The Online Library of Liberty

A project of Liberty Fund, Inc.

• Götz Von Berlichingen With the Iron Hand. a Drama.
• Dramatis PersonÆ
• Act I.
• Scene I.—: An Inn At Schwarzenberg In Franconia.
• Scene II.—: A Cottage In a Thick Forest.
• Scene III.—: An Apartment In Jaxthausen, the Castle of Goetz Von Berlichingen.
• Scene IV.—: The Bishop of Bamberg’s Palace.
• Scene V.—: Jaxthausen.
• Act II.
• Scene I.—: Bamberg. a Hall.
• Scene II.—: Jaxthausen. a Hall In Goetz’s Castle.
• Scene III.—: The Bishop’s Palace At Bamberg.
• Scene IV.—: The Spessart.
• Scene V.—: The Bishop’s Palace. His Cabinet.
• Scene VI.—: Adelaide’s Apartment.
• Scene VII.—: An Ante-room.
• Scene VIII.—: The Spessart.
• Scene IX.—: Hall In the Bishop’s Palace At Bamberg.
• Scene X—: an Inn.
• Act III.
• Scene I.—: A Garden At Augsburg.
• Scene II.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene III.—: The Camp of the Party Sent to Execute the Imperial Mandate.
• Scene IV.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene V.—: Bamberg. Adelaide’s Chamber.
• Scene VI.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene VII.—: A Wood On the Borders of a Morass.
• Scene VIII.—: Camp of the Imperialists.
• Scene IX.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene X.—: The Imperial Camp.
• Scene XI.—: Mountains and a Wood.
• Scene XII.—: A Heath—on One Side an Eminence, With a Ruined Tower, On the Other the Forest.
• Scene XIII.—: The Camp.
• Scene XIV.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene XV.—: Camp.
• Scene XVI.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene XVII.—: The Kitchen.
• Scene XVIII.—: A Hall.
• Scene XIX.—: The Court of the Castle.
• Scene XX.: The Armory.
• Act IV.
• Scene I.—: An Inn In the City of Heilbronn
• Scene II.—: The Council-house At Heilbronn.
• Scene III.—: A Large Hall In the Council-house, Beset By Sickingen’s Troops.
• Scene IV.—: The Castle of Adelaide. Augsburg.
• Scene V.—: Jaxthausen.
• Act V.
• Scene I.—: A Village Plundered By the Insurgent Peasantry. Shrieks and Tumult.
• Scene II.—: Open Country. In the Distance Two Villages and an Abbey Are Burning.
• Scene III.—: A Hill and Prospect of the Country. In the Flat Scene a Mill. a Body of Horsemen.
• Scene IV.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene V.—: A Village.
• Scene VI.—: The Front of a Gypsy-hut In a Wild Forest.—night.—a Fire Before the Hut, At Which Are Seated the Mother of the Gypsies and a Girl.
• Scene VII.—: Inside the Hut.
• Scene VIII.—: Adelaide’s Bedchamber.
• Scene IX.—: Street Before the Prison At Heilbronn.
• Scene X.—: An Apartment In Weislingen’s Castle.
• Scene XI.—: A Narrow Vault Dimly Illuminated. the Judges of the Secret Tribunal Discovered Seated, All Muffled In Black Cloaks.
• Scene XII.—: The Court of an Inn.
• Scene XIII.—: The Prison At Heilbronn.
• Scene the Last. —: the Prison Garden.
• Iphigenia In Tauris a Drama
• Dramatis PersonÆ.
• Act I.
• Scene I.—: A Grove Before the Temple of Diana.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Act II.
• Scene I.
• Scene II.
• Act III.
• Scene I.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Act IV.
• Scene I.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Act V.
• Scene I.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Scene VI.
• Torquato Tasso
• Dramatis PersonÆ.
• Act I.
• Scene I.: A Garden Adorned With Busts of the Epic Poets. to the Right a Bust of Virgil: to the Left, One of Ariosto.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Act II.
• Scene I.—: A Room.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Act III.
• Scene I.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Act IV.
• Scene I.—: A Chamber.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Act V.
• Scene I.—: A Garden.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Clavigo
• Dramatis PersonÆ.
• Act I.
• Scene I.—: Clavigo’s Dwelling.
• Scene II.—: Guilbert’s Dwelling.
• Act II.
• Scene I.—: Clavigo’s House.
• Act III.
• Scene I.—: Guilbert’s Abode.
• Act IV.
• Scene I.—: Clavigo’s Abode. Carlos, Alone.
• Scene II.—: Guilbert’s Abode.
• Act V.
• Scene I.—: The Street Before the House of Guilbert. Night.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Scene VI.
• Stella. a Tragedy.
• Dramatis PersonÆ.
• Act I.
• Act II.
• Act III.
• Act IV.
• Act V.
• The Brother and Sister
• Dramatis PersonÆ.
• A Tale.
• The Good Women.
• Reynard the Fox.
• Chapter I.: The Accusation.
• Chapter II.: The First Summons.
• Chapter III.: The Second Summons.
• Chapter IV.: The Trial.
• Chapter V.: The Pardon.
• Chapter VI.: The Relapse.
• Chapter VII.: The Outlawry.
• Chapter VIII.: The Journey.
• Chapter IX.: The Advocacy.
• Chapter X.: The Second Pardon.
• Chapter XI.: The Defiance.
• Chapter XII.: The Battle.

SCENE VI.

Carlos,aServant.The preceding.

Carlos.

Clavigo! murderers!

Clavigo.

Hear me, Carlos! Thou seest here the victim of thy prudence; and now, I conjure thee, for the sake of that blood, in which my life irrevocably flows away, save my brother.

Carlos.

Oh, my friend! (To the servant.) You standing there? Fly for a surgeon.

[Exit servant.

Clavigo.

It is in vain; save, save my unhappy brother! thy hand thereon. They have forgiven me, and so forgive I thee. Accompany him to the frontiers, and—oh!

Carlos.

(Stamping with his feet.) Clavigo! Clavigo!

Clavigo.

(Drawing nearer to the coffin, upon which they lay him down.) Marie! Thy hand!

[He unfolds her hands and grasps the right hand.

Sophie.

(ToBeaumarchais.) Hence, unhappy one, away!

Clavigo.

I have her hand, her cold, dead hand. Thou art mine. Yet this last bridal kiss! Alas!

Sophie.

He is dying! Save thyself, brother!

[Beaumarchaisfalls onSophie’sneck. She returns the embrace and makes a sign for him to withdraw.

Stella.

A Tragedy.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

ACT I.

At the Inn.

The sound of a Post-horn is heard.

Landlady.

Carl! Carl!

[The lad appears.

Carl.

What’s you want?

Landlady.

Where in the name of all that’s holy have you been? Out with you! The stage is coming. Show the passengers in; lug their bags for them! Bestir yourself! Are you making up a face again? (The lad exits; calling after him.) Hold on! I’ll cure you of your surly ways. A tavern-boy has got to be lively, on his taps. By-and-by, when such a rascal gets to be at the head of things, he lets everything go to pieces. If I ever thought of getting married again, it would be just on this account: that it’s too hard for a woman alone to keep things in running order.

Madame Sommer, Lucy(in travelling-dress),Carl.

Lucy.

(Carrying a valise, to Carl.) Just let it be; ’tisn’t heavy; but take my mother’s bandbox.

Landlady.

At your service, ladies! You are in good time. The stage does not usually get in so early.

Lucy.

We had a very young, jolly, handsome postilion, in whose company I wouldn’t object to travel round the world, and besides there were only two of us without much baggage.

Landlady.

If you want something to eat, please be good enough to be patient for a bit; dinner isn’t quite ready yet.

Madame Sommer.

Might I trouble you for just a little lunch?

Lucy.

I am in no hurry at all. Please look out for my mother, however?

Landlady.

Right away.

Lucy.

She wants some real nice broth.

Landlady.

She shall have the best I’ve got.

[Exit.

Madame Sommer.

Strange that you cannot stop giving orders! It seems to me that our journey might have taught you a lesson or two! We have always paid for more than we have eaten; and in our circumstances!

Lucy.

We’ve never yet come out short.

Madame Sommer.

But we’ve been precious near it.

Postilionenters.

Lucy.

Well, my excellent driver, how do you feel? You’d like your fee, wouldn’t you?

Postilion.

Haven’t I driven like a special post?

Lucy.

That means that you have also earned a special fee I suppose! You should be my private coachman, it I only kept horses.

Postilion.

Even if you don’t keep them, I am at your service.

Lucy.

There!

Postilion.

Thank you, miss! Are you not going further?

Lucy.

We stop here for the present.

Postilion.

Good-by!

[Exit.

Madame Sommer.

I see by his face that you gave him too much.

Lucy.

Would you have him leave us discontented? He was so friendly the whole time. You are always saying that I am selfwilled, mamma; but at all events I am not selfish.

Madame Sommer.

I beg of you, Lucy, don’t misunderstand what I say to you. I honor your frankness as well as your good heart and your generosity; but they are virtues only in their proper places.

Lucy.

Mamma, this place pleases me very much. And I suppose that yonder house belongs to the lady whose companion I am going to be.

Madame Sommer.

I am glad if the place of your destination is agreeable to you!

Lucy.

Quiet it may be, that I can see. It’s just like Sunday in the great square. But her ladyship has a fine garden and must be a good woman. We shall see how we get on together. Why are you looking about you, mamma?

Madame Sommer.

Leave me, Lucy! Fortunate girl, in whose heart no recollections are stirred! Alas! it used to be different! There is nothing more painful to me than to come into an inn.

Lucy.

Where don’t you find something to worry about?

Madame Sommer.

And is there ever any lack of reasons for it? My darling, how different it used to be when your father travelled with me, when we enjoyed the happiest years of our lives in the free world, the first years of our married life! Then everything had the charm of novelty for me! And with his arm around me to hasten through so many thousand objects, when every trivial thing was made interesting to me by his intelligence, his love!—

Lucy.

I should like very much to travel.

Madame Sommer.

And when after a hot day, or after some series of accidents, perhaps on account of bad roads in winter, we arrived at much worse inns than this one, and together felt the enjoyment of simple comforts, or sat together on the wooden settle, eating our omelet and boiled potatoes—ah, then it was very different!

Lucy.

But now it is time to forget him.

Madame Sommer.

Do you know what that means? To forget? My dear girl, you have, thank God, never yet lost anything that could not be replaced. But since the moment when I became certain that he had deserted me, all the joy of my life was gone. Despair seized upon me. I had no faith in myself, I did not believe in a God. I can scarcely bear to think of it.

Lucy.

And all I know is that I sat on your bed and cried because you cried. It was in the green room, on the little bed. I felt worse about the room because we had to sell the house.

Madame Sommer.

You were seven years old and couldn’t realize what you were losing.

Annie(with the lunch),theLandlady, Carl.

Annie.

Here is madame’s lunch.

Madame Sommer.

Thank you, my love! Is that your little daughter?

Landlady.

My stepdaughter, madame; but she is so capable that she makes me forget that I have no children of my own.

Madame Sommer.

You are in mourning?

Landlady.

For my husband whom I lost three months ago. We had not lived together quite three years.

Madame Sommer.

Yet you seem somewhat comforted.

Landlady.

We have just as little time to weep as to pray. Alas! so it goes Sundays and work-a-days. If the parson did not come with his text once in a while, or once had a chance to go to a funeral—Carl, bring a couple of napkins! Put ’em here at the end!

Lucy.

Whose house is that over yonder?

Landlady.

It belongs to our gracious baroness. A most lovely woman!

Madame Sommer.

I am glad to have a neighbor confirm the report that was given to us at a distance. My daughter is going to live with her and be her companion.

Landlady.

I wish you the best success, miss.

Lucy.

I hope that she is going to please me.

Landlady.

You must have an extraordinary taste if your intercourse with the gracious lady does not please you.

Lucy.

So much the better! For if I am to get along well with any one my heart and will must be in it; else it does not succeed.

Landlady.

Well! well! we’ll talk some more about this by-and-by, and you shall tell me if I have not spoken the truth. Whoever lives near our gracious ladyship is lucky. When my daughter gets a little bigger, then she is going to serve with her for a few years at least; it’s a good thing for the girl all her life long.

Annie.

Ah! only wait till you see her! She is so sweet, so sweet! You can’t believe how anxiously she has been waiting for you. She likes me too. Will you not go right over to her? I will go with you.

Lucy.

I must set myself to rights first, and I want something to eat too.

Annie.

Then can’t I run over, mamma, and tell her ladyship that the mademoiselle has come?

Landlady.

Well then, run along!

Madame Sommer.

And tell her, little one, that we will wait upon her immediately after dinner.

[ExitAnnie.

Landlady.

My daughter has an extraordinary fondness for her. And she is the best soul in the world and her whole heart is with children. She teaches them to do all sorts of work and to sing. She likes to have the peasant girls wait on her until they get some skill and then she gets them good places, and this is the way she spends her time since her husband has been gone. It’s incomprehensible how she can be so unhappy and at the same time so kind and so good.

Madame Sommer.

Isn’t she a widow?

Landlady.

God knows! her husband went away three years ago, and since then nothing has been seen or heard of him. And she loved him above all things. My man could never get done when he began to tell about them. And yet! I myself say it, there is not such a heart as hers in the world. Every year on the day when she saw him for the last time, she will not admit anyone, shuts herself up in her room, and generally when she speaks of him it goes through your very soul!

Madame Sommer.

Poor creature!

Landlady.

There’s been a good deal of talk about it, first and last.

Madame Sommer.

What do you mean?

Landlady.

It is not pleasant to repeat it.

Madame Sommer.

I beg you to tell me.

Landlady.

If you will not abuse my confidence I will tell you the story. It’s about eight years ago since they came here. They bought the barony. No one knew them; the people called him baron and called her my gracious lady, and they thought that he was an officer who had got rich in foreign wars and now wanted to settle down in peace. At that time she was just in the bloom of youth, not more than sixteen years old and handsome as an angel.

Lucy.

Then she can’t be more than twenty-four now?

Landlady.

But she has had trouble enough for her years. She had one child; it did not live long; its grave is in the garden, with only turf over it, and since her husband went away she has had a hermitage built near it, and her own grave is to be made right by it. My blessed man was well along in years and not easy to get stirred up; but he liked to tell nothing better than about the happy lives of those people as long as they lived together. It made quite another man of him, he used to say, only to look on and see how fond they were of each other.

Madame Sommer.

