University of Virginia Library

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.