University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

An Apartment in Stolberg Castle.
Enter Baron Stolberg and Agatha.
BARON.
Come, stir about, good Agatha, there's much
Yet to be done. We have no time to lose.
The ev'ning's far advanc'd, and I protest
The priest and all our noble company
Will arrive here to-morrow ere we're ready.

AGATHA.
I'm sure, Saint Bridget help me, I have toil'd
And bustled to and fro, up stairs and down,
And looking after ev'ry thing—Why Housdorff—
See there now, what's become of him?—If I
Am not the most unfortunate old woman
In Hungary!—Will no one hear?—Why Housdorff!

Enter Housdorff.
HOUSDORFF.
How now, good dame, what news is come to town,
That makes thee thus obstreperous?

AGATHA.
Good Housdorff,
Look to the furbishers in the great chamber,
See that the tap'stry hangings are brush'd up,
The carpets spread, and all the covers taken
From the best chairs and couches; and just peep
Into the banquet hall, see that the tables
Are all set out, and the chac'd family plate
Display'd upon the side-board—

HOUSDORFF.
All is done.

AGATHA.
Well, I must go incontinently to
The bridal chamber—

HOUSDORFF.
Fie, good Agatha,
Incontinently, say'st thou?

AGATHA.
Aye, gibe on—
I have no time to answer you.—See there now,
I almost had forgotten—Would your lordship
Have the new curtains fitted to the bed,
Or have the hangings from the oriel chamber
Remov'd?

BARON.
Oh! have the new ones by all means.
There—set about it—go along.
[Exeunt Agatha and Housdorff.
Enter Ida.
What, Ida!
So late, my love? Not yet retir'd to rest?
Heyday! What means this sadness? Surely, love,
Thou hast been weeping.

IDA.
I have cause enough
To be distress'd, when thus you cast me from you,
Force me to leave my first, my best protector—

BARON.
Nay, be not such a simpleton—cheer up—
We were all busied here, in preparations
For thee, my love, and for to-morrow's bus'ness.
I am a foolish weak old fellow, child,
And, if I don't keep moving, I'm afraid
I hardly shall have courage to go through
My parting with thee. Thou hast been my pride,
My Ida, the sole darling of my heart,
My only hope since my poor boy was lost.
I'm growing old apace—when thou art gone,
No one will care for me—Nay, do not weep—

IDA.
Ah! do not make me quit you; suffer me
Still to attend upon you, still to watch
On your declining age, and minister
With dutiful affection to your wishes.
You love your Ida, uncle?

BARON.
Love thee, child?
Aye, better than my life.

IDA.
Why then compel me
To leave you, when my services may most
Promote your happiness? Indeed, indeed,
It is not kind of you.

BARON.
Nay, now thou'rt foolish,
To talk to an old fellow in this way,
When a brisk bridegroom courts thee to his arms.

IDA.
D'you know, my good dear uncle, that I think you
Ten thousand times more pleasant and more charming
Than this fine gentleman, whose sole concern
Seems his own darling self!

BARON.
Why, to say truth,
He has a way with him, a disregard
For other people's sentiments and wishes—
But he means nothing by it—he'll turn out
An excellent good husband.

IDA.
Do, dear uncle,
Consent to let me still remain with you.
I'll be so good, and so obedient to you,
Take so much care of you—

BARON.
Go—thou'rt a coaxer—
Thou'lt speak another sort of language soon.
The Count may seem perhaps a little cool,
Not quite so ready to pick up thy glove,
Or run on errands for thee, as some others;
But then thou must consider, my dear child,
He is a man of rank, a courtier, child,
Who has a name and station to keep up.

IDA.
With all my heart—he has my free permission
To be as proud and stupid as he pleases,
Provided I am not oblig'd to have him.

BARON.
Why how now, niece! Not have him?

IDA.
Don't be angry—
I do detest him mortally.

BARON.
So, so—
A pretty bus'ness we should make of it—
Pray, madam, tell me, is not he a noble
Of prime distinction, high in royal favour,
And, what's still more important, is he not
My choice?

IDA.
And my aversion! Dearest sir,
Do pardon your poor Ida, but indeed,
Sooner than marry him, I'd try to gain
My livelihood by labour. 'Twere more honest,
And ten times pleasanter—

BARON.
Heav'n grant me patience!
Hark'ee, young madam—But I will be calm—
Tell me—is this a trick to try my temper?

IDA.
Alas! I love you better than myself,
But you will break my heart.

BARON.
No, never fear;
Young women's hearts are not so quickly broken—

IDA.
I would do any thing to please you, sir,
But—

BARON.
That's the way of all of you—“I'd do
“Any thing, sir, to please you, but”—yes, truly,
That “but” comes opportunely in—But what?