My heart is moved for her.

Landlady.

But this was the way of it: Folk said he had curious principles; leastwise he never went to church; and folks that haven’t any religion haven’t any God, and are apt to get into bad ways. All of a sudden the report got out that the baron was off. He had started on his travels, and since then he has never come back.

Madame Sommer.

(Aside.) The very counterpart of my own fate!

Landlady.

Then all the mouths were full of it! It was just at the time that I came here as a young bride—three years ago St. Michael’s day. And then everybody had a different story, and they went about whispering in their neighbor’s ears that they’d never had any confidence in him. But don’t you betray me. It was said that he was a highborn gentleman who had eloped with her, and all sorts of things were said. Ah, yes, if a young girl makes a false step like that she has to repent of it all her life long.

EnterAnnie.

Annie.

Her ladyship begs most earnestly that you will come right over to her; she wants to speak with you just a moment, just to look at you!

Lucy.

It is not suitable to go in these clothes.

Landlady.

Oh, do go! I pledge you my word that she will not care at all.

Lucy.

Will you go with me, little girl?

Annie.

With all my heart.

Madame Sommer.

Lucy, a word with you! (Landladygoes away.) Don’t you commit yourself at all. Don’t speak of our rank, our fate. Meet her deferentially.

Lucy.

(Softly.) Trust it all to me! My father was a merchant, went to America, is dead and hence our circumstances. You just trust it to me; I’ve told the story often enough. (Aloud.) Don’t you want to rest a little while? You need to. The good landlady will show you to a room where there’s a bed.

Landlady.

I have indeed a pretty, quiet chamber looking out into the garden. (ToLucy.) I hope that the gracious lady will please you.

[ExitLucywithAnnie.

Madame Sommer.

My daughter is still a little flighty.

Landlady.

That is the way of youth; but the proud waves get calmed down after a little.

Madame Sommer.

So much the worse.

Landlady.

Come with me, madame, if you like to.

[Exeunt both.

A Post-horn is heard.

Fernando(in officer’s uniform),aServant.

Servant.

Shall I have the horses harnessed again right away and your things packed?

Fernando.

You’re to fetch them into the inn, I tell you. This is the end of our journey; do you hear?

Servant.

This is? But you said—

Fernando.

I tell you: have a room secured and bring my bags to it.

[ExitServant.

Fernando.

(Going to the window.) And do I see thee again? Heavenly prospect! Do I see thee again? Scene of all my felicity! How silent is the house! Not a window open! How empty the balcony whereon we so often sat together! Fernando, behold the cloister-like air of her dwelling; how it flatters thy hopes! And can it be that in her loneliness Fernando is the object of her thoughts, of her occupation? And has he deserved it of her? Oh! it seems to me as if I had awakened into life again after a long, cold, joyless death-sleep; so novel, so significant is everything! The trees, the fountains, everything, everything! Even now the water runs from the pipes just as it did when I—ah! how many thousand times, gazed thoughtfully from our window and saw all things silently reflected in the running waters. The voice of the fountain is melody to me, thought-transporting melody! And she? She will be as she used to be! Yes, Stella, thou hast not changed; my heart tells me truly. How it beats in response to thine! How its beating urges me toward thee! But I will not, I dare not! I must first recover, must first persuade myself that I am actually here, that I am not deceived by the dream which so often, when I slept and when I waked, brought me hither from the farthest regions of the earth. Stella! Stella! I am coming! Dost thou not already feel my presence? In thy arms all shall be forgotten! And if thou hoverest about me, beloved shade of my unlucky wife, forgive me, depart from me! Thou art gone; so let me forget thee, forget everything in the arms of this angel—my fate, all my loss, my sorrows and my repentance! I am so near to thee and yet so far! And in a single moment—I cannot, I cannot! I must recover myself or I shall suffocate at her feet!

EnterLandlady.

Landlady.

Would you like something to eat, sir?

Fernando.

Is dinner ready?

Landlady.

Oh, yes! we are only waiting for a young lady who has gone across to the gracious lady’s.

Fernando.

And how is her ladyship?

Landlady.

Do you know her?

Fernando.

A few years ago I used to be there a great deal. How is her husband?

Landlady.

Heaven only knows! He is somewhere in the wide world!

Fernando.

What! gone?

Landlady.

Fact! He has deserted the poor lady! God forgive him!

Fernando.

She will soon learn to console herself.

Landlady.

Do you think so, indeed? Then you can’t know her very well. She lives as close as a nun ever since I’ve known her. Almost no one, nobody in the neighborhood, comes to visit her. She lives with her people, keeps all the children of the village attached to her, and except for her secret sorrow, is always friendly and pleasant.

Fernando.

I am going to see her, however!

Landlady.

I would. Oftentimes she has invited us, that is, the bailiff’s wife and the pastor’s wife and me, and she likes to discuss all sorts of questions with us. But faith, we avoid speaking of her husband, the baron! It happened we reminded her of him one day. God knows how we felt when she fell to and began to speak of him, to praise him and to cry about him. My dear sir, we all wept like children, and we could hardly get over it.

Fernando.

(Aside.) Hast thou deserved this of her! (Aloud.) Does my servant know which my room is?

Landlady.

Up one flight, number two! Carl, show the gentleman his room.

[ExitFernandowith the lad.

EnterLucyandAnnie.

Landlady.

Well, how was it?

Lucy.

She is a lovely little woman and I shall get along with her very well. You have not praised her too highly. She did not want to let me go. She made me promise by all that is holy that I would bring my mother and my things right over after dinner.

Landlady.

I thought it would turn out so. Would you like to dine right away? Only a tall, handsome officer has just come; but you need not be afraid of him.

Lucy.

Not in the least! I like to have soldiers around better than anyone else. At least they don’t set themselves up to know how to read people’s characters at first sight. Is my mother asleep?

Landlady.

I don’t know.

Lucy.

I must go and look after her.

[Exit.

Landlady.

Carl! there you’ve gone and forgotten the saltcellar again. What kind of work do you call that? And just look at the glasses! I’d smash one or two over your head if they didn’t cost more than you are worth.

EnterFernando.

Landlady.

The young lady has got back. She will be down to dinner right away.

Fernando.

Who is she?

Landlady.

I am not acquainted with her. She seems to be of good birth but without means: she is going to be lady’s companion to the baroness.

Fernando.

She is young?

Landlady.

Very young and pert. Her mother is here too—up stairs.

EnterLucy.

Lucy.

Your humble servant, sir.

Fernando.

I am fortunate to have such a charming companion at dinner.

[Lucymakes a courtesy.

Landlady.

Sit here, mademoiselle! And will you take this place, sir?

Fernando.

Shall we not have the honor of your company, good mistress?

Landlady.

Ah, no; if I rest, everything rests.

[Exit.

Fernando.

So we shall have a tête-à-tête!

Lucy.

With the table between us, I can endure it.

Fernando.

So you have determined to be companion to the baroness?

Lucy.

I’ve got to be.

Fernando.

It seems to me that you ought to be able to be a companion to some one who would be more entertaining than the baroness.

Lucy.

I have no way of finding such.

Fernando.

But your charming face?

Lucy.

I see that you are like all other men!

Fernando.

That means?

Lucy.

Why just this, you are all very assuming. You think that you are indispensable; but I don’t think so, I grew up without men.

Fernando.

Then your father is dead?

Lucy.

I can scarcely remember that I ever had one. I was young when he left us to undertake a journey to America and the news came that his ship was wrecked.

Fernando.

And you seem to care so little about him.

Lucy.

Why should I care? He never did much to win my love; and even if I forgave him for deserting us, what does a man care for except his freedom? Yet I would not be in my mother’s place, who is dying with grief.

Fernando.

And you are without resources, without protectors?

Lucy.

What is the difference? Our property has grown smaller day after day, and all the time I have been growing larger; and I am not sorry to support my mother.

Fernando.

Your courage astonishes me!

Lucy.

Ah, sir, it comes with trial. When you have several times been threatened with ruin and every time been saved, it inspires confidence.

Fernando.

And can’t you communicate some of it to your dear mother?

Lucy.

Alas! it is she who has met the loss and not I. I thank my father that I was born into the world, for I am happy and contented; but she!—who hoped for nothing in life except from him, and who offered up to him the flower of her youth and was deserted—suddenly deserted!—Oh, it must be something dreadful to feel yourself deserted!—I have never lost anything; I cannot speak about it.—You seem to be pondering.

Fernando.

Yes, my dear, he who lives may lose (standing up); but he may also win. And so may God preserve to you your courage! (He takes her hand.) You have astonished me! Oh, my child, how fortunate you are!—In my experience with the world oftentimes my hopes, my joys have—yet there is—and—

Lucy.

What do you mean?

Fernando.

Everything that is good! the best, the warmest wishes for your happiness!

[Exit.

Lucy.

That is a most extraordinary man! Still he seems to be good!

ACT II.

StellaandServant.

Stella.

Go right over, go just as quick as you can! Tell her I am waiting for her.

Servant.

She promised to come immediately.

Stella.

But you see she has not come yet. I have taken a great fancy to the young girl. Go!—and have her mother come with her.

[ExitServant.

Stella.

I can hardly wait till she comes! How one wishes and hopes for a new face such as hers to make its appearance! Stella! thou art a child! And yet why should I not love? I need much, very much to satisfy this heart of mine! Much? Poor Stella! Much?—When in other days, he still loved thee, when his head lay on thy bosom, his glances filled thy whole soul; and—O God in heaven! thy decrees are past finding out! When in the midst of his kisses I turned my eyes to Thee, when my heart glowed as it was pressed against his, and with trembling lips I drank in his great spirit, and then looked up with tears of joy to Thee and from a full heart spoke to Thee, prayed to Thee, saying: “Father, let us be happy still; Thou hast made us so happy!” But it was not Thy will. (For a moment she is lost in thought, then quickly starts up, and presses her hands to her heart.) No! Fernando, no! I did not mean to reproach thee!

EnterMadame SommerandLucy.

Stella.

Now I have you! Thou, dear maiden, thou art henceforth mine! Madame, I thank you for the confidence which you have shown in placing in my hands such a treasure! The little witch, the frank, open heart! I have already begun to learn of thee, Lucy!

Madame Sommer.

You appreciate what I bring you and leave with you.

Stella.

(After a pause in which she gazes atMadame Sommer.) Forgive me! I already know your story; I know that I am talking with people of good family; but your presence surprises me. At the first moment I feel confidence and respect toward you.

Madame Sommer.

Gracious lady!—

Stella.

Don’t speak of it! What my heart recognizes, my lips willingly confess. I hear that you are not well; tell me how you are. Do sit down!

Madame Sommer.

But, your ladyship, this journey in the springtime, the changing scenery, and this pure, invigorating air, which has so often before filled me with new and blessed energy—all have worked wonders for me, so that even the memory of departed joys became a pleasure to me, so that I saw a reflection of the golden days of youth and of love kindle in my soul!

Stella.

Yes, the days of love! the first days of love!—No, thou golden age, thou hast not yet gone back to heaven! thou still fillest every heart in those moments when the flower of love unfolds!

Madame Sommer.

(Seizing her hands.) How grand! How charming!

Stella.

Your face glows like the face of an angel, the color mantles in your cheeks!

Madame Sommer.

Ah, and my heart! how it swells! how it yearns toward you!

Stella.

You have loved! Oh, thank God! a creature that understands me! that can have pity upon me, and that looks with sympathy upon my sorrows! It is no fault of ours that we are as we are! Have I not done everything, tried every means? Yes! but what good did it do? It must be this—nothing but this—and no world—and nothing else in the world.—Ah, the loved one is everywhere and all things are for the loved one.

Madame Sommer.

You have a heaven in your soul!

Stella.

Before I am aware, here is his image again!—Thus he stood up in this or that company and looked around for me.—Thus he came galloping across yonder field, and when he reached the garden gate threw himself into my arms.—Out of this door I saw him depart, depart! ah! and he returned again, he returned to his watching love!—If I turn my thoughts to the bustle of the world—he is there! If I sat in the box I was sure, wherever he might be hidden, whether I saw him or not, that he was watching all my motions and loved me! my downsitting and my uprising! I felt that the waving of my feather plumes attracted him more than all the shining eyes around him, and that all the music was only the melody of the everlasting song of his heart: “Stella! Stella! how dear to me thou art!”

Lucy.

Is it possible that people can love each other so?

Stella.

Dost thou ask, little one? Then I cannot answer thee!—But how am I entertaining you?—Trivialities—important trivialities!—Truly I am nothing but a grown up child, and yet it is so enjoyable. Just as children hide their faces behind their aprons and cry “Peek-a-boo,” so that their friends will hunt for them!—How it fills our hearts, if we have had a quarrel and jealously resolve to leave the object of our love, and with what distortions of the strong soul do we come into his presence again! How our bosoms are torn this way and that! and how at last at one glance, at one pressure of the hand everything is all made up again!

Madame Sommer.

How happy you are! You still live in the feeling of the freshest, purest humanity.

Stella.

A millennium of tears and sorrows could not counterbalance the bliss of the first glance, the thrills, the broken words, the presence, the abandonment, the very self forgetfulness, the first timid, fiery kiss, and the first peacefully breathing embrace.—Madame! you are lost in reverie! Why so deeply absorbed?

Madame Sommer.

O men! men!

Stella.

They make us happy and wretched! With what foretaste of bliss do they not fill our hearts! What new, unknown feelings and hopes swell our souls when their stormy passion communicates itself to each of our tingling nerves! How often have I trembled and thrilled all over when with unrestrained tears he filled my heart with a world of sorrows! I besought him for God’s sake to spare himself—to spare me—in vain! Through the inmost marrow he kindled such flames as swept through his being! And thus the maiden from the crown of her head to the sole of her feet became all heart, all feeling! And where is now the zone under heaven suitable for this creature to breathe the vital air and to find nourishment?

Madame Sommer.

We believe in men! In the moment of passion they deceive their own hearts, why then should we not be deceived?

Stella.

Madame! a thought occurs to me! We will be to one another what they ought to have been to us! We will remain together!—Your hand! From this moment I will not let you go!

Lucy.

That will not do at all.

Stella.

Why not, dear Lucy?

Madame Sommer.

My daughter feels that—

Stella.

