University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—A Garden, low Garden Wall, and a House.
Enter a Courier.
Cour.
Hoa, there! You in the garden there!

Hans
[without].
Anan!
[Enters.
Good day, Sir. A fine morning. Did you call?
O Esther! Esther!

Cour.
Who lives here?

Hans.
My master.

Cour.
That know I, well as you do! Do you think
I took you for the owner of the house?

Hans.
I never said you did. O Esther!

Cour.
Who
Lives here?

Hans.
My master, as I said before.

Cour.
You sluggish-witted knave! I want to know
Your master's name.

Hans.
Couldn't you tell me so
At once? What need of going round about,
The gate before your nose? Why give you talk,
And call you names, when all the fault's your own?
How could I guess it was my master's name
You wish'd to know—O Esther!

Cour.
Who lives here?

Hans.
The minister of Mariendorpt.

Cour.
Is that
Thy master's name?

Hans.
Why, 'tis all one. His name
Is Muhldenau, and he's the minister
Of Mariendorpt.

Cour.
Is that the only door
To the house?

Hans.
Go round, you'll find another door—
The proper one—O Esther!

Cour.
This way?

Hans.
Yes.

Cour.
I'd like to have the quick'ning of thy wits!

Esther
[without].
What does that coxcomb speaking there so high?

Hans.
There's Esther coming! You had best be off!

Cour.
Hang you and her together!

[Goes out.
Hans.
That is kind.
I would not mind to hang along with her!
I'm sick for love! I'm sure I am! I have lost
My appetite! My stomach was my clock
That used to give me note of eating-time—
It never warns me now! A smoking dish
Was sure to set my heart a-beating once;
Now be it flesh, or fish, or fowl, or aught,
It moves me nothing. I would rather feast—
A thousand times I would—on Esther's face!
I'm mortal sick for love! I used to sleep;
Scarce touch'd my head my pillow, I was off,
And, let me lie, I took my measure on't
Six hours, at least, upon a stretch! but now
I toss and turn, lie straight, or doubled up,
Enfold mine arms, or throw them wide abroad,
Rhyme o'er my prayers, or count a hundred out,
And then begin again—yet not a wink
The richer for't, but rise as I lie down!
And 'tis true love that ails me!—very love!
Of womankind but one can work my cure!
'Tis not as one may fancy veal, and, yet,
Put up with mutton! If I get not her,
I starve and die! How I do love thee, Esther!
But thou regard'st it not, nor pay'st it heed;
Thou ratest me as nothing; but I'm something,
Or never had I fall'n in love with thee.
Nor durst I tell thee how I love thee, Esther!
O! my fair Esther! O! my goddess, Esther!—
My lily, pink, rose, tulip, everything
That's beautiful and sweet!—would thou wast by
To hear the love-names I am calling thee!

Esther enters, speaking angrily, holding some roots.
Esther.
Hoa, sirrah Hans? Is this your work?

Hans.
Dear Esther!
Esther, I can bear anything, except
Your anger! labour without wages!—work
From morn till night—go without breakfast, dinner,
Or supper—suffer aught, yet be a man!
But when you rate me I am good for nothing!—
A joint that's pick'd to the bone—fish, three days stale—
Wine gone a month without the stopper—cheese
Scoop'd to the rind and kept in a hot pantry,
Or foot of capon only with the strings
Raked from the garbage where't has lain a week!
Don't scold me, then—in sooth you should not do't,
For never say I unkind word to thee,
But call thee, still, all sorts of loving names.

Esther.
You've spoil'd my garden! hoe'd my tulips up
Instead of weeds—you have!—

Hans.
Don't stamp at me,
It makes my heart jump—Ah!—'Twas kind of you
To stop! But knew she how I loved her foot,
She would not stamp it at me.

Esther.
Why do you touch
My garden?

Hans.
'Tis to make it orderly;
Keep the earth smooth, and rake it small as crumbs;
Prop the tall flowers with standards; clear the beds
Of chick-weed, grass, and thievish dandelion,
That sucks up all the nourishment around it;
Trim the box edges straight, and of a piece;
And roll the gravel-walks till they are even
And smooth as any carpet.

Esther.
Would your pains
Would spare themselves! The other day you broke
My finest rose.

Hans.
It was with kissing it!
It was indeed your finest rose, and so
I call'd it Esther; and, in very truth,
Made love to it, and in my rapture broke it!
O Esther, if you knew—

Esther.
Knew what?

Hans.
Nay, nothing.
You take me up so snappishly! I am sure
I bear you much good will—I say good will
Because I am afraid to tell you what
I bear you; and when you intreat me harshly,
I can't endure it, but it brings my heart
Into my throat, that I begin to choke,
And then I fall a-crying. Don't you see
I'm crying now—and wiping of my eyes?