IDA.
Would my death please you?

BARON.
No—thou know'st it wouldn't—
Thou know'st I love thee—

IDA.
I implore forgiveness—
I feel unwell—Let me retire, I pray.

BARON.
No, no, ma'am, that excuse sha'n't serve your turn—
[Ida staggers to a chair.
Why what's the matter with the child? You tremble,
And grow so pale—

IDA.
Indeed I'm very ill—

BARON.
Nay, thou art ill indeed—Why Agatha!
So, so, my love—Why Agatha, I say!—
Nobody come!
Enter Agatha.
See, see, good Agatha!

AGATHA.
Let me come to her—Now the saints be good—
Why, Ida!—What's to do here—give her air—
Untie her corset—so—raise her a little—
There—now she's better—

IDA.
Let me go, I pray,
To my own chamber.

BARON.
Aye, love, we'll conduct thee.
So, lean on me. Good Agatha, make haste,
And get things ready for her.—Now, my dear—
How could I have the heart to treat her thus!
A curs'd, ill-temper'd puppy!—Softly, love!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Interior of the Banditti's Cavern.
Enter Finck.
FINCK.
What ho! none stirring yet? Your wine was heady,
That thus you sleep it out.—What ho! I say—

Enter Swartz.
SWARTZ.
Plague on your brawling! Why we might as well
Live in a scurvy brotherhood of monks,
And be rung up at midnight to our pray'rs,
As thus be rous'd. I'll lay my life the night
Is not half spent.

FINCK.
I rais'd the trap e'en now—
The great bear stood over the dodder'd oak
That rises singly on the crag, and told me
'Twas three o'clock. 'Tis time we were abroad.
The day will dawn anon—we've an account
To settle with the world, for yesterday
Turn'd out a blank.—So—you are up at last.
Enter Gortz and other Banditti.
Where is our captain?

GORTZ.
Where I wish I was too—
Sound on his mattress yonder, I suppose.
Whate'er his other qualities may be,
I'll wager my next booty 'gainst a pumpkin,
There's not a man in Hungary shall match him
For a sound sleeper.

FINCK.
No reflections, Gortz—
Come—let us rouse him with a rumbling catch.
Trio by Finck, Swartz, and Gortz.
Night her darkling course has run,
And yields her empire to the sun;
Hooting owls their flight have made,
And scud for shelter in the glade.
There let them hide; we sons of day
Through the wide forest take our way,
And, whereso'er is seen our band,
Our watch-word still is stand, stand, stand.

FINCK.
Well said, i'faith! If this don't bring him out,
The fam'd seven sleepers were mere boys to him.

Enter Arnold.
ARNOLD.
What, all alert? This augurs ill, methinks,
For those who travel early 'cross our haunts.
How wears the time?

FINCK.
'Tis about three, I take it.

ARNOLD.
Know ye if Baron Stolberg hunt to-day?

FINCK.
And if he do, what's that to us?

ARNOLD.
Why this.
His sport of yesterday, you know, marr'd yours.
If he again should take the field, your trouble
Will prove of small avail.

SWARTZ.
That's true enough.
But how to ascertain if he go forth?

ARNOLD.
Leave that to me. I'll venture out alone,
And bring you information. You, meanwhile,
Adjourn to th' refectory, and recruit
Your spirits with a cup of gen'rous wine.
What say ye, comrades?

FINCK.
That the motion's good;
And, if the liquor prove not worse, you'll find us,
When you return, well prim'd for action.—Come—
Lets drink to our commander's good success.

[Exeunt.
ARNOLD.
They're well dispos'd of for an hour or two.
And now to meet my Herman in the forest.

[Exit through the trap-door.

SCENE III.

The Forest.
The Dawn just breaking.
Enter Herman.
HERMAN.
The morning dawns; and renovated nature
Awakens to receive the sun's glad beams
That summon her to life and new exertion.
Creation smiles around me; in each glade
The gay birds carol; every flow'ret lifts
Its gaudy head, and scatters round its fragrance.
All, all but me the gen'ral transport share.
Me the light cheers not—yonder glowing east
Is but the harbinger of woe to me,
Denouncing horror and despair.

Enter Arnold.
ARNOLD.
Who thus
Talks of despair? Thou, Herman?

HERMAN.
Oh my brother!

ARNOLD.
I look'd to meet thee full of hope and joy.
Hath any ill betided?

HERMAN.
I am wretched—
My heart is almost broken—I've fulfill'd
My promise—I have told her all—

ARNOLD.
Is then her love fleeting as yonder clouds
That skim o'er heav'n's expanse?