That this proposition is not a wise one? Oh, just consider what a benefit you would do me if you stayed! Oh, I cannot be alone! My darling, I have done everything, I have kept hens and cattle and dogs; I teach the little girls to sew and to make embroidery, just for the sake of not being alone, just for the sake of seeing something beside my own self, that is alive and growing. And then again, when I am lucky enough, when the gods seem to have relieved my soul of pain, some bright spring morning when I wake up full of peace, and the dear sun shines through my gleaming trees, and amid the duties of the day I feel industrious and joyous, then I spend quite a time ordering and directing things and teaching my servants, and in the freedom of my heart I speak my thanks aloud to Heaven for such happy hours.

Madame Sommer.

Ah, yes, your ladyship, I sympathize with you! Occupation and charity are gifts from heaven, a compensation for loving hearts that are unhappy.

Stella.

Not compensation—makeshift, something instead of what has been lost, but not the lost itself. Lost love! where can a compensation for it be found? Oh, when time and again I sink from thought to thought, bringing up the blissful dreams of the past before my soul, yearning for a future full of hope, and thus in the flooding moonlight wander up and down my garden, then all of a sudden I am seized, seized with the feeling that I am all alone, and I stretch out my arms vainly to the four winds, expressing the magic of love with a force, a fervor so great that it seems to me as if I could drag the moon from the sky—and I am alone, no voice replies to me from the copse, and the stars look down upon my torments with cold, changeless glances! And then with the grave of my baby at my feet!—

Madame Sommer.

You had a baby?

Stella.

Yes, dearest! O God, thou didst allow me only to taste of this felicity in order to prepare for me a bitter cup all my days. When even a peasant child comes running along barefooted on the walk and throws me a kiss and looks at me with her great innocent eyes, it goes to my very soul! I think my Mina was just her age. I lift her with love and anguish and kiss her a hundred times; my heart is torn, the tears gush from my eyes and I hasten away.

Lucy.

But you have so much the less annoyance.

Stella.

(Smiling and patting her shoulder.) How deeply I still feel the pain! Strange that the terrible moments did not kill me! She lay before me! the flower was gathered! and I stood with my heart turned to stone—without pain, without consciousness, I stood! Then the nurse took up the child, pressed it to her heart and suddenly cried: “It lives!” I fell upon her, threw my arms around her neck, and wept a thousand tears upon her face, at her feet. Alas, she was deceived! Dead she lay there, and I close by in maddening, horrible despair!

[She throws herself into a chair.

Madame Sommer.

Turn your thoughts from those melancholy scenes!

Stella.

No, it is good indeed for me to unburden my heart once more, to prattle away the weight of sorrow that has oppressed me so long! Yes, if I am going to speak again of him who used to be all in all to me!—who—you must see his portrait!—his portrait!—Oh, it always seems to me that the form of man is the best text for all that can be felt and said about him!

Lucy.

I am full of curiosity!

Stella.

(Opening her cabinet and leading them in.) Here, my friends! here!

Madame Sommer.

God!

Stella.

Yes, yes! and yet it does not give a thousandth part of an idea of him as he really was. That brow, those black eyes, these brown curls, that earnest face! But alas! the painter could not express the love and the friendliness that he showed when his soul overflowed! Oh, my heart, thou alone canst feel that!

Lucy.

Madame, I am astonished!

Stella.

He was indeed a man!

Lucy.

I must tell you that this very day I ate dinner with an officer over at the inn who was the image of this gentleman. Oh! it must be the same person! I would wager my life that it was!

Stella.

To-day? Thou art deceived! thou art deceiving me!

Lucy.

Yes, to-day! It was the same, only older and more sunburned. Oh, it was! it was!

Stella.

(Pulling the bell-cord.) Lucy! my heart is bursting! I will go right over!

Lucy.

It would not be suitable!

Stella.

Suitable! Oh, my heart!

EnterServant.

Stella.

Henry, go right over to the inn! Go right away! There is an officer there, who must be—who is—Lucy, tell him—have him come right over!

Lucy.

Did you know the baron?

Servant.

As well as my own self.

Lucy.

Then go over to the inn; there is an officer there who bears an extraordinary resemblance to him. Find out if I have been deceived. I’d take my oath it is he!

Stella.

Tell him that he must come here! come quick! quick! Could I endure this? If in this I have—oh, no, thou hast deceived thyself! It is impossible!—Leave me, my friends! leave me alone.

[She closes the door of the cabinet behind her

Lucy.

What is the matter, mother? how pale you are!

Madame Sommer.

This is the last day of my life! My heart cannot bear this! All, all at once.

Lucy.

Great God!

Madame Sommer.

My husband—the portrait—the long-expected—the long-loved! That is my husband! That is your father!

Lucy.

Mother! dearest mother!

Madame Sommer.

And he is here!—will take her into his arms in a moment or two!—And we?—Lucy, we must hurry away!

Lucy.

Anywhere you wish.

Madame Sommer.

Right away!

Lucy.

Come into the garden! I am going back to the inn. If only the stage has not gone yet, we can get away without the formality of leavetaking. Meantime she is intoxicated with her good fortune.

Madame Sommer.

Embracing him in all the bliss of seeing him again—him! And I in the very moment of finding him again—forever, forever!

Fernandoenters withServant.

Servant.

This way, sir! Do you not recognize your library again? She is beside herself! Ah! to think that you are back!

[Fernandopasses without seeing the ladies.

Madame Sommer.

’Tis he! ’tis he!—I am lost!

ACT III.

Stellajoyously entering withFernando.

Stella.

(To the walls.) He is here again! Do ye see him? He is here again! (Coming before the picture of Venus.) Dost thou see him, goddess? He is here again! How many times have I not run up and down before thee like one mad and wept and mourned before thee! He is here again! I do not trust my senses. Goddess! I have looked upon thee so often when he was not here! Now thou art here and he too is here! Dearest! dearest! Thou wert long away, but thou art here now. (Falling into his arms.) Thou art here! I wish to feel nothing, hear nothing, know nothing else except that thou art here again!

Fernando.

Stella! my Stella! (Holding her close.) God in heaven, thou givest me back the power to weep once more!

Stella.

Oh, thou only one!

Fernando.

Stella, let me drink in thy sweet breath again, thy breath—in comparison with which the air of heaven is dull and unrefreshing.

Stella.

Dearest!

Fernando.

Breathe new love into this parched, storm-tossed, ruined heart—new love, new life-enjoyment from the abundance of thy heart!

[He presses a kiss upon her mouth.

Stella.

Best!

Fernando.

How invigorating! how invigorating! Here where thou breathest, everything is imbued with most satisfying young life. Love and abiding troth would here enchain the wasted wanderer.

Stella.

Thou enthusiast!

Fernando.

Thou dost not know what heavenly dew it is to the thirsty one who comes back to thy bosom from the barren, desert world!

Stella.

And the bliss of poor me, Fernando, to press to her heart again her long-lost, wandering, only lamb!

Fernando.

(At her feet.) My Stella!

Stella.

Up, my dearest! arise! I cannot bear to see thee kneel.

Fernando.

Oh, let me! As I bend before thee on my knees, so my heart lies before thee, thou infinite love and goodness!

Stella.

I hold thee again—I do not recognize myself, I do not understand my own heart! What has really happened?

Fernando.

It is to me as it was in the first moments of our bliss. I have thee in my arms, from thy lips I imbibe the reality of thy love! I reel and am drunken with passion, and in amaze I ask myself whether I wake or dream.

Stella.

Now, Fernando, as I can well perceive, thou hast not been wise!

Fernando.

God forefend!—But these moments of bliss in thy arms restore me again to goodness, to virtue. I can pray, Stella, for I am happy!

Stella.

God forgive you that you are such an unsettled and yet such a good man! May the God who made thee forgive thee—that thou art so inconstant and so true!—When I hear the accents of thy voice, then it seems to me that it must be the same Fernando who cared for nothing in all the world but me!

Fernando.

And when I gaze into thy sweet blue eyes and lose myself in their depths, it seems to me as if during all the time of my absence no other image had dwelt there but mine.

Stella.

Thou art not mistaken.

Fernando.

Can it be?

Stella.

I would confess to you! Did I not in the first days of my full love for you make thee my confessor for all the petty griefs that touched my heart? And didst thou not love me all the more for it?

Fernando.

Thou angel!

Stella.

Why dost thou look at me so? I have grown older, have I not? Sorrow has faded the bloom of my cheeks, has it not?

Fernando.

Thou rose! my sweet flower! Stella! Why dost thou shake thy head?

Stella.

How is it that one can love you so?—Why can we not reckon up the pains that you cause our hearts?

Fernando.

(Stroking her curls.) Let us see if we can find a single gray hair!—It is thy fortune that thou art so blonde without turning gray. And, indeed, it seems to be just as thick as ever. (He pulls out the comb and the locks fall in voluminous waves.)

Stella.

Mischievous!

Fernando.

(Twining his arms in them.) Rinaldo again in his ancient chains!

EnterServant.

Servant.

Your ladyship!

Stella.

What is the matter? Your face looks cross and stern! You know that such expressions are the death of me when I am happy!

Servant.

But excuse me, your ladyship!—The two strangers are preparing to go.

Stella.

To go? Alas!

Servant.

’Tis as I told you! I saw the daughter going over to the inn, and then she came back and spoke to her mother. And then I asked about it over there and they told me that an extra stage had been ordered because the stage had already gone. I then had a talk with them; the mother with tears in her eyes begged me to send their things over to them as secretly as possible and that I should express their best wishes for the gracious lady; they could not remain longer!

Fernando.

Is it the lady who with her daughter came to-day?

Stella.

I was going to take the daughter into my service and keep the mother too! Oh, why should they cause all this worry just at this time, Fernando?

Fernando.

What is the matter with them?

Stella.

Heaven only knows! I don’t know anything about it. I don’t want to lose them!—Yet I have thee, Fernando!—If I had not, I should perish at this dilemma! Speak with them, Fernando; don’t wait a minute!—Persuade the mother to come back, Henry! (ExitServant.)—Speak with her! She shall have every liberty.—Fernando, I will go into the arboreum! Follow me! follow me! Ye nightingales, ye shall now welcome him!

Fernando.

Loveliest love!

Stella.

(Clinging to him.) And wilt thou come soon?

Fernando.

Immediately! Immediately!

[ExitStella.

Fernando.

(Alone.) Angel of heaven! How joyous in her presence everything becomes, how free!—Fernando, dost thou know thyself? All that oppressed this heart is gone; every care, every painful recollection of what has been and what might have been!—Will ye return again?—And yet when I see thee, when I hold thy hand, Stella! all vanishes, every other image in my heart is blotted out.

EnterSteward.

Steward.

(KissingFernando’shand.) And have you come back again?

Fernando.

(Withdrawing his hand.) You see me!

Steward.

Let me! let me! O gracious master!

Fernando.

Has all gone well with thee?

Steward.

My wife is still alive, I have two children—and you are home again!

Fernando.

And how hast thou managed the estate?

Steward.

So that I am ready to lay down my reckoning. You will be surprised to see how we have improved the property.—But may I inquire how it has gone with you?

Fernando.

Silence!—But ought I not to tell thee all? Thou art worthy of my confidence, old comrade in my youthful follies.

Steward.

Thank God that you were not a pirate chieftain; at a word from you I would have applied the torch and set the flames!

Fernando.

Thou shalt hear!

Steward.

Your wife? your daughter?

Fernando.

I have failed to find them. I did not dare to go to the city; but from absolutely reliable sources I learn that she placed confidence in a merchant who proved to be a false friend and enticed from her, under the promise of heavier interest, the money which I left her! He deceived her. Making the pretext of going into the country she left the neighborhood and disappeared, and apparently is gaining a precarious livelihood by the labor of her hands and her daughter’s. You know she had courage and character enough to embark in any such enterprise.

Steward.

And you are back again. How can we forgive you for being gone so long!

Fernando.

I have made a long journey of it.

Steward.

If I had not been so happy at home with my wife and children, I should envy you the way that you have travelled about the world. Shall you remain with us now?

Fernando.

God willing!

Steward.

There is after all nothing so satisfactory and nothing so good.

Fernando.

Yes, who could forget the good old times?

Steward.

And yet amid all our pleasure they brought much trouble. I remember perfectly well how lovely we found Cecilia, how we urged our suit upon her, and could not be hasty enough in making way with our youthful freedom!

Fernando.

Yet it was a happy, fortunate epoch in my life!

Steward.

How she brought us a gay, lively little daughter, but at the same time she lost much of her sprightliness and much of her charm.

Fernando.

Pray spare me this biography!

Steward.

How we looked around us here and there and everywhere, and how we at last found this angel, and how there was not any more said about coming and going, but how we had to decide which of the two we would make wretched; and how at last, when it seemed convenient, and the chance offered itself to sell the estates, and how when we got out of it with much loss, we abducted the angel and banished to this spot the beautiful child who did not know herself or the world.

Fernando.

It seems to me that thou art as full of prattle and inclined to preach as thou wert of yore!

Steward.

Have I not had the chance to learn? Have I not been the confidant of your conscience? When you wanted to get away from here—I don’t know whether it was from pure desire to find your wife and daughter again, or because of some mental unrest—how I had to be your assistant in more ways than one.

Fernando.

This time I forgive thee!

Steward.

Only stay with us and all will be well!

[Exit.

EnterServant.

Servant.

Madame Sommer!

Fernando.

Show her in!

[ExitServant.

Fernando.

(Alone.) This woman makes me melancholy. How true it is that there is nothing whole, nothing pure in the world! This woman! Her daughter’s courage has disturbed me; what effect will her sorrow have?

EnterMadame Sommer.

Fernando.

(Aside.) O God! and even her figure also must recall my past! O heart! my heart! Oh, when it lies within thee so to feel and so to act, why hast thou not strength also to pardon what has been done to thee? A shade of the image of my wife!—Oh, where do I not see thee! (Aloud.) Madame!

Madame Sommer.

What is your command, sir?

Fernando.

I should like to engage your services as companion to my Stella and to me. Pray take a seat!

Madame Sommer.

The presence of the sorrowful is burdensome to those who are happy, and alas! still more so is the happy to the sorrowful!

Fernando.

I do not understand you. Can you have misjudged Stella? she who is all love, all divine!

Madame Sommer.

Sir, I wish to go away in secrecy! Permit me! I must go! Be persuaded that I have reasons! But I beg of you to let me go!

Fernando.

(Aside.) What voice is that! What form! (ToCecilia.) Madame! (He turns away.) God! it is my wife! (Aloud.) Pardon me!

[Exit in haste.

Madame Sommer.