Esther.
A fly has got into them.

Hans.
Do you say
A fly? I would it were so small a thing!
I would it were a gnat, a wasp, a hornet—
Better be stung by anything, than Esther.
A fly indeed! I would it were a fly—
It was no fly! O Esther, if you knew!

Esther.
Knew what? What dost thou mean?

Hans.
Alack-aday!

Esther.
Go clean the knives and forks!

[Stamping at him.
Hans.
They are made of steel,
And steel is hard, and, if it is, no wonder.
'Tis steel—and 'tis its nature! 'Tis not so
With human hearts, for they are flesh and blood,
Whereof was never made, nor will be made,
Nor can be made, a knife and fork; and yet
No steel at times is harder! 'Tis a pity.

Esther.
Is all that silver clean'd?

Hans.
How sweet a sound
Has silver! Yet 'tis heat-proof. Without fear
You dip it in a pot of boiling broth,
Which can not you the tongue, and yet how harsh
The tongue will sometimes sound!

Esther.
[Stamping.]
Have you your wits?

Hans.
Yes!—No!—I only have a part of them.
I'll tell you where the other part is gone,
If you will let me.

Esther.
Well, sir!

Hans.
If you knew—

Esther.
[Stamping more violently.]
Begone, I'll never know!—
[Hans goes out.]
—What does he mean?
The creature's not in love with me? Ne'er yet
Met I the man was bold enough to woo me,
And that among bold men—and would he try,
Whom nature, by mistaking, framed a man,
And gave a chicken's heart to? I should like
To see him woo me! Why, I have ta'en his part,
As might a mother, her girl-petted boy's,
A thousand times—saved him from kicks and beatings—
Fought for him, standing by and crowing, while
He saw me win his battle—“If I knew!”
I half suspect the thing's in love with me!
And, now I think on't, for this month or two
The boy is alter'd wondrously! He sighs,
And sighs!—and mumbles to himself, and goes
Moping about the house. Sure as I live,
The boy's in love, and I'm to have a husband!
I, to whom man durst never say soft thing
The second time! A husband! I shall die
At the thought. [Laughs.]
Make Hans my husband [Laughs]
—then the end
O' th' world were come. [Laughs.]
O dear! my sides will crack
With laughter! Esther go to church with Hans!
Take oath to love, to honour, and obey him! [Laughs.]

Yes, with a curtsey! and then take him home
In my apron! Esther become wife to Hans! [Laughs.]

Hans husband unto Esther! [Laughs.]
Husband! [Laughs.]
Husband! [Laughs.]


Enter Madame Roselheim.
Mad. Ros.
Why, Esther, what's the matter?

Esther.
[Still laughing.]
I'm laughing!

Mad. Ros.
I see you are. What makes you laugh?

Esther.
[Laughing.]
A thought
That came into my head.

Mad. Ros.
Dismiss it then—
Behoves you to be busy with grave matters.
Your master leaves us. He is summon'd hence
By sudden requisition of high duty.

Esther.
How soon?

Mad. Ros.
At once. Prepare for his departure.

Esther.
Goes Meeta with him?

Mad. Ros.
No, nor any one.
A secret mission takes him, for the service
Of her, the royal dame, who was his mistress.

Esther.
And how will Meeta bear it?

Mad. Ros.
As she ought.
Meeta knows nothing paramount to duty.

Esther.
And this to fall upon the very eve
Of her wedding. Will it stop it?

Mad. Ros.
I don't know.

Esther.
I hope it will not; I have fear of crosses
In all such matters.

Mad. Ros.
Thinkest thou of weddings?

Esther.
Madam!

[Stifling a laugh.
Mad. Ros.
Why, Esther, what's the matter with you?

Esther.
Nothing!—That is—Unless I laugh I die!

[Goes out, laughing immoderately.
Mad. Ros.
What's come to her? 'Tis not her mood to laugh—
At such a time, too! But I have not thought
To waste on her. A dangerous mission this—
A search, unauthorized, and that, with foes
On every side of him. The reverend man
For duty puts his life in jeopardy,
Nor pauses, but as soon as call'd obeys—
His daughter on the eve of marriage too,
As Esther said—her bridegroom daily look'd for,
My son, my Rupert—fit to mate a princess,
But yet more fitly with sweet Meeta match'd,
In virtue without peer! Will he postpone
Their nuptials? No, he will not, if I know him.
But whatsoever he resolves is wise;
For piety is still the good man's law.

[Goes out.

SCENE II.

—A Room in Muhldenau's House.
Enter Muhldenau.
Muhl.
Meeta! I thought she was alone with me!
No wonder if the news transfixes her
With deep abstraction, newly told; when I,
Already in possession on't, alike
Forget myself! Why, Meeta! Come, my child.