HERMAN.
Oh! wrong her not—
Her love, her faith are spotless as herself;
But I am ruin'd, lost to ev'ry hope—

ARNOLD.
This surely is extravagance. Thou'st prov'd her,
As thou can'st wish, affectionate and constant.
Why then talk idly thus of being wretched?

HERMAN.
That very proof thou speak'st of has undone me.
Had I not learnt the value of the prize
At which I aim'd, I had not felt the anguish
Which harrows up my soul. Oh, my best brother!
Had'st thou but seen how nobly she sustain'd
The fatal truths I utter'd, thou'st have lov'd her;
Nay, thou'st have worshipp'd her, had'st thou but seen her
When I discours'd to her of thee, my Arnold,
And of thy virtues. From her eyes dropt tears
Of gen'rous sympathy, her bosom throbb'd,
She could not speak—but when at length I told her
Of our resolve to quit these guilty shades,
And seek renown in some far distant clime,
Her tears no longer flow'd; transport illum'd
Her glowing cheeks; with more than human firmness
She bad me save her from a rival's arms;
She vow'd to follow, nay to beg for me.

ARNOLD.
Could'st thou resist her proffer?

HERMAN.
Could I live
Weigh'd down by consciousness of foul dishonour?
Heav'n knows my heart, I love her far too well
To be the author of her wretchedness—
Reduce her to an outlaw'd bandit's fortunes?—
No, no—thank heav'n! that fate I have escap'd.

ARNOLD
(aside).
Passion so works on his too feeling nature,
He must not thus be left.—Can'st thou trust me?

HERMAN.
I can.

ARNOLD.
Then thus I'll put thee to the proof.
That ring from thy lov'd Ida's hand receiv'd—
Intrust it to me.

HERMAN.
Ha! the ring dost say?
Ask any thing but that—

ARNOLD.
And canst thou doubt me?

HERMAN.
I doubt thee not—I'd trust thee with my life—
But there's a sacred int'rest in that ring—
I vow'd to keep it—

ARNOLD.
I've a work in hand
Which will not brook delay—thine own, thine Ida's
Redemption from the ills which menace you.
Without that ring I can do nothing—

HERMAN.
Take it—
'Tis the sole treasure I possess on earth.

ARNOLD.
Fear not—'tis safe with me.—Farewell—I go
To serve thee and thy love—Enquire not where—
Trust to my zeal and friendship. In that grove
Wait my return. Ere the fresh risen sun
Shall gild yon mountain, I'll be back with thee.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE IV.

An Apartment with a glass Door opening into a Garden. On one side, Ida reposing on a Couch. A lighted Lamp on a Table.
Baron Stolberg, Count Rodolph, Ditmar, and Agatha.
BARON.
I am extremely mortified, my lord,
At this untoward accident.

RODOLPH.
Why truly
It rather is mal-à-propos.— (To Ditmar)
Pray, sir,
As you're physician to the household here,
Allow me to demand your way of thinking.

DITMAR.
I have no very particular way, my lord;
My way of thinking is, as I conjecture,
Like that of other men.

RODOLPH.
Sir, that's no answer.
I have a right to know the manner, sir,
In which you think.

DITMAR.
Really that's rather odd—
But, if you must know how I set about it,
I've not the least objection to inform you.
Whenever I've a knotty point in hand
That calls for serious deliberation,
I gen'rally sit down, and, pouring out
A glass of ale, I light my pipe—

RODOLPH.
Sir, you're
Impertinent—

BARON.
What moves your lordship thus?
What is the matter, doctor?

DITMAR.
I protest
I know not—I intended no offence.

RODOLPH.
No, sir?—Did you not tell me, when I ask'd
Your way of thinking 'bout the lady's illness—

DITMAR.
About the lady's illness? Hoh! that's quite
A diff'rent thing. I comprehend you now.
My way of thinking is, her nervous system—
That is, her nerves seem to be what we call
Shatter'd—derang'd—and shaken all to pieces.—
Ahem! She must have sedatives—narcotics—
Something to tranquillize—You comprehend me?

BARON.
Perfectly, doctor. If I take you right,
In the first instance you would recommend
Your patient to be kept extremely quiet.

DITMAR.
Nothing on earth is better.

BARON.
Then, my lord,
Suppose we leave her for a while. Hey, doctor?
Will you attend our consultation?
You shall have all your implements for thinking.
Take care of the dear child, good Agatha.