(Alone.) He knew me! I thank thee, O God, that thou hast given my heart so much strength at this moment! Is it I, the torn and crushed, who at this critical hour am so full of peace and courage? O Thou kind and infinite Protector, Thou dost take from our hearts nothing except to give it back again at the hour when it is most needed!

Re-enterFernando.

Fernando.

(Aside.) Can she have recognized me? (Aloud.) I beg you, madame, I implore you to open your heart to me!

Madame Sommer.

You would like me to tell you my story, and how is it possible that you should be disposed to listen to sorrow and lamentation on a day when all the joys of life are given to you again, when you have once again given all the joys of life to the best of women? No, sir, let me go!

Fernando.

I beseech you!

Madame Sommer.

How gladly would I spare yourself and me! The memory of the first happy days of my life gives me deathly pain.

Fernando.

You have not always been unhappy?

Madame Sommer.

No; for then I should not be so unhappy as I am now. (After a pause, with calmness.) My youthful days were bright and joyous. I know not what there was in me that attracted men; a numberous throng wanted to ingratiate themselves with me. For a few I felt friendship, affection; yet was there none with whom I could have brought myself to unite my life. And thus passed the fortunate days of rosy-colored diversions—days of happiness that were seemingly endless. And yet there was something wanting. When I looked deeper into my life, and anticipated the joys and sorrows that must come to men, then I longed for a husband whose hand should lead me through the world, who in return for the love which my young heart could offer him would be in old age my friend, my protector, and take the place of my parents whom for his sake I left.

Fernando.

And now?

Madame Sommer.

Alas! I saw the man! I saw him, on whom in the early days of our acquaintance I concentrated all my hopes. The vivacity of his mind seemed united with such sincerity of heart that my heart quickly disclosed itself to him, that I gave him my friendship, and alas! how quickly followed it with my love. God in heaven, when his head rested on my breast, how did he not seem to thank Thee for the place that Thou hadst prepared for him in my arms! How eagerly he hastened from the tumult of care back to me again, and how in sad hours did I not find consolation on his heart!

Fernando.

What could have destroyed this lovely bond?

Madame Sommer.

Nothing is steadfast!—Alas! he loved, loved me as certainly as I loved him. There was a time when he thought of nothing, dreamed of nothing but to see me happy, to make me happy. That was, alas! the brightest period of my life, the first years of a relationship, when a slight ill-humor, a trifling ennui caused us more sorrow than if they had been real evils. Alas! he led me along the painful path in order to leave me solitary in an empty, fearful wilderness.

Fernando.

(More and more confused.) And how? His feelings, his heart?

Madame Sommer.

Can we know what goes on in the heart of man? I did not notice that little by little everything was growing—how shall I call it?—not more indifferent; that I cannot say. He still loved me, loved me! But he wanted more than my love. I had to share in his wishes, perhaps with a rival. I did not spare him my reproaches, and at last—

Fernando.

Was it possible that he—

Madame Sommer.

He left me. There is no name that befits the grief that I felt! All my hopes annihilated in one moment! in the moment when I was expecting to harvest the fruits of the flowers that I had offered—deserted!—deserted! All the stays of the human heart: love, trust, honor, position, daily increasing property, the charge of a numerous, well cared-for posterity, everything at once fell before me in ruin, and I—and the unfortunate pledge of our love which was left me—a deathlike sorrow followed close upon the raging pain, and the heart which had ceased to weep, given over to despair, sank into apathy. The succession of blows which reduced the estate of a poor deserted creature, I did not perceive, I did not feel, until at last I—

Fernando.

The guilty man!

Madame Sommer.

(With restrained melancholy.) No, he is not!—I commiserate the man who is attached to a maiden.

Fernando.

Madame!

Madame Sommer.

(With mild banter to hide her emotion.) Certainly not! I look upon him as a captive. They always say that it is so. He is removed from his world into ours with which he has nothing in common. He deceives himself for a time, and woe to us if his eyes are opened! After all I could be in his eyes only a blameless housewife who clung to him with the most strenuous endeavor, who tried to be agreeable to him, to be careful for him, who dedicated all her days to the advantage of her house, of her child, and indeed had to devote herself to such petty duties, that her heart and head often grew wild that she could be no entertaining companion, that he with the liveliness of his disposition could not help finding her society stupid. He is not to blame!

Fernando.

(At her feet.) I am he!

Madame Sommer.

(With a torrent of tears, on his neck.) My—!

Fernando.

Cecilia!—My wife!—

Cecilia.

(Turning from him.) Not mine! You would leave me, my heart. (Again on his neck.) Fernando!—Whoever thou art—let these tears of one who sorrows flow on thy bosom! Hold me for this moment and then leave me forever!—It is not thy wife!—Repulse me not!

Fernando.

God!—Cecilia, thy tears on my cheeks—the trembling of thy heart on mine!—Spare me! spare me!

Cecilia.

I ask nothing, Fernando!—Only this moment!—Grant my heart this relief! it will be calm, strong! Thou shalt be free from me—

Fernando.

My life shall be dissevered ere I leave thee!

Cecilia.

I shall see thee again, but not upon this earth! Thou belongest to another from whom I cannot tear thee!—Open, open heaven for me! One glance into that holy distance, into that everlasting abiding place! There alone is consolation at this terrible moment.

Fernando.

(Seizing her by the hand, gazing into her eyes. embracing her.) Nothing, nothing in the world shall separate me from thee. I have found thee again.

Cecilia.

Found what thou didst not seek.

Fernando.

Spare me! spare me!—Yes, I have sought thee; thee, my poor deserted one, my faithful heart! I found even in the arms of this angel here no rest, no joy; everything reminded me of thee, of thy daughter, of my Lucy. Merciful heavens! What joy! Can it be that this lovely creature is my daughter?—I have sought thee everywhere. Three years I wandered from place to place. On the spot where we had lived I found, alas! our dwelling changed, in the hands of strangers, and I learned the sad story of the loss of thy property. Thy disappearance tore my heart; I could find no trace of thee, and weary of myself, of life, I disguised myself in these clothes, took foreign service, helped suppress the dying freedom of the noble Corsicans, and now thou seest me here, after long and wonderful wanderings, on thy heart, my dearest, my best wife.

EnterLucy.

Fernando.

Oh, my daughter!

Lucy.

Dearest, best father. If you are my father indeed!

Fernando.

Always and ever!

Cecilia.

And Stella?

Fernando.

Herein we must act quickly. The unfortunate soul! Why, Lucy, could we not have recognized each other this morning?—My heart beat fast; thou knowest how moved I was when I left thee. Why was it? why was it?—Stella! we might have spared her all these pangs!—Yet we will away! I will tell her that thou insisted on going away, that thou would’st not pain her with a farewell, and would take thy departure. And thou, Lucy, hasten over! Have a post-chaise for three persons put in readiness. My servant shall pack up my things with thine. Thou shalt stay over here, dearest, most precious wife! And thou, my daughter, when all is arranged, come back and wait in the large room of the summer-house—wait for me! I will free myself from her, tell her that I am going to escort thee over, provide for thy dedeparture and pay the bill for thee.—Poor soul, how could I deceive thee with thy goodness!—We will away!—

Cecilia.

Away?—Just one word of reason!

Fernando.

Away! let it be so! Yes, my dear ones, we will away!

[ExitCeciliaandLucy.

Fernando.

(Alone.) Away?—Whither? whither?—A dagger stroke would clear the way for all these pains and hurl me into that dull insensibility for which now I would give everything. Art thou here, thou miserable man? Remember the happy days when thou didst stand in strong sufficiency against the wretch who would throw away life’s burden! How didst thou feel in those fortunate days and now?—Yes, the fortunate, the fortunate! Had this discovery come an hour earlier I should have been saved! I should never have seen her again, nor she me; I could have persuaded myself: “She has forgotten thee in these four years, has conquered her sorrow.” But now! How shall I appear before her? what can I tell her? Oh, my sin, my sin weighs heavy upon me at this moment! Both these dear ones deserted! And I, at the moment when I find them again, deserted by myself! wretched! Oh, my heart!

ACT IV.

Hermitage inStella’sGarden.

Stella.

(Alone.) Beautiful thou bloomest, more beautiful than of yore, dear, dear spot of everlasting rest so oft desired! But thou dost no longer entice me. I tremble before thee—cool, loose earth, I tremble before thee! Ah! how often in hours of fancy would I have wrapped my head and breast resolutely in the mantle of death, and stood calmly on the edge and stepped into thy depths and buried my aching heart under thy living covering. Then should’st thou, Corruption, like a dear child, suckle this overflowing, oppressed bosom, and release my whole being in a kindly dream. And now, sun of the heaven, thou shinest upon me!—It is so light, so open around me, and I rejoice at it!—He is here again!—and in an instant Nature stands full of love around me—and I am all life—and new, warmer, more glowing life will I drink from his lips!—To him—by him—with him to dwell in lasting strength! Fernando!—He comes! Hark!—No, not yet!—Here shall he find me, here at my altar of roses, under my rose arbor. These buds will I pluck for him.—Here! here! And then will I lead him into this bower. Well, well was it that I had it constructed for two, narrow though it be. Here my book was wont to lie, my writing materials to stand!—Get ye gone, book and writing!—Would that he were here.—Again deserted!—Have I him again? Is he here?

EnterFernando.

Stella.

Where didst thou remain, thou best of men? Where wast thou? I was long, long alone! (Troubled.) What was the matter?

Fernando.

Those women have put me out of humor.—The elder is an excellent woman; but she will not stay, will give no reason, but insists upon hastening away. Let her go, Stella!

Stella.

If she is not to be moved, I do not want to keep her against her will. And, Fernando, I needed companionship—but now (on his neck) now, Fernando, I have thee!

Fernando.

Calm thyself!

Stella.

Let me weep! I would that the day were past. Even now all my limbs are in a tremble!—Joy!—All unexpected, suddenly!—Thee, Fernando!—It is almost too much, too much! I shall die amid it all!

Fernando.

(Aside.) Wretched man that I am! Desert her! (Aloud.) Leave me, Stella!

Stella.

It is thy voice, thy loving voice! Stella, Stella! Thou knowest how gladly I hear thee say that name “Stella!” No one else speaks it as thou dost. The whole soul of love is in the sound! How vivid in me is the remembrance of the day when first I heard thee utter it, when all my happiness in thee began!

Fernando.

Happiness?

Stella.

I believe that thou art beginning to count up and regretfully dwell upon the sad hours that I have spent on account of thee. Let them go, Fernando, let them go! Oh, from the moment when I saw thee for the first time, how everything in my soul was changed! Dost thou remember that afternoon in my uncle’s garden when thou camest to us? We were sitting under the great castania tree behind the summer-house.

Fernando.

(Aside.) She will rend my heart! (Aloud.) I see it yet, my Stella!

Stella.

How thou camest to us? I know not whether thou didst notice that at the very first moment thou didst attract my gaze? I at least soon observed that thine eyes sought me! Ah! Fernando, when my uncle brought the music thou didst take thy violin, and as thou didst play, my eyes rested carelessly on thee; I spied into every feature of thy countenance, and, at an unexpected moment thou didst lift up thine eyes and look—at me! Thine eyes met mine! How I blushed, how I looked away. Thou hadst noticed it, Fernando! for from that time I felt that thou didst often look away from thy notes, didst often get out of the measure, so that my uncle was vexed. Every mistake, Fernando, went through my heart! It was the sweetest confusion that I ever felt in my life! For all the gold of Golconda I could not have looked thee in the face. I made my escape and went away.

Fernando.

Even to the slightest circumstance! (Aside.) Unfortunate remembrance!

Stella.

I am often astonished at myself how I love thee, how at every moment in thy presence I forget myself entirely; yet to have everything as vividly before me as though it were but to-day! Yes, how often have I told it over to myself, Fernando! How thou didst seek me! how thou, hand in hand with a friend whom thou didst learn to know before me, camest sweeping through the bosky dale, and she cried “Stella!” and thou didst cry “Stella! Stella!” I had scarcely heard thee speak and yet I knew thy voice. And when thou overtook’st me and didst take my hand, who was the more confused, thou or I? One thing helped the other, and from that moment on—my good Sara told me that very same evening—it all took place! And what bliss in thy arms! If my Sara could have seen my joy! She was a good creature. She wept much for me when I was so ill, so love-sick! I would gladly have taken her with me when for thy sake I left everything.

Fernando.

Left everything!

Stella.

Does that offend thee? Is it not true? Left everything! Or canst thou interpret the words on Stella’s lips as a reproach? Long is it since I have had a chance to do enough for thee.

Fernando.

Truly! Thy uncle who loved thee like a father, who treated thee with affection, whose will was thy will, was not that much? The estate, the property, all of which were thine, would have been thine; was that nothing? The spot where thou from early youth hadst lived and enjoyed life—thy sports—

Stella.

And all that, Fernando, without thee? What was all that compared with thy love? When thy love first arose in my soul then did I begin to live! Yet I must assure thee that many times I thought in the lonely hours: “Why could I not enjoy all that and have his love besides? Why must we fly? Why not remain in possession of all this? Could my uncle have denied him my hand?—No!—Then why fly?” Oh, I have found excuses enough for thee! for thee! they never failed to suggest themselves to me! Even if it were a caprice, I said—as you then had numberless caprices—if it were a caprice to keep the maiden for yourself secretly as pillage! And if it were pride, to have the maiden so entirely alone without anything as dowry! Thou canst imagine that my pride was in no small degree interested to make out the best case possible! and thus thou didst accomplish thy plan.

Fernando.

I cannot endure it!

EnterAnnie.

Annie.

Excuse me, gracious lady. Where are you, captain? Everything is packed and now you only are missing! The young lady has caused so much running and trouble to-day that it was unendurable; and now you are missing!

Stella.

Go, Fernando, bring them over. Pay their bill for them, but come right back again.

Annie.

Are you not going with them? The young lady has ordered a post-chaise for three; your servant has certainly packed up your things!

Stella.

Fernando, this is a mistake! What does the girl know?

Annie.

What do I know? Truly it looks strange that the captain is going off with the young lady away from your ladyship, since she made his acquaintance at table! That was a touching parting, when you pressed her hand and wished a blessing on her!

Stella.

(Constrained.) Fernando!

Fernando.

This is a mere child!

Annie.

Don’t you believe him, gracious lady; everything is all packed up! The gentleman is going with them!

Fernando.

Whither? whither?

Stella.

