partner of an outlaw'd bandit's fortunes?
Such foul deceit thy gen'rous soul would scorn.
Thank heav'n! mine scorn'd it too. My heart may break,
But never shall so base a treason stain it.

ARNOLD
(aside).
Ill-fated youth! Nature will speak in thee,
And vindicate her work.— (To him)
Be of good courage.
Though fortune now be adverse, she may grow
Hereafter more propitious. There are changes,
More than men look for, in the motley scene
Of our existence. Who can tell how soon
The cloud which now o'ershadows thee may vanish,
Leaving thy worth, like the meridian sun,
To dazzle with its brightness? Tell me, Herman,
Were such thy fate, wert thou her equal, would'st thou
Reject her proffer?

HERMAN.
Mock me not, I pray—
A wretch like me, who hardly may aspire
To gaze on her perfections—a poor outcast,
Bankrupt in fame and fortune—

ARNOLD.
There may be
More in fate's mystic volume, than thine eye
As yet can penetrate. In the deep mine
Lurks many a gem, which, polish'd, may adorn
A monarch's diadem.

HERMAN.
What dost thou mean?

ARNOLD.
That which I dare not more distinctly speak.
But let this cheering thought compose thine anguish—
There is a pow'r, which watches over virtue,
And leads it in due time to happiness.

HERMAN.
Mine is, alas! impossible!

ARNOLD.
Why so?
If on thy worth alone her love be founded,
Thou may'st indeed be happy. I would try it,
And by a test which would not leave a doubt.
She knows thee now but as thou seem'st, a peasant,
Nor entertains suspicion to affect
Thy reputation. Tell me, have I thought
Too highly of thee, when I deem'd thy soul
Endued with resolution to encounter
Whatever risk might wait on an adherence
To virtue's dictates? Dar'st thou undertake
A task revolting to thy gallant nature?

HERMAN.
Try me. Whatever duty prompts I dare.

ARNOLD.
Thou hast, observant of thy faith, abstain'd
From owning thy condition. Can'st thou now
Boldly avow to her the fatal truth?

HERMAN.
Confess mine infamy! Avow myself
Associate with banditti! Before heav'n!
It were an easier task at once to end
My life and misery, than thus proclaim
Mine own dishonour!

ARNOLD.
Pause awhile, and hear me.
Thine Ida plac'd her confidence in thee;
Wilt thou be less sincere tow'rds her?

HERMAN.
Thou ask'st
More than man's nature can achieve.

ARNOLD.
For shame!
Canst thou deceive her? No! thine heart will tell thee
She has a claim to be appriz'd of all.
If her firm soul shall then remain unshaken,
Invite her in some other clime to share
Our future fortunes. If her pride of station
Should make her scorn thee when thou'rt known, whate'er
The pang that rends thy heart, conscious desert,
The sense of inward rectitude and honour,
Will prove a consolation which—

HERMAN.
Enough!
Ensue what may, I will adventure it.
Farewell—detain me not—a word, a thought
May warp me from my purpose. Life or death
Are in suspense before me. When we meet,
I'm lost for ever, or for ever blest!

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

An Apartment in Stolberg Castle.
Enter Baron Stolberg and Count Rodolph.
BARON.
My lord, my lord, I pray no more of this.
Still bick'ring and complaining!

RODOLPH.
What, my lord!
On th' eve of marriage, to submit to treatment
So disrespectful and so indecorous!
The lady Ida is a handsome lady,
And, as your lordship's niece and only heir,
Entitled to respect; yet, I must own,
Some little cultivation of her talents,
Some small initiation in the world,
Might have enchanc'd her nat'ral excellence.

BARON.
I beg your lordship's leave to differ from you.
From my small observation of the world,
I entertain some doubts how its example
Could make her wiser, modester, or better.

RODOLPH.
Your lordship misconceives me. Those are points
Quite unconnected with my observation.

BARON.
I'm sorry for't. I should have thought they were
The qualities a wise man would most seek for.

RODOLPH.
For a plebeian maxim that may do;
But is your lordship yet to learn that we,
Who fill a more exalted sphere, require,
In those whom we select to share our rank,
Something more dignified, more graceful, more—

BARON.
Well, well, my lord, if that's your sentiment,
You've made in coming here a small mistake.
We are old-fashion'd people, and can't hope
To grow familiar with new-fangled notions.

RODOLPH.
My notions, give me leave to tell your lordship,
Are quite correct. There is a certain manner,
A kind of grace—

BARON.
Well, say no more about it—
There's no harm done—there may be families
More suited to your lordship's way of thinking
Than mine. The heiress of these rich domains
Need not despair of suitors. There are many,
As dignified as you, who'd gladly take her,
With all the imperfections you object to.

RODOLPH.
(Aside)
—Plague on my petulance! I've gone too far:
Th' old gentleman must be appeas'd, or else
I lose all chance of his estate.— (To the Baron)
—My lord,
I ask your lordship's pardon. On my honour,
You quite and clear mistake me. Lady Ida
Is a most dignified, accomplish'd lady,
The paragon of female excellence.