[Exeunt the Baron, Rodolph, and Ditmar.
AGATHA.
Marry, and if Saint Bridget please, I will.
I'll sit me down awhile. 'Tis a raw morning,
And likely to breed rheums.
(Covers her head with a kerchief.)
There, now my head
Is snug and comfortable.—Bless the child!
How quietly she dozes—I'll e'en take
A little nap myself—

IDA.
Agatha!

AGATHA.
Well—
I'm coming—what dost want, dear?

IDA.
I feel better,
Good Agatha, I think.

AGATHA.
The saints be prais'd!

IDA.
So, Agatha, I wish you'd leave me now,
And go to rest yourself.

AGATHA.
Leave you alone!

IDA.
I should be better for it. I can't sleep
While you are sitting here. I pray you go.

AGATHA.
Well, dear, I will. I hope to find you better.

[Agatha closes the curtains of the couch and goes out.
IDA.
—(Rising).
This is indeed beyond the warmest hope
I dar'd to form. One day, one blest day more
At least is granted me, without a crime,
To dedicate my thoughts to gen'rous Herman.
Yet what relief can a short day afford,
When ev'ry hope is blasted, and futurity
Brings with it nought but lasting wretchedness?
Oh! that protecting Providence would snatch me
From ills which human aid cannot ward off,
Would send some guardian spirit charg'd with mercy—
Who's that?—Defend me heav'n!—A stranger!—Sir,
Enter Arnold.
I know not by what priv'lege you presume
To trespass on my privacy—

ARNOLD.
By none.
My boldness, lady, would preclude forgiveness,
Had I not such a reason to allege,
As may atone for my presumption.
Behold my passport, lady.

IDA.
How! The ring
I gave to Herman?

ARNOLD.
To my brother, lady.

IDA.
Your brother, sir?

ARNOLD.
I'm that unhappy Arnold,
Whose humble efforts train'd his gen'rous soul
To trace the path that leads to virtuous fame.
I was prepar'd with him to quit the scene,
Where cruel fate had doom'd us to become
Associates with the refuse of mankind,
In other climes to achieve the fair renown,
That heritage of our once pure descent,
Now stain'd, polluted—but no more of that—
Our visionary prospects now are clouded—

IDA.
Speak, sir, I pray you say what has occurr'd—

ARNOLD.
I have left Herman—

IDA.
What of him? No evil
Hath sure betided him—

ARNOLD.
None, but such as
You have the pow'r to remedy. He loves you
With all the ardour of a gallant spirit,
Which can appreciate all your excellence,
But which not all that excellence itself,
Nor all the whirlwind of contending passions,
Can force beyond the sacred bound of honour
To build his happiness upon your ruin.

IDA.
I felt, and do full justice to his motives.
He might have sav'd me from—

ARNOLD.
He will—he must—
The hour ordain'd by fate to exalt you both
To the pure bliss you merit is arriv'd,
And now, by me its minister, invites you
To seize the favouring opportunity.
You are a noble lady—I have heard
What pass'd betwixt you—there is not a secret
Of Herman's soul that's not reveal'd to me—
His ev'ry thought, his ev'ry wish are thine—
You rule his destiny—

IDA.
Pity me, sir!
I am indeed most wretched and abandon'd—
Torn by conflicting passions!—Herman's lost—
Another, ah how diff'rent! claims my hand—
This day, this fatal day, unites me to him—
I have no friend to counsel or assist me—

ARNOLD.
If one like me, unknown to you by aught
But Herman's fair report, may claim that title,
I hold my life as nought, so I may save
From ev'ry ill the mistress of his soul.
Say, lady, are your sentiments unchang'd,
Will you still fly these nuptials, and partake
The fate of him who loves you for yourself?

IDA.
Heav'n knows my heart I would!

ARNOLD.
Then fly with me
To save him from despair—Dread not th' event,
When virtue and affection are your guides,
And Providence the guardian of your way.
Nay, be of good cheer, lady—there's a secret,
Which now envelopes Herman's destiny,
That time must soon disclose. Then shalt thou find him
Not less in rank and station worthy of thee,
Than now in innate nobleness.—Believe me—
I pledge my life on't thou wilt find him so.

IDA.
I cannot doubt thee.—Give me a short moment—
I would reflect—

ARNOLD.
Reflection's now too late—
Time presses—your attendants will return—
They will discover me—The hour's at hand
When legal violence will drag you hence
To pledge the hateful vows—Think on poor Herman,
Whose heart is torn with agony—

IDA.
No more—
I will believe that heav'n hath heard my pray'r,
And in compassion sent thee here to save me.
Sir, in the name of him you love, of Herman,
I trust myself to you and to your honour.

ARNOLD.
May heav'n no more regard me when I fail you!
Now, lady, on—to Herman and to love!

[Exeunt.