Leave us, Annie! (ExitAnnie.) Save me from this horrible uncertainty. I fear nothing, and yet this child’s chatter troubles me. Thou art moved, Fernando! I am thy Stella!

Fernando.

(Turning about and seizing her hand.) Thou art my Stella!

Stella.

Thou frightenest me, Fernando! Thy face is wild!

Fernando.

Stella, I am a scoundrel and a coward and can hide nothing from thee! Flee! I have not the heart to thrust the dagger into thy breast and would secretly poison thee, murder thee! Stella!

Stella.

For God’s sake!

Fernando.

(Trembling with rage.) I cannot stand thy grief nor hear thy despair! Fly!

Stella.

I cannot endure it!

[She almost sinks but clings to him.

Fernando.

Stella, whom I hold in my arms! Stella, thou who art all to me! Stella! (Coldly.) I leave thee!

Stella.

(Laughing wildly.) Me?

Fernando.

(Gnashing his teeth.) Thee—with the woman whom thou hast seen! with the maiden!

Stella.

It is growing dark!

Fernando.

And that woman is my wife! (Stellalooks at him without comprehending and lets her arms fall.) And the maiden is my daughter! Stella! (He notices for the first time that she has fallen fainting.) Stella! (He lifts her to a sitting posture.) Stella! Help! help!

EnterCeciliaandLucy.

Fernando.

Behold! behold the angel! she has fled! behold!—help!

[They bestir themselves in her behalf.

Lucy.

She is coming to!

Fernando.

(Looking at her in silence.) Through thee! through thee!

[Exit.

Stella.

Who? who? (Standing up.) Where is he? (She sinks back, looking at those who are assisting her.) Thank you! thank you!—Who are you?

Cecilia.

Calm yourself! It is we!

Stella.

You?—You are not gone? You are— God! who told me?—Who art thou? Art thou— (SeizingCeciliaby the hands.) No, I cannot endure it!

Cecilia.

Best! dearest! I press thee, my angel, to my heart!

Stella.

Tell me—it lies deep in my soul—tell me—art thou—

Cecilia.

I am—I am his wife!

Stella.

(Leaping to her feet, closing her eyes.) And I?

[She walks bewildered up and down.

Cecilia.

Come to your room!

Stella.

Why dost thou remind me of it? What is mine?—Horrible! horrible!—Are these my trees, which I planted, which I watered? Why in an instant has everything become so strange?—Thrust out!—Lost!—Lost forever! Fernando! Fernando!

Cecilia.

Go, Lucy, find thy father!

Stella.

For God’s sake! stop! Away! Let him not come! Away with you!—Father!—Spouse!

Cecilia.

Sweet love!

Stella.

Thou lovest me? Thou pressest me to thy heart?—No, no!—Leave me—thrust me away! (On her neck.) Yet one moment more! It will be all over so far as I am concerned! My heart! my heart!

Lucy.

Thou must rest!

Stella.

I cannot endure to see you! I have poisoned your life! I have robbed you of everything! You in misery! and I—what bliss in his arms! (She throws herself on her knees.) Can ye forgive me?

Cecilia.

Don’t! don’t!

[They try to lift her up.

Stella.

Here will I lie, beg, mourn, before God and you: “Pardon! pardon!” (She springs up.) Pardon?—Ye give me consolation! I am not to blame!—Thou gavest him to me, holy God in heaven! I held him fast as the dearest gift from Thy hand—leave me! My heart is breaking!

Cecilia.

Thou art innocent! Dear one!

Stella.

(On her neck.) I read in thy eyes, on thy lips heavenly words! Hold me! Bear me up! I am undone! She forgives me! She feels for my misery!

Cecilia.

Sister! my sister! Calm thyself! Have faith that He who put these feelings in our bosoms, these feelings that so often make us wretched, can also prepare consolation and help for them.

Stella.

Let me die in thy arms!

Cecilia.

Come!

Stella.

(After a pause, starting up wildly.) Leave me—all of you! See! a whole world of perplexities and pain overwhelms my soul and fills it with unspeakable torments!—It is impossible—impossible!—It is so sudden! It is not to be grasped, not to be borne!

[She stands for a time silently looking down, in deep reflection, then looks up, gazes at both of the women, starts back with a shriek and runs away.

Cecilia.

Follow her, Lucy! Watch her! (ExitLucy.) Look down upon Thy children and their perplexities, their griefs!—In sorrow, I have learned much! Strengthen [Editor: illegible text] And if the tangle can be unsolved, holy God in heaven, let not violence be done!

ACT V.

Stella’s Library.

In Moonlight.

Stella.

(She hasFernando’sportrait and is about to pluck it from the frame.) Fulness of the night, surround me! possess me! lead me! I know not whither I am going!—I must! I will away into the wide world! Whither? Alas! whither? Banished from Thy creation! Where thou, holy moon, shinest on the tops of my trees, where thou with thy terrible dear shadow surroundest my darling Mina’s grave, shall I no longer wander? Must I go from the spot where all the treasures of my life, all my sacred associations are gathered?—And thou, place of my tomb, whereupon I have rested so often in reverence and tears, which I consecrated to myself, around which all the melancholy, all the joy of my life was dreamed over, where I hoped even after I should be no more to hover and to find enjoyment while yearning for the past, must I be banished from thee?—Be banished!—Thou art dazed, thank God! Thy brain is seared! thou canst not grasp it—the thought of banishment! Thou would’st lose thy senses! Well!—Oh, I am dizzy!—Farewell!—Farewell!—Shall I never see thee again?—There is a death-glance in the feeling! Not see thee again?—Away! Stella! (She seizes the portrait.) And must I leave thee behind? (She takes a knife and begins to pry out the nails.) Oh, would that I could be free from thought! Would that I might breathe out my life in heavy sleep, in rapturous tears! The truth is and must be that thou art wretched!—(Turning the painting into the moonlight.) Ah! Fernando! when thou camest to me, and my heart sprang to meet thee, didst thou not place reliance on thy faith, thy goodness!—Didst thou not feel what a sanctuary was ready for thee, when my heart opened to receive thee?—And thou didst not shrink back at my presence? Thou didst not sink! thou didst not escape?—Thou wast able to pluck my innocence, my happiness, my life, like a flower, for mere pastime, and cast it aside thoughtlessly upon the way?—Noble? ha! noble! My youth—my golden days!—And thou carriedst this deep treachery in thy heart!—Thy wife! thy daughter!—And my soul was free, pure as a spring morning!—All, all, a hope!—Where art thou, Stella?—(Gazing at the portrait.) So great! so flattering!—It was this expression that brought me to ruin!—I hate thee!—Away! turn away! So dreamy! so dear!—No, no!—Spoiler!—Me?—Me?—Thou?—Me?—(She thrusts the dagger at the painting.) Fernando!—(She turns away, drops the knife, and with a torrent of tears kneels before the chair.) Dearest! dearest! ’Tis vain, ’tis vain!

EnterServant.

Servant.

Your ladyship! According to your command the horses are at the back garden gate. Your linen is packed! Don’t forget to take money.

Stella.

The painting! (Servantpicks up the knife and cuts the painting from the frame and rolls it.) Here is money.

Servant.

But why?

Stella.

(Standing motionless a moment, looking up and around.) Come!

[Exit.

Hall.

Fernando.

(Alone.) Leave me! leave me! Lo! now it seizes me again with all its horrible confusion!—So chill, so fearful lies all before me—as though the world were naught—as though I had committed no wrong therein.—And the world!—Ha! I am no more wretched than you. What have yet to demand of me?—What is the end of the thought?—Here! and here! From one end to the other! Everything thought of! and thought of again and again! and evermore terrifying, more horrible! (Holding his forehead.) It comes to this at last! Nothing before, nothing back of me! Nowhere help, nowhere counsel!—And these two, these three noblest and best of women on the earth—wretched through me!—wretched without thee!—Alas! still more wretched with me—If I could mourn, could doubt, could beg for forgiveness—could in dull hope spend but one hour—could lie at their feet and enjoy the bliss of wretchedness in sympathy! And where are they? Stella! thou liest prone, thou gazest up to heaven and criest in despair: “What crime have I, poor blossom, done, that Thy wrath so crushes me? What was my sin that Thou should’st lead this villain to me?” Cecilia! my wife! oh, my wife!—Misery! misery! deep misery!—What beatitudes united to make me wretched! Husband! Father! Lover!—The noblest and best of women!—Thine! thine!—Canst thou comprehend this, this threefold, unspeakable delight?—And now it is this that affects thee so, that tears thee in pieces!—Each demands me absolutely! And I?—Here it is over!—Deep, unfathomable!—She will be wretched!—Stella! thou art wretched!—Of what have I robbed thee?—The consciousness of thyself, thy young life! Stella!—And I am so cold? (He takes a pistol from the table.) Yet whatever may come!—(He loads.)

EnterCecilia.

Cecilia.

My best beloved! How is it with us? (She looks at the pistol.) That looks as if thou wert ready for a journey! (Fernando lays it down.) My friend, thou seemest to me serene. Can I speak one word with thee?

Fernando.

What will’st thou, Cecilia? What will’st thou, my wife?

Cecilia.

Call me not so until I have finished speaking. We are now indeed very much perplexed! Cannot this be regulated? I have suffered much, and hence want no violent resolutions! Dost thou understand me, Fernando?

Fernando.

I hear.

Cecilia.

Take it to heart! I am only a woman, a sorrowful, mourning woman; but my soul is full of resolution!—Fernando!—I have resolved!—I leave thee!

Fernando.

(Derisively.) Dost thou mean it?

Cecilia.

Dost thou think that one must go away secretly in order to take leave of what one loves?

Fernando.

Cecilia!

Cecilia.

I am not reproaching thee! and I do not believe that I am sacrificing thee so very much! Till now I mourned the loss of thee; I grieved over what I could not change. Now I find thee again; thy presence gives me new life, new power! Fernando! I feel that my love for thee is not selfish! is not the passion of a mistress who would give everything to get possession of the entreated object. Fernando! my heart is warm and full for thee! It is the feeling that a wife has who from love itself can offer up her love!

Fernando.

Never! never!

Cecilia.

Thou art angry?

Fernando.

Thou torturest me!

Cecilia.

Thou shalt yet be happy! I have my daughter—and a friend in thee! We will part, without a separation. I will live at a distance from thee, and remain a witness of thy happiness. Thy confidante will I be; thou shalt pour thy joy and sadness into my bosom. Thy letters shall be my only life; and mine to thee shall come as a precious visit. And thus thou wilt remain mine, thou wilt not be banished with Stella to a distant corner of the earth; we will love each other, share in each other’s lot! And thus, Fernando, give me thy hand on it!

Fernando.

As a jest this would be too horrible; as meant in earnest, it is incomprehensible! Let it turn as it will, my dearest! Cold reason will not untie this knot. What thou sayest sounds beautiful, tastes sweet. Who would not feel that far more is hidden under what thou sayest than thou dreamest of, that thou deceivest thyself, while thou allayest thy tormenting feelings with a deceptive, chimerical consolation. No, Cecilia! my wife, no! thou art mine—I remain thine!—What effect have words? Why should I lay before thee the whys and wherefores? The reasons are so many lies. I remain thine, or—

Cecilia.

Well, then!—And Stella? (Fernandostarts up and walks wildly up and down.) Who deceives himself deafens his torments through a cold, unfeeling, thoughtless, transitory consolation! Yes, you men know yourselves!

Fernando.

Do not boast of thy equanimity.—Stella! she is unhappy! She will weep out her days far from thee and me! Let her! Let me!

Cecilia.

Loneliness, I believe, would do her heart good; the knowledge that we were united would be good for her tender affection. Now she is covering herself with bitter reproaches. She would think if I left thee now that I was more unhappy than I really am; for she judges me by herself! She would not live in peace, she would not be able to love me, angel that she is, if she felt that her happiness was stolen. It is better for her—

Fernando.

Let her go away! let her go into a nunnery!

Cecilia.

Yes; but when that thought comes into my mind, I say: Why should she then be placed within the cloister walls? What is her sin, that she must sacrifice her most blooming years, the years of abundance, of ripening hopes, that she must weep in despair on the edge of the precipice? that she must be separated from her beloved world so dear to her—from him whom she loves so warmly? from him who—for you do love her, do you not, Fernando?

Fernando.

Ha! what dost thou mean? Art thou an evil spirit in the shape of my wife? Why dost thou torment my heart? Why dost thou torture the lacerated? Am I not sufficiently shaken, torn, tossed? God have pity upon thee!

[He throws himself into an arm-chair.

Cecilia.

(Goes to him and takes his hand.) There was once upon a time a count—(Fernandoattempts to spring up;Ceciliarestrains him)—a German count. Him a feeling of duty drove from his spouse, from his estate to the holy land—

Fernando.

Ha!

Cecilia.

He was a gentleman; he loved his wife, he bade her farewell, intrusted to her care the management of his affairs, embraced her and departed. He journeyed through many lands, fought, and was captured. The daughter of his master had compassion on his slavery; she loosed his bonds, they fled. She was his companion through all the risks of the war, his beloved armor-bearer. Crowned with victory, the time came to return—to his noble wife! And his maiden? He felt the impulse of humanity—he believed in humanity—and took her with him.—Behold, the glorious lady of his home hastens out to meet him, sees all her faithfulness, all her honor rewarded; she holds him in her arms again. And then side by side with him, his knights, with pride and proud respect dismount from their steeds upon the ancestral soil; his servants unpack the booty and lay it at her feet; and she stores it away in all her treasuries, decorates her castle with it, shares it with her friends.—“Dear, noble wife, the greatest treasure is yet to come!”—Who is it that all veiled steps with the throng anigh? Lightly she dismounts from her palfrey! “Here!” cries the count, taking her by the hand and leading her to his wife, “here! see the whole—and take it from her hands again, take it from her hands again! She hath unloosed the chains from my neck, she hath commanded the winds, she hath gained me, saved me, waited upon me! What is my indebtedness to her? Here she is in your power! Give her her reward!” (Fernandowith his arms spread out on the table sobs bitterly.) On her neck the faithful wife cried, amid a thousand tears she cried: “Take all that I can give thee! Take half of him who is wholly thine! Take him absolutely! Leave him absolutely to me! Each of us shall possess him without robbing the other!” “And,” she cried on his neck, at his feet, “we are thine!” They grasped his hands, clung to him—and God in heaven rejoiced in their love and his holy vicar gave his blessing thereunto! And their happiness and their love sanctified one dwelling, one bed and one tomb.