BARON.
Heyday! Why just this moment Ida was
A rude, uncultivated girl, and now
She is a paragon of excellence.
Your lordship's humble servant—you can veer,
I find, with ev'ry wind.

RODOLPH.
Who, I, my lord?
I crave permission to assure your lordship
You must undoubtedly have misconceiv'd me.
I entertain the most profound respect
For the young lady.

BARON.
Well, well—in that case,
What if your lordship should adopt a manner
A little better suited to her notions?
As you are like to pass your lives together,
'Twould be as well to set out on good terms.

RODOLPH.
My lord, I'm ready to do any thing
You may require.

BARON.
Then, in the first place,
Make up your silly quarrel, set things right,
And let me see you both with cheerful faces.
I'll go with you. I warrant me, you'll find her
As gentle as a lamb. These girls, my lord,
Think they've a privilege, while courtship lasts,
To have their way; and it is fair they should,
For, poor things! matrimony makes strange changes.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

An Apartment in Stolberg Castle.
Enter Agatha.
AGATHA.
Why lady Ida! Bless us! not here either?
What's come of the dear child? Why, lady Ida!

Enter Ida.
IDA.
Well, nurse, I'm here.

AGATHA.
There's such a do below,
Such moving and removing, such a bevy
Of carpenters and joiners, glaziers, painters,
All hard at work in making preparation
For the great feast to-morrow, that I vow
My poor head turns—do feel, dear, how I tremble—
I'm all in such a twitter—

IDA.
Well, sit down—
Compose yourself—so—Why did you call me?

AGATHA.
Well, who'd have thought it sixteen years ago
It should have come to this? Saint Bridget save us!
You was not thus high when you first came here,
And now, heav'n bless the mark! you must be married.
To see how things turn out! I vow it seems
But yesterday, when my good lord sent for you,
To comfort him, poor man! for th' heavy loss
Of his young Albert. And I'm sure I thought
I should have died too.

IDA.
You must have felt much
For one you nurs'd.

AGATHA.
Aye marry—two whole years
I tended him. If he had been mine own
I had not lov'd him better. Lammas next
He'd have been twenty-one. He ran about,
And talk'd so prettily withal, and smil'd—
Poor little fellow! he so lov'd his nurse—

IDA.
Nay, do not weep—cheer up—come, tell me, nurse,
What did you want with me?

AGATHA.
With you? See there now—
I had clean forgotten. As I was returning
From goody Martin's cottage, where you sent me
To look at her sick child—it's getting better—
I met a young man just at the park corner,
A kind of peasant-looking lad, who stopt me,
And ask'd me to deliver you a letter—

IDA.
Dear Agatha, where is't? Come—give it me—

AGATHA.
Stay—don't be so impatient—Let me feel
In t'other pocket—Now Saint Bridget save me
If I ha'n't dropt it in my hurry.

IDA.
Dropt it?

AGATHA.
Where can it be?—Now if I hav'n't pok'd it
Here in my kerchief—

IDA.
Give it me, good nurse—

AGATHA.
Well, child, and am I to take back an answer?
I bad the bearer wait.—Well, take your time—
I have a thousand things to do.—Good bye!

[Exit.
IDA.
—(Reads).
“Absolv'd by him to whom my faith was given,
“If Ida deign to hear me, I'm prepar'd
“To state the whole of my disastrous story.”
Disastrous say'st thou? Hath calamity
Blighted so early thy fres-budding hopes?
Alas! Why should capricious fortune heap
Her amplest gifts on such a thing as Rodolph,
And leave thee destitute? Ill-fated youth!
I love thee more for knowing thou'rt unhappy!

[Exit.

SCENE IV.

A Bower in Stolberg Garden.
Enter Herman.
HERMAN.
Why lingers yet the sov'reign arbitress
Of hapless Herman's fate? Is't that, foreknowing
The dreadful truths he is about to tell,
Her tender nature shrinks from the rude trial,
And bids her shun a wretch unworthy of her?—
Lo! where she comes, all purity and truth.
Now, now she sees me—what a heav'nly grace
Beams o'er her lovely countenance!

Enter Ida.
IDA.
Thou tell'st me
Thou art the victim of calamity.
When I believ'd thee happy I esteem'd thee;
But when thou say'st that premature misfortune
Hath weigh'd upon thee heavily, oh! stay not
To tell the fatal tale. Think me thy friend,
Point out the means by which I may relieve thee.

HERMAN.
Transcendent sweetness! Thou art all perfection,
Pure as yon heav'n, to which we all aspire,
Though conscience tell us we're unworthy of it.
Ah! fix not thus on me thy pitying glance;
Thy tenderness unmans me: I have need
Of all my firmness, to complete the task,
Which stubborn duty has impos'd on me.
Let me implore thee, lady, to vouchsafe
A patient hearing to my luckless story.
I've that to tell thee—but alas! how can I
Detail the horrors of my cruel fate,
Or be the herald of mine own disgrace!