Meeta.
[Entering.]
And must you go?

Muhl.
The voice that calls me hence
I never disobey'd—durst disobey!
Thou art here in safety. This, thy father's will,
From want assures thee—leaves thee heir, indeed,
To modest competence. Thy nuptials too,
Which, for this chance I would not have postponed,
Give thee a father in a husband. Thus,
Absolved from care on thy account, I go.
For thou art good, my child, and hast beside
A Father whom thou lovest to obey,
With power no less than will to guard his child,
That trusts in him—in every place at hand,
At every hour—the Father of thy father!
In whose strong hands, and pitiful as strong,
I leave thee, saying, “Let his will be done!”

Meeta.
Will you be long away?

Muhl.
Not long, I hope;
Not very long. What call you long, my child?
A year?

Meeta.
O, not a year!

Muhl.
No!—No! No fear
Of that.—No; certainly I shall not be
A year away.

Meeta.
Nor half a year?

Muhl.
Nor half
A year.

Meeta.
Half that?

Muhl.
I know not, but should think
A lapse, more brief, should bring me home, again.

Meeta.
Perhaps a month?

Muhl.
Perhaps; but graver things
Lie in the hands of seconds. Yea; a second
Might balk departure, yet remove me from thee,
Never again to meet thee—in this world—
In this world, Meeta!—so, think less of absence,
That, here, hath termination.

Meeta.
Is the mission
That takes you, dangerous?

Muhl.
I'll not deceive you.
It is.

Meeta.
Sweet Heaven have mercy!

Muhl.
It is well
To call for that—but better 'tis to know
That what Heaven wills is right!—Believe in that,
Thou'lt find it, in the end, to thy account.
But what is danger? Is't always the thing
We call so? Sin is danger, certainly;
Putting in jeopardy man's proper life—
The life to come!—but what is danger else?
'Tis hard to say! Of this, howe'er, be sure,
More oft it wears a smooth face, than a rough;
So, for the most part, found, when least expected,
And fatalest! The storms that are foretold
Are easiest met—the reefs, avoided,
That raise the ripple! He was feasting, Meeta,
Who saw the writing, to the prophet's mind
Explain'd alone, though manifest to all;
And while the impious revel yet held on,
The flood was turn'd aside, to let the surge
Of battle in; and ruin overthrew
Him and his kingdom! Hear me, Meeta; glad
This summons makes me, though it threatens danger;
And, for I know that it will hearten thee
To bear my absence, I will tell thee why.
Sit down, my child. Thou hadst a sister, Meeta.

Meeta.
A sister!

Muhl.
I have kept the knowledge from thee,
To save the questioning had follow'd it,
And could not be replied to, without cost
Of suffering, while recollection of
Bereavement yet was young.

Meeta.
I had a sister?

Muhl.
You had a sister.

Meeta.
Had?

Muhl.
Had, Meeta.

Meeta.
Had!
Alas! was I so rich, and knew it not?
I had a sister! O what light and warmth
Of love, I never knew before, the thought
Hath shot into my soul!—And now—And now,
All's strangely dark and cold! How is it, father,
I had a sister, and remember not?

Muhl.
Because 'twas in thy childhood, Meeta, when
The memory, too tender, yields impressions
Their causes ta'en away.—And yet there was
A time, when thou remember'dst such a thing!

Meeta.
Was there? O heartless Meeta! Once remember
She had a sister, and forget it ever!

Muhl.
Thou hast forgot the siege of Magdeburgh.

Meeta.
No! I remember that! I never hear
The thunder, but I think of that!—or see
The lightning set the sky on fire, but that
Comes back to me!—No!—no!—I recollect
The siege of Magdeburgh!

Muhl.
How long did it last?

Meeta.
One night.

Muhl.
Three months!

Meeta.
I only recollect
One night—and it was in the street, and men
With horrid looks and yells ran to and fro!
On horseback some, and some on foot—some firing,
And some with weapons which they whirl'd and darted
As they moved on!

Muhl.
Ay! Mercy show'd they not,
That night, to man or woman!

Meeta.
Woman? No!
I saw them seize one by the hair!—I am sure
I did!

Muhl.
You did—you told me so yourself.

Meeta.
I told you so myself?

Muhl.
You have forgot!
And can you wonder? You were barely then
Turn'd five years old. Were you not near that woman?

Meeta.
Yes! close to her! I had a hold of her.

Muhl.
That too you told me. Do you not remember?

Meeta.
No.

Muhl.
No!—Not when I found thee in the street
Wandering alone, and, 'twixt thy sobbings, on
Thy father calling?

Meeta.
No.