Fernando.

God in heaven! what a ray of hope here is kindled!

Cecilia.

She is here! she is ours! (At the library door.) Stella!

Fernando.

Let her be! let me be!

[About to go away.

Cecilia.

Wait! Listen to me!

Fernando.

We have had enough of words. What can be, will be. Leave me! At this moment I am not yet ready to stand before you both!

[Exit.

Cecilia.

Unhappy man! Always so taciturn, always opposed to the friendly word that would set everything to rights, and she is just the same! Yet I must succeed! (At the door.) Stella! Hear me! Stella!

EnterLucy.

Lucy.

Call her not! She is resting; after her heavy sorrows she is resting a moment. She suffers terribly: I fear, my mother, lest it be from purpose, I fear that she is dying.

Cecilia.

What dost thou say?

Lucy.

It was not medicament that she swallowed, I am afeared!

Cecilia.

And can I have hoped in vain? Oh, that thou mayest be in error!—Terrible—terrible!

Stella.

(At the door.) Who calls me? Why do ye wake me? What o’clock is’t? Why so early?

Lucy.

It is not early; it is evening!

Stella.

’Tis right, ’tis good: evening for me!

Cecilia.

And dost thou deceive us?

Stella.

Who deceived thee? Thyself!

Cecilia.

I brought thee back, I hoped!

Stella.

For me there is no abiding.

Cecilia.

Alas, I would have sent for thee, would have journeyed, would have hastened to the end of the world!

Stella.

I am at the end!

Cecilia.

(ToLucy,who has meantime been in anguish, hurrying this way and that.) Why dost thou delay? Hasten, call aid!

Stella.

(HoldingLucyback.) Nay! remain! (She leans on both and they come to the front.) On your arm I thought to go through life; thus lead me to the grave!

[They lead her slowly to the foreground and place her in a chair at the right.

Cecilia.

Away, Lucy, away! Help! help!

[ExitLucy.

Stella.

My help has come!

Cecilia.

How different it is from what I expected, from what I hoped!

Stella.

Thou kind friend, full of patience, full of hope!

Cecilia.

What a horrible fate!

Stella.

Deep wounds are made by the fates, but often they can be healed. Wounds that the heart makes on the heart, that the heart makes on itself are incurable, and so—let me die!

EnterFernando.

Fernando.

Was Lucy too hasty, or is the tidings true? Oh, let it not be true, or I shall curse thy courage, Cecilia, thy forbearance!

Cecilia.

My heart makes me no reproaches, Good will is higher than all consequences, Hasten for aid! She still lives, is still ours!

Stella.

(Who looks up and seizesFernando’shand.) Welcome! Give me thy hand! (ToCecilia.) And also thine! All for love’s sake was the fate of my life. All for love’s sake, and so now my death! In the most sacred moments we are silent and understand each other. (She tries to put the hands of the husband and wife together.) And now let me hold my peace and rest.

[She falls on her left arm which is resting on the table.

Fernando.

Yes, we will keep silence, Stella, and rest!

[He goes slowly towards the door at the left.

Cecilia.

(In impatient excitement.) Lucy does not come! No one comes! Can the house, can the neighborhood be a wilderness? Control thyself, Fernando. She still lives! Hundreds have arisen from the bed of death, have even arisen from the grave! Fernando! She still lives. And even if every earthly means fail us and there is no leech, no medicament here, yet there is One in heaven who hears us. (On her knees, nearStella.) Hear me, oh, hear me, God! Preserve her to us! let her not die! (Fernandohas taken a pistol with his left hand and is going slowly away.(Cecilia,as before, holdingStella’sleft hand.) Yes, she lives; her hand, her dear hand is still warm. I will not let thee go, I cling to thee with the whole force of faith and love. No, it is no delusion. Instant prayer is stronger than human means! (Standing up and looking around her.) He is gone, the silent man, the hopeless! Whither? Oh, may it be that he has not attempted the step to which his whole stormy life ever pointed! Let me follow him! (She is about to hasten out, but stops and looks back atStella.) And must she lie helpless here? Great God! And thus at this horrible moment between these two whom I cannot separate and cannot unite!

[A shot is heard in the distance.

Cecilia.

God!

[She wants to go in the direction of the shot.

Stella.

(Painfully lifting herself up.) What was that? Cecilia, thou art standing so far from me! come nearer, do not leave me! I am so timid! Oh, my agony! I see a stream of blood! Is it my blood? It is not my blood! I am not wounded but I am sick unto death!—It is my blood!

EnterLucy.

Lucy.

Help, mother, help! I am going for help, for the physician; am hurrying messengers away! But alas! quite different aid is needed! My father falls by his own hand! He is lying in his blood! (Ceciliatries to go,Lucyholds her back.) Not there, my mother! What is done is beyond help, and arouses despair!

Stella.

(Who partially standing has been listening attentively, seizesCecilia’shand.) And can it be so? (Standing up and leaning onCeciliaandLucy.) Come! I feel strong again; let us go to him! There let me die!

Cecilia.

Thou totterest, thy knees do not hold thee. From my limbs also the strength has fled.

Stella.

(Sinks down upon the chair again.) To the purpose then! Go thou then to him, to whom thou belongest! Catch his last sigh, his last death-rattle! He is thy spouse! Dost thou hesitate? I beg, I implore thee! Thy delay makes me restless! (With emotion, but weak.) Remember he is alone, and go!

[ExitCecilia,hastily.

Lucy.

I will not leave thee, I will remain with thee!

Stella.

No, Lucy, if thou desirest my happiness then hasten! Away! away! let me rest! The wings of love are palsied! they cannot bear me to him. Thou art fresh and young! Let duty be active where love is dumb! Away to him to whom thou belongest! He is thy father! Dost thou know what that means? Away, if thou lovest me, if thou wilt calm me!

[Lucyslowly turns away, and exit.

Stella.

(Sinking.) And I die alone!

THE Brother AND Sister

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

William,a merchant.

Marian,his sister.

Fabricius.

Postman.

William.

(Seated at a desk with account books and papers.) Two new customers again this week! If one lifts his hand, there is always something happens; even if it’s little it counts up in the long run, and a small game gives its own pleasure, though the gain’s small, and little losses can be borne with equanimity. (EnterPostman.) What is it?

Postman.

A registered letter for twenty ducats, half paid.

William.

Good! Very good! Put it down on my account. (ExitPostman.) I didn’t want to keep saying all day long that I was expecting this. (Contemplating the letter.) Now I can pay Fabricius right off, and not abuse his kindness any longer. Yesterday he said to me: “I am coming round to see you to-morrow.” I was sorry to hear it. I knew that he wouldn’t dun me, and for that very reason his presence is a kind of double dun. (He opens the packet and counts.) In the good old times when I kept up a rather gayer establishment than this I couldn’t bear these silent creditors at all. Anyone who importunes me, who bores me, deserves nothing but the cold shoulder and all that that implies; while he who holds his peace touches my heart, and appeals to me in the most importunate way, since he puts it upon me to make his demand for him. (He piles money upon the table.) Good God! how I thank Thee that I am out of my trouble and on my feet again. (He takes up a book.) Thy blessing at retail or me who have wasted Thy gifts wholesale.—And so—can I express it?—Yet ’tis not for me that Thou art doing any more than I am doing for myself. If it were not for that dear good creature, should I be sitting here settling up losses? O Marian! If you only knew that he whom you call your brother is working for you with a very different heart, with very different hopes.—Maybe!—ah!—but it is cruel!—She loves me—certainly—but as a brother.—No! how absurd! This is unbelief, and that has never yet bred any good. Marian! I will be happy; and so shalt thou, Marian!

EnterMarian.

Marian.

What do you want, brother? You called me.

William.

No, I did not. Marian.

Marian.

Did something vex you that you conjured me out of the kitchen?

William.

It was spirits that you heard.

Marian.

Very well, William! Only I know your voice quite too well.

William.

Come, now, what are you doing out there?

Marian.

I’ve only been plucking a couple of pigeons, because Fabricius is going to take supper with us this evening.

William.

Perhaps he will.

Marian.

They’ll be done soon; you must not say anything about it till afterwards. I want him to teach me his new song.

William.

Do you like to study with him?

Marian.

He can sing lovely songs. And when afterwards you sit at table and your head nods, then I will begin. For I know that you laugh at me when I sing any of your favorite songs.

William.

Have you noticed that in me?

Marian.

Certainly; whoever failed to notice what you menfolks do? But if you don’t want me for anything, I’m off again; for I have still all sorts of things to do. Goodby.—Now give me just one kiss.

William.

If the pigeons are well roasted I will give you a kiss for dessert.

Marian.

It’s detestable that brothers should be so cross. If Fabricius or any other nice young man dared to steal a kiss they would jump over high walls for the chance, and that man there scorns the one that I want to give him.—Now I’m going to burn up the pigeons.

[Exit.

William.

The angel, the dear angel! How can I restrain myself from taking her into my arms and telling her everything?—Dost thou look down upon us from heaven, O lady, who didst give this treasure into my keeping?—Yes, those above know about us here, they know about us!—Charlotte, thou could’st not reward my love to thee more gloriously, more sacredly than by leaving thy daughter in my care. Thou gavest me all that I lacked, thou madest life dear to me. I loved her as thy child—and now! Yet it is as though I were deceived. Methinks I see thee again, methinks Fate has given thee back to me again with youth renewed, so that I now may remain and dwell with thee in union as in that first dream of life I was not allowed to do and had no right to do. O joy! joy! Give the whole measure of thy blessing, Father in heaven!

EnterFabricius.

Fabricius.

Good-evening.

William.

I am very happy, my dear Fabricius; everything good has come to me this evening. However, let us not speak of business now. There lie your three hundred dollars. Pocket ’em quick. My I. O. U. you can return to me at your convenience. And now let us have a little talk.

Fabricius.

If you need the money longer—

William.

If I need it again, well and good; I’m always deeply indebted to you. But now take it.—Listen! The memory of Charlotte came back to me again this evening with eternal freshness and life.

Fabricius.

That is a frequent occurrence.

William.

You ought to have known her. I tell you she was one of the most magnificent of creatures.

Fabricius.

She was a widow; how did you come to know her?

William.

So pure and stately. Yesterday I was reading over one of her letters. You are the only man who has ever known anything about it.

[Goes to the portfolio.

Fabricius.

(Aside.) If he would only spare me this time! I have heard the story so many, many times before. As a general thing I like to hear him tell it, for it always comes from his heart; but to-day I have quite different things on my mind, and yet I want to keep him in good humor.

William.

It was during the early days of our acquaintance. “The world will become dear to me again,” she wrote; “I had cut myself loose from it, but it will be dear to me again through you. My heart reproaches me; I feel that I am going to be a cause of sorrow to you and myself. Six months ago I was ready to die, and now I feel so no longer.”

Fabricius.

A lovely soul.

William.

The earth was not worthy of her. Fabricius, I’ve told you many times before that through her I became quite a different man. I cannot describe the pain that I felt when I looked back and saw how I had squandered my paternal inheritance. I could not offer her my hand, could not make her lot more endurable. I felt then for the first time the necessity to earn a suitable support; to extricate myself from the slothfulness in which I was drifting along day after day. I went to work—but what did that amount to?—I kept at work, and thus a wearisome year passed away; at last came a ray of hope; my pittance increased visibly—then she died.—I could not stay. You have no idea how I suffered. No longer could I behold the region where I had lived with her, or leave the sacred soil where she rested. She wrote me just before she died.

[Taking a letter from the portfolio.

Fabricius.

It is a splendid letter; you read it to me only a short time ago. Hark, William—

William.

I know it by heart, and yet I read it again and again. When I see her writing, the sheet on which her hand rested, it seems to me as if she were here again. She is still here. (The voice of a child crying is heard.) I wonder why Marian can’t be sensible! There, she’s got our neighbor’s youngster again; every day she comes romping round with him and disturbs me just at the wrong moment. (At the door.) Marian, be still with the child, or send him home if he’s naughty. We want to talk.

[He stands, full of emotion.

Fabricius.

You ought not to bring up these recollections so frequently.

William.

These are the very lines; these were the last that she wrote. The farewell sigh of the departing angel. (He folds the letter again.) You are right, it is sinful. How seldom are we worthy of recalling the bitter-sweet moments of our past lives!

Fabricius.

Your story always goes to my heart. You told me that she left a daughter, who shortly afterwards followed her mother. If she had only lived, you would have had at least something of hers, you would have had some interest through which your cares and your grief might have been appeased.

William.

(Turning eagerly to him.) Her daughter? It was an exquisite flower that she intrusted to me. What fate has done for me is beyond words to express. Fabricius—if I could only tell you all—

Fabricius.

If there is anything on thy heart—

William.

Why should I not?

Marian.

(Coming in with a little boy.) He wants to say good-night, brother. You must not scowl at him, nor at me either. You always say that you would like to be married and have lots of children. One couldn’t hold them in such a way that they would never cry and never disturb you.

William.

But they would be my own children.

Marian.

Maybe there would be a difference in that.

Fabricius.

Do you think so, Marian?

Marian.

It would be too lovely for anything. (She kneels before the child and kisses him.) I love little Christopher so dearly! If he were only my own!—He already knows his letters; I have been teaching him.

William.

And so you think that a child of your own at his age would know how to read?

Marian.

Why certainly! for all day long I wouldn’t do anything else but take him out to walk and teach him and feed him and dress him and everything else.

Fabricius.

And your husband?

Marian.

He would have to help; his love for him would be as great as mine. But Christopher has got to go home and wants to say good-night. (She leads him toWilliam.) Here! give your hand like a good little boy; that’s a nice boy!

Fabricius.

(Aside.) She is the loveliest creature; I must tell her my hopes!

Marian.

(Leading the child toFabricius.) Here! shake hands with this gentleman too!

William.

(Aside.) She shall be mine! I will—no! I do not deserve it! (ToMarian.) Marian, take the child away and entertain Fabricius till supper-time. I am going out for a little run: I’ve been sitting all day long. (ExitMarian.) Just one good full breath of the fresh air this lovely star-light night!—My heart is so full!—I shall be back directly

[Exit.

Fabricius.

Make an end to thy suspense, Master Fabricius! If thou bearest it any longer, the matter won’t be any nearer conclusion. Thou hast made up thy mind. Good! Admirable! Thou wilt still help her brother; and she—she does not love me as I love her, that’s certain. But it isn’t in her to love passionately; she isn’t that kind of a woman. Dear girl! She hasn’t the slightest idea that I feel anything else but friendship for her! O Marian, we shall get along famously! This opportunity is just what I should have wished it to be! I must explain to her my intentions! And if her heart does not scorn me—anyway, I am sure of her brother!