IDA.
I will not credit thee. Thou art too noble
To merit the reproach thy words imply.

HERMAN.
Hear then, and, if thou can'st, disdain me not.
I am the victim of another's guilt;
A father's crimes—I tremble to relate it—
Entail'd a curse on his devoted offspring.
Say, lady, hath perchance the name of Walstein
E'er met thine ear?

IDA.
Walstein dost say? Good heav'n!
He was my uncle's direst foe.

HERMAN.
That Walstein
Was Herman's father. To detail the cause
Which drove him, as an outcast from mankind,
To shun society, and to become
Its bitt'rest foe, would be an idle waste
Of the few precious moments thus allow'd me.
Suffice it then to say, within this forest
He found a refuge. There, in a lone cavern,
A troop of wild banditti held their station.
With them associate, soon superior talent
Made him their leader. Many a toilsome year
Witness'd his lawless reign, and when at length
His days were number'd, on my elder brother
Devolv'd his rude precedence. I meanwhile—

IDA.
Thou Herman—thou the inmate of a cavern!

HERMAN.
From earliest youth such was my destiny.
Yet often would a glancing ray of light
Beam on my soul, and fancied images
Of better recollections cross my mind,
Confus'd and indistinct, like the faint shadows
Of a gay dream, which haunt the wand'ring fancy
Of a poor wretch who wakes to certain woe.
Such certainty was mine. 'Till the blest hour
When I saw thee, no cheering hope appear'd
To pierce the gloom that thus envelop'd me.

IDA.
No more—thou hast already said too much—
Thou the associate of a felon crew!—
In pity oh unsay the dreadful story!

HERMAN.
I knew thou could'st not choose but hate me, lady;
Yet canst thou not detest me more, than I
Detest myself. Though haply I may plead
The errors of my youth were not mine own.
They were mine only legacy deriv'd
From an unhappy father, once class'd high
Among Hungaria's peers. He brought me up
'Mid scenes of guilt; but they could not efface
The principles which nature had implanted
In my young heart. Heav'n had bestow'd one gift,
One precious gift, to save me from perdition.
An elder brother—let me rather call him
My guardian angel—pitied and preserv'd me.
Virtuous himself, he taught me to love virtue.
With him am I about to quit these haunts,
And in some foreign clime, where yet our shame
Is not by rumour blazon'd, seek a fortune
More kindred to our birth and inborn feelings.
To-morrow's sun will witness our departure—

IDA.
Go then, and leave me to despair!—Or if
Thy purposes, brave youth, be those of virtue—
Nay, look not on me thus—I don't distrust thee—
I know, I feel they cannot but be virtuous—
Stay, and support me, Herman, 'gainst a fate,
Which now the knowledge of a worth like thine
Hath render'd insupportable.—Just heav'n!
Condemn me not, for yielding to an influence
I cannot combat.—If thou'st truth or feeling,
Let me implore thee not to leave me thus—
Save me, oh save me, Herman, from destruction!

HERMAN.
Oh rack not thus my bosom! Tempt me not
Beyond the bearing of a man!—I must not—
I dare not understand thee. Thou'rt too pure,
Too dignified, to share the hapless fortunes
Of a lost wretch like me.

IDA.
No, Herman, no—
Thy worth and innate nobleness exalt thee
To a proud eminence, whence with disdain
Thou may'st look down on rank and dignities.
Hence then each idle sentiment of pride!
My soul's above ye! Henceforth let me prove
I am thine equal, Herman, in those feelings
Which have engag'd my heart. Go where thou wilt,
Betide what may, I'll follow thee—become
The faithful sharer of thy humblest fortunes—
I'll aid thee—comfort thee—nay, beg for thee—

HERMAN.
Sure thou'rt some seraph wrapt in human form!
[Embracing her.
Forgive me, lady—Herman for a moment
Forgot himself and thee.—Heav'ns! dost thou weep?
Oh spare me, spare me! Ev'ry pearly drop
Which trickles from those eyes, each sigh which heaves
That bosom, raise a tempest in my soul,
Which mortal constancy cannot sustain.—
Have pity on me, heav'n! I feel my weakness—
My heart proves traitor—But it may not be—
I cannot prove a villain, and undo thee.
Oh! let me fly thee, while I yet have pow'r
To bear the conflict of contending passions.
If I look on thee, if I hear thy voice,
I am no more myself.—May angels guard thee!

[Exit.
IDA.
Stay, Herman, stay!—he's gone!—Alas! with him
My peace and happiness are flown together.
Thou leav'st me, Herman! We may meet no more,
Never again that eye, that voice may cheer me:
But ever present to my suff'ring heart
Shall be the mem'ry of thy gallant nature.
Thus, in the presence of all-seeing heav'n,
To thee eternal constancy I vow.
Though climes may intervene, though trackless oceans
May roll between us, thy still cherish'd image
Shall follow me to solitude, and teach me
To consecrate my soul to thee and virtue!

[Exit.