Muhl.
Thou told'st it me
The following day, and often afterwards.
I let the fruitless inquisition drop.
So memory fell asleep! Remember'st aught
That woman carried?

Meeta.
Carried?

Muhl.
Carried.

Meeta.
No.

Muhl.
She was thy sister's nurse—

Meeta.
It was a child
She carried! Was it? Yes—I see it now
In her arms, as plain as I see you. O heart!
What hast thou been about? All's clear as noon!—
A child she carried, and it was my sister!
I recollect my sister! Were they kill'd?

Muhl.
The woman was.

Meeta.
And not my sister?

Muhl.
That
Knows Heaven alone! That night of carnage over,
We search'd the street—the woman's body found,
But, of thy little sister, not a trace!

Meeta.
And yet you search'd the street?—She was not kill'd!
Had she been kill'd, her body had been found
Sure as the nurse's—Yes!—and I have heard
Nine times in ten, when caught in mortal strait,
A woman with an infant in her arms,
Although she lose herself, will save her load!
She was not kill'd, for didn't I escape?
I, quite alone, and clamouring as you say!—
They hurt not me whom else soe'er they hurt;
And would they harm a little speechless child,
As like to smile at them as look afraid;
To come to them, if it could walk, as flee?
'Tis not in mortal man that has his wits,
To slay a little harmless, witless child!
To wound it, scratch it!—I would stake my life
She was not kill'd—Some good man snatch'd her up—
Took her away—put in a place of safety—
Heaven bless him!—cherishes her now perhaps
As if she were his own! Do you not think
She is alive?—I'm sure she is alive;
I have a sister still!

Muhl.
Thy sanguine heart
A little light enlarges into day.
It is thy father's nature which thou hast,
Uncheck'd in thee, in him subdued by time.
Now see'st thou why this summons is a thing
To welcome? Hitherto my debt to thee,
My yearnings for my lost one still has held
In check—yes, yearnings, Meeta; for I own
The likeness, though a faint one, of thy hope,
Touching thy sister, round thy father's heart
Hath ever hung! but now that I am call'd—
Commanded—for 'tis even so, my child—
To leave thee—though the track I must pursue
Borders with danger, yet it is a journey
I undertake more pleased, than grudgingly;
For—if we may believe in presages—
And wherefore not, if we believe at all—
As who shall shape and bound the ways of Heaven—
To other issue than its proper one,
And nearer to myself, this mission leads—
Perhaps concerning thee!—perhaps—Yes, Meeta,
I cannot help the thought, for, next to thee,
It is the stay of my old age—perhaps
Concerning—

Meeta.
My lost sister.

Muhl.
Yes, my child,
Not dead, but lost as thou believ'st. How well
You reason'd on't! The body was not found:
A nurse, as now thou saidst, will lose herself,
Yet save her load—'tis not, I do believe,
In flesh and blood to slay a little child!
You're right, the child was saved—is living yet!
You have made your father turn a boy again!
Well, be it so! I do believe it, Meeta!
You are content, my child, to let me go?

Meeta.
I am, sir—that is, not, as at the first,
My heart grows sick at thought of losing you.
Couldn't I go too?—No!—No!—There is danger,
And that's my answer. Farewell, father!—There!
We'll say good-bye at once!

Muhl.
Not yet, my child!
Shouldst thou require a friend, while I'm away,
Here is the name of one. He lives in Prague:
He is a Jew.

Meeta.
A Jew?

Muhl.
He'll give thee counsel,
Shouldst thou have need of it.

Meeta.
A Jew?

Muhl.
Or, if
Thy funds run low, in sudden exigence,
He'll help them mount again.

Meeta.
A Jew?

Muhl.
Why not?

Meeta.
And I a Christian father's child!

Muhl.
Is not
A Jew a man? Wouldst thou, a Christian, help
A Jew, that's of thy creed an enemy?

Meeta.
I would!

Muhl.
And why not then a Jew help thee?
I know a reason; but the blame on't lies
Not on the other side. It is the race
Elect from all mankind, whose course is mark'd
From far-off time by high behests from Heaven,
By miracles and oracles, and deeds
Of mighty men who put their trust therein!
Don't fear thy father's friend!—Don't fear the Jew!

Meeta.
I am corrected, sir.—I shall observe.

Muhl.
Here comes thy Rupert's mother—and in time.
Enter Madame Roselheim.
My absence, madam, need not be a let
To stay my daughter's nuptials with thy son.
I know a soldier's time is not his own;
And what is granted him, behoves him use.
So, Meeta, do not wait for my return,
If past the time, delay'd—Farewell, my child!
Madam, farewell!—We are in the hands of Heaven!

[Goes out; and Meeta, after a struggle, falls weeping upon the neck of Madame Roselheim.