EnterMarian.

Fabricius.

Have you sent the little fellow home?

Marian.

I should love to have kept him here; but I know that my brother does not like him, and so I let him go. Many and many a time the little rascal has begged me to let him sleep here all night.

Fabricius.

But don’t you ever get tired of him?

Marian.

Oh, no, indeed! He is as wild as he can be the whole day, but when I go to put him to bed he is as good as a kitten! He’s a little flatterer, and he loves to kiss me; sometimes I can’t get him to sleep at all.

Fabricius.

(Half aside.) What a sweet nature!

Marian.

He loves me even better than his own mother.

Fabricius.

You are also a mother to him. (Marianstands lost in thought;Fabriciusgazes at her for some moments.) Does the name of mother make you sad?

Marian.

Not exactly sad; but I was thinking

Fabricius.

What were you thinking about, sweet Marian?

Marian.

I was thinking—oh, nothing, nothing. Sometimes it seems very strange to me.

Fabricius.

Haven’t you ever had any longings to—

Marian.

What were you going to ask?

Fabricius.

Can Fabricius presume so far?

Marian.

No, I have never had any longings, Fabricius. And if ever any such thought flashed through my head, it was gone in an instant. To leave my brother would be unendurable—impossible for me—no matter how attractive any other prospect might be.

Fabricius.

Now that is strange! If you lived near him in the same city, you wouldn’t call that leaving him, would you?

Marian.

Oh, never, never speak of such a thing! Who would keep house for him? Who would take care of him? Let a servant take my place? Or let him get married? No, indeed, that couldn’t be!

Fabricius.

Couldn’t he go and live with you? Mightn’t your husband be his friend? Couldn’t you three live together just as happily as now, even happier? Couldn’t your brother be in this way assisted in his perplexing business cares? Think what such a life might be!

Marian.

It can easily be imagined. And when I think about it, it is quite possible. But then again, it seems to me as though it would never come about.

Fabricius.

I don’t understand you.

Marian.

It is just so now. When I wake in the morning I listen to hear if my brother is up before me: if no one is stirring, quick as a flash I get out of bed and run to the kitchen and build a fire, so that the water is thoroughly heated, and then the maid comes down, and my brother has his coffee as soon as he opens his eyes!

Fabricius.

What an admirable housewife!

Marian.

And then I sit down and knit stockings for him, and keep very happy, and measure a dozen times to see if they are long enough yet and if they set well round the calf, and if the feet are not too short, until he sometimes actually gets vexed. It isn’t that I always want to be trying them on, but it seems to me that I must have something to do near him, as though he ought to see me at least once when he has been writing a couple of hours; he can’t be gloomy with me, for it always brightens him up to see me. I can read it by his eyes if he will not let me know any other way. Often I laugh in my sleeve, because he acts as though he were solemn or angry. He is wise, for if he didn’t I should plague him all day long.

Fabricius.

He is a lucky man.

Marian.

No, I am the lucky one. If I hadn’t him I shouldn’t know what to do in this world. I do everything for myself, however, and it seems to me as if I did everything for him, because even when I am working for myself I am always thinking of him.

Fabricius.

And now if you did everything for a husband, how absolutely happy he would be! How grateful he would be, and what a contented life you would lead!

Marian.

Many times I imagine it to myself, and tell myself a long story, as I sit and knit, or sew, how everything might be and would be! But when I come back to the reality, then I know that it will never come to pass.

Fabricius.

Why not?

Marian.

Where should I find a spouse who would like it if I said “I will love you!” but had to add to it “You cannot be dearer to me than my brother; I must take care of him just as I always have done.” Ah! you see it is impossible.

Fabricius.

You would after a while help your husband in the same way; you would transfer your love to him.

Marian.

Ah! there lies the trouble. Certainly, if love could be taken and exchanged like money, or if you could go to a different lord and master every quarter as servants do, it would be a different thing. But with a husband everything would have to become exactly as it already is here, and that could never be.

Fabricius.

That is a stumbling-block.

Marian.

I don’t know why it is; but when he sits at table and leans his head on his hand and looks down and seems full of anxiety, I could sit for hours and gaze at him. He is not handsome, I say to myself oftentimes, and yet I love to look at him. Of course I feel that it is on my account that he is anxious; the first glance that he gives me when he looks up tells me so, and that is a good deal.

Fabricius.

It’s everything, Marian. And a husband who would care for you—

Marian.

There is one thing more, and that’s moods. William also has his moods; but when he has them they do not trouble me: but in anybody else they would be unendurable. He easily loses his temper; oftentimes it pains me. If in such unhappy moments he repulses a kind, sympathetic, loving effort to cheer him, I confess it touches me, but only for an instant, and if I reprove him it is rather because he does not appreciate my love for him than because I love him the less.

Fabricius.

But suppose there were some one who, in spite of all that, were bold enough to offer you his hand.

Marian.

But there isn’t any such person! And even then the question would arise whether I should be equally daring.

Fabricius.

Why should you not?

Marian.

But there’s no such person.

Fabricius.

Marian, there is.

Marian.

Fabricius!

Fabricius.

You see him before you. Need I make a long defence? Shall I pour out before you what my heart has so long treasured? I love you. You have known it long. I offer you my hand: that you did not expect. Never did I see a maiden who so little as you realized the fact that she moved the hearts of those who see her. Marian, it is not a fiery, impulsive suitor who talks with you; I know you well; I have chosen you deliberately; my house is all in order: will you be mine? I have had many experiences in love, and more than once I have vowed to end my days as an old bachelor. But you have conquered me! Do not stand aloof from me! You know me. I am a friend of your brother; you cannot conceive of a parer union. Open your heart to me! Only one word, Marian!

Marian.

Dear Fabricius, only allow me a little time. I like you.

Fabricius.

Tell me that you love me. I will give your brother his own place; I will be a brother to him; together we will care for him. My property added to his will help him over many an anxious hour; he will gain fresh courage, he will—Marian, don’t let me have to persuade you!

[He seizes her hand.

Marian.

Fabricius, I never thought of such a thing. What an embarrassing dilemma you have brought me into.

Fabricius.

Just one word! may I hope?

Marian.

Speak with my brother!

Fabricius.

(Kneeling.) Angel! darling!

Marian.

(Silent for a moment.) Great heavens! What have I done!

[Exit.

Fabricius.

She is thine!—I can well afford to let the dear little thing caress her brother; that will soon cure itself when we come to get better acquainted, and he won’t lose anything by it. Ah, it does me good to be so in love again and to be loved again so luckily. It is a thing, however, for which one never really loses the taste. We will live together. If it had not been for that, long ago I should have enlarged somewhat the good man’s scrupulous economy. When I am his brother-in-law things will run smoother. He is becoming a regular hypochondriac with his everlasting reminiscences, doubts, business anxieties and mysteries. Everything will be lovely! He shall breathe freely again; the girl will get a husband—that’s no trifle—and I—I shall get a wife honorably—and that’s worth something.

EnterWilliam.

Fabricius.

Did you have a good walk?

William.

I went up along the market and Church Street and back again by the Bourse. It always gives me a wonderful sensation to walk through the city at night. After the toil of the day most men are at rest, but others are hurrying to their night-work, and thus the little wheels of trade are constantly revolving. I took special pleasure in an old cheesemonger who, with her spectacles on her nose, was laying one piece after another on the scales, by the light of a candle end, and trimming off the edges until the purchaser got the quantity she wanted.

Fabricius.

Every one has his own powers of observation. I think that there are few people on the street who would have stopped to gaze at an old cheese-woman and her glasses.

William.

In every one’s business gain is precious, and a small retail trade seems to me respectable since I know how costly a dollar is when it has to be earned a penny at a time. (He stands a few moments lost in thought.) I have had quite a wonderful experience since I have been out. So many things have come into my mind all at once and all in confusion—and that which troubled my heart to its deepest foundations.

[He stops in a brown study.

Fabricius.

(Aside.) I act like a fool. Just as soon as he comes in, the courage leaks out of my fingers’ ends to confess that I love Marian. Yet I must tell him what has happened. (ToWilliam.) William, tell me, do you want to move from here? You have too little room and the rent is high. Do you know of any other rooms?

William.

(Absently.) No!

Fabricius.

I thought perhaps we might both help each other. I have my father’s house and occupy only the upper floors; you might take possession of the lower rooms. You are not likely to get married yet awhile. You can use the court and the warerooms for your business and give me a nominal rent, and so it would help both of us.

William.

You are very kind. Truly, I have often thought of this plan after I have been to visit you and seen so much waste room, when I have to put up with such narrow quarters. But there are reasons—we must let it go; it is impossible.

Fabricius.

Why so?

William.

Supposing I were to marry immediately.

Fabricius.

That could be managed. You have plenty of room with your sister, and if you had a wife there would be no trouble.

William.

(Smiling.) And my sister?

Fabricius.

I would take her home with me, in that case. (Williamis silent.) And even if you didn’t. Let me speak frankly—I love Marian; let her be my wife!

William.

What?

Fabricius.

Why not? Say yes. Listen to me, brother. I love Marian. I have thought it over this long time. She only, you only can make me as happy as I can possibly be in this world. Give her to me! Give her to me!

William.

(In confusion.) You do not know what you are asking.

Fabricius.

Ah! How could I know? Must I tell you all my wants and what I should have if she became my wife and you my brother-in-law?

William.

(Losing his self-possession.) Never! never!

Fabricius.

What is the reason? I am sorry.—Your aversion!—If you are ever going to have a brother-in-law, as must come sooner or later, why not me?—Me whom you know, whom you love? At least I thought—

artist: max volkhart.

BROTHER AND SISTER.

william and fabricius

William.

Leave me!—I cannot understand it.

Fabricius.

I must tell you all. On you alone depends my fate. Her heart is inclined towards me. You must have seen that. She loves you better than she loves me, but I am content. She will come to love her husband better than her brother; I shall then stand in your place, you in mine, and we shall all be satisfied. I never in my life knew of a union which seemed to promise a more beautiful human relationship. (Williamspeechless.) To seal the holy compact, best friend, give me thy consent, thy sanction. Tell her that it rejoices you, that it makes you happy. I have her promise.

William.

Her promise!

Fabricius.

She gave it in a parting glance which said more than if she had stayed to speak it. Her embarrassment and her love, her willingness and her hesitation,—it was lovely!

William.

No! no!

Fabricius.

I do not understand you. I am sure that you have no prejudice against me, and yet why are you so opposed to me? Do not be! Do not set yourself against her happiness, against mine.—And I keep thinking that you will be happy with us. Do not refuse thy acquiescence, thy friendly acquiescence in my wishes! (Williamstill speechless, with contending emotions.) I cannot comprehend you—

William.

Marian? you want to marry her?

Fabricius.

What do you mean?

William.

And she wants you?

Fabricius.

She answered as becomes a modest maiden.

William.

Go! go!—Marian!—I suspected it, I foresaw it!

Fabricius.

Only tell me—

William.

What shall I tell you? It was this that lay on my mind this evening, like a thunder-cloud. The lightning flashed, it struck!—Take her!—take her!—My only treasure—my all! (Fabriciuslooks at him with astonishment.) Take her! And that you may know what you have taken from me—(Pause. He collects himself.) I have told you of Charlotte, the angel, who was snatched from my arms and who left me her image, her daughter.—And this daughter—I have deceived you—she is not dead; this daughter is Marian!—Marian is not my sister!

Fabricius.

I was not prepared for this revelation.

William.

This blow I ought to have expected from you!—Why did I not follow the dictates of my heart and shut my house to you as to every one else, in the first days when I came here? To you alone I granted entrance into this sanctuary, and you succeeded in lulling my suspicions by your kindness, your friendliness, your encouragement, your apparent coldness towards women. Just as I was, according to all appearances, her brother, so I considered your feeling for her a genuine brotherly one. And even if sometimes a suspicion arose in my mind, I put it away as ignoble, ascribed her affection for you to her angelic heart, which looks upon all the world with friendly glances. And you!—And she!

Fabricius.

It is not right for me to listen longer and I have nothing to say. So goodby!

[Exit.

William.

Yes, go!—You take all my happiness away with you! So undermined, so hopelessly destroyed are all my prospects—my nearest hopes—suddenly! All precipitated into the abyss—and with them the magic golden bridge that was to bear me over to the bliss of paradise!—and through him, the traitor who has so abused my frankness, my confidence! O William, William! Hast thou gone so far as to be unjust to thy good friend? What sin has he committed? O Fate, thy retribution weighs heavy upon me, and thou art just.—Why am I standing here? Why? Just at this moment? Forgive me! Have I not been punished for it? Forgive me! It is long I have suffered infinitely. I seemed to love you; I believed that I loved you; with inconsiderate amiability, courtesies, I shut fast your heart and brought you pain. Forgive me and let me go! Must I be so punished?—Must I lose Marian? the last hope of my life, the epitome of my solicitude. It cannot be! it cannot be!

[He is silent.

Marian.

(Approaching with embarrassment.) Brother.

William.

Ah!

Marian.

Dear brother, you must forgive me, I bother you about everything. You are vexed; I might have known it. I have done a piece of stupidity.—It is a most extraordinary thing to me.

William.

(Collecting his thoughts.) What is the matter, my girl?

Marian.

I wish that I could tell it to you. Everything is whirling about so in my head. Fabricius wants to marry me and I—

William.

(Half bitterly.) Speak it out, you gave him your promise.

Marian.

No, not for the world! Never will I marry him; I cannot marry him.

William.

How strange that sounds!

Marian.

Strange enough. You are very unkind, my brother; I should be glad to go away and wait a good long hour did not my heart oblige me to say first and last: I cannot marry Fabricius.

William.

(Standing up and takingMarianby the hand.) How so, Marian?

Marian.

He was here and he brought up so many reasons that I imagined that it would be possible. He was so importunate that without due consideration I told him to speak with you. He took this for yes, and in that very instant I felt that it could never be.

William.

He has spoken to me.

Marian.

I beg of you, with all my heart and soul, by all the love which I have for you, by all the love which you feel for me, set it right again, tell him!

William.

(Aside.) Merciful heavens!

Marian.

Do not be angry! He will not be angry either. We will live just as we have always lived. For I could not live with any one besides you. It has always been deep in my soul, and this accident has brought it out, brought it out with emphasis that I love no one besides you!

William.

Marian!

Marian.

Kindest brother, I cannot tell you what has passed through my heart during these last moments. It seemed to me very much as it did lately, when there was a fire in the market, and first there was smoke and steam over everything, until all at once the fire caught the roof and then at last the whole house was one flame. Do not let me go! Do not force me away from thee, my brother!

William.

But it cannot always remain as it is!

Marian.

That is the very thing that troubles me so! I will gladly promise you not to get married; I will always take care of you, always and always. A little distance up the street just such a brother and sister live together; I have often thought of it in fun: “If I should get as old and wrinkled—provided only we still lived together.”

William.

(Mastering his heart, half aside.) If I can withstand this, I will never again get into such a tight place.

Marian.

I know that you do not like it; of course you will marry in time, and I should always be sorry if I could not love her as well as I love you.—No one loves you as well as I; no one could love you so. (Williamessays to speak.) You are always so reserved; I always have it on my tongue’s end to tell you just how I feel and I do not dare. Thank God, this accident has unlocked my lips!

William.

Marian, say no more!

Marian.

You must not forbid me! Let me tell you all! Then I will go back to the kitchen and sit for days at a time at my work, seeing you only once in a while, as if to say: “Thou knowest my secret.” (Williamis speechless in the excess of his joy.) You might have known it long ago, you know how long, ever since our mother’s death, as I grew up out of childhood and was always with you. See! I feel more contented to be near you than gratified by your more than fraternal watchfulness. And gradually you so completely occupied my whole heart, my whole intellect, that now anything else would find it hard to get a resting-place. I know well that you have often laughed at me when I was reading novels: it happened once that I was reading “Julia Mandeville” and I asked if Henry, or whatever his name was, did not look like you. You laughed and I didn’t like it. So the next time I kept quiet. But I was perfectly in earnest about it; for whoever seemed to be the dearest, best men, they all looked to me like you. I saw you walking in the great gardens, and riding and travelling and fighting duels.

[She laughs at the remembrance.

William.

What pleases you?

Marian.

Because I must also confess that if a lady were very beautiful and very good and very much loved—and very much in love—it always seemed to be myself, except at the end when the disentanglement came and they got married after all the hindrances; but I am certainly a very impulsive, fond, talkative creature!

William.

Go on! (Aside.) I must drink the cup of joy to the dregs! God in heaven, keep me in my senses!

Marian.

Least of all could I endure it when I read of a couple of people loving each other, and finally finding out that they were relations, or were brother and sister. That “Miss Fanny” I could have burned alive! I cried so over it! It is such a pathetic story.

[She turns away and weeps bitterly.

William.

(Taking her to his heart with a flood of tears.) Marian! my Marian!

Marian.

William! no! no! never will I let thee go from me! Thou art mine! I will hold thee fast! I will not let thee go!

EnterFabricius.

Marian.

Ah, Fabricius, you come at the right time! My heart is full and strong, so that I can tell you all. I did not give any promise. Be our friend; but I can never marry you!

Fabricius.

(Cold and bitter.) I foresaw it, William! If you put all your weight on the scale, of course I should be found too light. I come back to put out of my heart what has no right there. I renounce all claims and perceive that things have already accommodated themselves! At least I am glad that I am the innocent cause of it.

William.

Be not petulant at this moment, and still more do not lose a sensation for which you would vainly seek in a pilgrimage around the world! Look at this creature—she is entirely mine—and yet she has not the slightest idea—

Fabricius.

(Half scornfully.) She does not know—

Marian.

What don’t I know?

William.

Could one tell a falsehood thus, Fabricius?

Fabricius.

(Touched.) She does not know?

William.

I assure you.

Fabricius.

Live for each other then! You are worthy of each other!

Marian.

What does this mean?

William.

(Taking her in his arms.) Thou art mine, Marian!

Marian.

Heavens! What does this mean? Can I give thee back this kiss! What a kiss that was, my brother!

William.

Not the kiss of a reserved, apparently cold brother, but the kiss of an eternally happy lover! (Kneeling.) Marian, thou art not my sister. Charlotte was thy mother, not mine.

Marian.

Thou! thou!

William.

Thy lover!—From this moment forth, thy husband, unless thou scornest me.

Marian.

Tell me how it all came about!

Fabricius.

Enjoy what God himself can only give once in a lifetime. Accept it, Marian, and ask no questions!—You will find time enough to make all explanations.

Marian.

(Looking at him.) No, it is impossible!

William.

My sweetheart, my wife!

Marian.

(In his arms.) William! it is impossible!

A TALE.

THE thick fog of an early autumnal morning obscured the extensive courts which surrounded the prince’s castle, but through the mists, which gradually dispersed, a stranger might observe a cavalcade of huntsmen, consisting of horse and foot, already engaged in their early preparations for the field. The active employments of the domestics were already discernible. These latter were engaged in lengthening and shortening stirrup-leathers, preparing the rifles and ammunition, and arranging the game-bags; whilst the dogs, impatient of restraint, threatened to break away from the slips by which they were held. Then the horses became restive, from their own high mettle, or excited by the spur of the rider, who could not resist the temptation to make a vain display of his prowess, even in the obscurity by which he was surrounded. The cavalcade awaited the arrival of the prince, who was detained a little too long by the tender endearments of his young wife.

Lately married, they thoroughly appreciated the happiness of their own congenial dispositions; both were lively and animated, and each shared with delight the pleasures and pursuits of the other. The prince’s father had already survived and enjoyed that period of life when one learns that all the members of a state should spend their time in diligent employments, and that every one should engage in some energetic occupation corresponding with his taste, and should by this means first acquire, and then enjoy, the fruits of his labor.

How far these maxims had proved successful might have been observed on this very day, for it was the anniversary of the great market in the town, a festival which might indeed be considered a species of fair. The prince had on the previous day conducted his wife on horseback through the busy scene, and had caused her to observe what a convenient exchange was carried on between the productions of the mountainous districts and those of the plain, and he took occasion then and there to direct her attention to the industrious character of his subjects.

But whilst the prince was entertaining himself and his courtiers almost exclusively with subjects of this nature, and was perpetually employed with his finance minister, his chief huntsman did not lose sight of his duty, and upon his representation it was impossible, during these favorable autumnal days, any longer to postpone the amusement of the chase, as the promised meeting had already been several times deferred, not only to his own mortification, but to that of many strangers who had arrived to take part in the sport.

The princess remained, reluctantly, at home. It had been determined to hunt over the distant mountains, and to disturb the peaceful inhabitants of the forests in those districts by an unexpected declaration of hostilities.

Upon taking his departure, the prince recommended his wife to seek amusement in equestrian exercise, under the conduct of her uncle Frederick; “and I commend you, moreover,” he said, “to the care of our trusty Honorio, who will act as your esquire, and pay you every attention:” and saying this as he descended the stairs, and gave the proper instructions to a comely youth who stood at hand, the prince quickly disappeared amid the crowd of assembled guests and followers.

The princess, who had continued waving her handkerchief to her husband as long as he remained in the court-yard, now retired to an apartment at the back of the castle, which showed an extensive prospect over the mountain, as the castle itself was situated on the brow of the hill, from which a view at once distant and varied opened in all directions. She found the telescope in the spot where it had been left on the previous evening, when they had amused themselves in surveying the landscape and the extent of mountain and forest amid which the lofty ruins of their ancestral castle were situated. It was a noble relic of ancient times, and shone out gloriously in the evening illumination. A grand but somewhat inadequate idea of its importance was conveyed by the large masses of light and shadow which now fell upon it. Moreover, by the aid of the telescope, the autumnal foliage was seen to lend an indescribable charm to the prospect, as it waved upon trees which had grown up amid the ruins, undisturbed and unmolested for countless years. But the princess soon turned the telescope in the direction of a dry and sandy plain beneath her, across which the hunting cavalcade was expected to bend its course. She patiently surveyed the spot, and was at length rewarded, as the clear magnifying power of the instrument enabled her delighted eyes to recognize the prince and his chief equerry. Upon this she once more waved her handkerchief as she observed, or rather fancied she observed, a momentary pause in the advance of the procession.

Her uncle Frederick was now announced, and he entered the apartment, accompanied by an artist, bearing a large portfolio under his arm.

“Dear cousin,” observed the worthy knight, addressing her, “we have brought some sketches of the ancestral castle for your inspection, to show how the old walls and battlements were calculated to afford defence and protection in stormy seasons and in years gone by, though they have tottered in some places, and in others have covered the plain with their ruins. Our efforts have been unceasing to render the place accessible, since few spots offer more beauty or sublimity to the eye of the astonished traveller.”

The prince continued, as he opened the portfolio containing the different views: “Here, as you ascend the hollow way, through the outer fortifications, you meet the principal tower, and a rock forbids all further progress. It is the firmest of the mountain range. A castle has been erected upon it, so constructed that it is difficult to say where the work of nature ceases and the aid of art begins. At a little distance, side-walls and buttresses have been raised, the whole forming a sort of terrace. The height is surrounded by a wood. For upwards of a century and a half, no sound of an axe has been heard within these precincts, and giant trunks of trees appear on all sides. Close to the very walls spring the glossy maple, the rough oak and the tall pine. They oppose our progress with their boughs and roots, and compel us to make a circuit to secure our advance. See how admirably our artist has sketched all this upon paper; how accurately he has represented the trees as they become entwined amid the masonry of the castle, and thrust their boughs through the opening in the walls. It is a solitude which possesses the indescribable charm of displaying the traces of human power long since passed away, contending with perpetual and still reviving nature.”

Opening a second picture, he continued his discourse: “What say you to this representation of the castle court, which has been rendered impassable for countless years by the falling of the principal tower? We endeavored to approach it from the side, and in order to form a convenient private road were compelled to blow up the old walls and vaults with gunpowder. But there was no necessity for similar operations within the castle walls. Here is a flat rocky surface which has been levelled by the hand of nature, through which, however, mighty trees have here and there been able to strike their roots. They have thriven well, and thrust their branches into the very galleries where the knights of old were wont to exercise, and have forced their way through doors and windows into vaulted halls, from which they are not likely now to be expelled, and whence we, at least, shall not remove them. They have become lords of the territory, and may remain so. Concealed beneath heaps of dried leaves we found a perfectly level floor, which probably cannot be equalled in the world.

“In ascending the steps which lead to the chief tower, it is remarkable to observe, in addition to all that we have mentioned above, how a maple tree has taken root on high, and has grown to a great size, so that in ascending to the highest turret to enjoy the prospect, it is difficult to pass. And here you may refresh yourself beneath the shade, for even at this elevation the tree of which we speak throws its shadows over all around.

“We feel much indebted to the talented artist who, in the course of several views, has brought thus the whole scenery as completely before us as if we had actually witnessed the original scene. He selected the most beautiful hours of the day and the most favorable season of the year for his task, to which he devoted many weeks incessantly. A small dwelling was erected for him and his assistant in a corner of the castle; you can scarcely imagine what a splendid view of the country, of the court, and of the ruins he there enjoyed. We intend these pictures to adorn our country-house, and every one who enjoys a view of our regular parterres, of our bowers and shady walks, will doubtless feel anxious to feed his imagination and his eyes with an actual inspection of these scenes, and so enjoy at once the old and the new, the firm and the pliant, the indestructible and the young, the perishable and the eternal.”

Honorio now entered and announced the arrival of the horses. The princess thereupon addressing her uncle, expressed a wish to ride up to the ruins and examine personally the subjects which he had so graphically described. “Ever since my arrival here,” she said, “this excursion has been intended, and I shall be delighted to accomplish what has been declared almost impracticable, and what the pictures show to be so difficult.”

“Not yet, my dear,” replied the prince; “these pictures only portray what the place will become; but many difficulties impede a commencement of the work.”

“But let us ride a little towards the mountain,” she rejoined, “if only to the beginning of the ascent; I have a great desire to-day to enjoy an extensive prospect.”

“Your desire shall be gratified,” answered the prince.

“But we will first direct our course through the town,” continued the lady, “and across the market-place, where a countless number of booths wear the appearance of a small town, or of an encampment. It seems as if all the wants and occupations of every family in the country were brought together and supplied in this one spot; for the attentive observer may behold here whatever man can produce or require. You would suppose that money was wholly unnecessary, and that business of every kind could be carried on by means of barter; and such in fact is the case. Since the prince directed my attention to this view yesterday, I have felt pleasure in observing the manner in which the inhabitants of the mountain and of the valley mutually comprehend each other, and how both so plainly speak their wants and their wishes in this place. The mountaineer, for example, has cut the timber of his forests into a thousand forms, and applied his iron to multifarious uses, while the inhabitant of the valley meets him with his various wares and merchandise, the very materials and object of which it is difficult to know or to conjecture.”

“I am aware,” observed the prince, “that my nephew devotes his attention wholly to these subjects, for at this particular season of the year he receives more than he expends; and this after all is the object and end of every national financier, and indeed of the pettiest household economist. But excuse me, my dear, I never ride with any pleasure through the market or the fair; obstacles impede one at every step, and my imagination continually recurs to that dreadful calamity which happened before my own eyes, when I witnessed the conflagration of as large a collection of merchandise as is accumulated here. I had scarcely—”

“Let us not lose our time,” said the princess, interrupting him, as her worthy uncle had more than once tortured her with a literal account of the very same misfortune. It had happened when he was upon a journey, and had retired fatigued to bed, in the best hotel of the town, which was situated in the marketplace. It was the season of the fair, and in the dead of the night he was awakened by screams and by the columns of fire which approached the hotel.

The princess hastened to mount her favorite palfrey, and led the way for her unwilling companion, when she rode through the front gate down the hill, in place of passing through the back gate up the mountain. But who could have felt unwilling to ride at her side or to follow wherever she led? And even Honorio had gladly abandoned the pleasure of his favorite amusement, the chase, in order to officiate as her devoted attendant.

As we have before observed, they could only ride through the market step by step, but the amusing observations of the princess rendered every pause delightful. “I must repeat my lesson of yesterday,” she remarked, “for necessity will try our patience.” And in truth the crowd pressed upon them in such a manner, that they could only continue their progress at a very slow pace. The people testified unbounded joy at beholding the young princess, and the complete satisfaction of many a smiling face evinced the pleasure of the people at finding that the first lady in the land was at once the most lovely and the most gracious.

Mingled together promiscuously were rude mountaineers who inhabited quiet cottages amongst bleak rocks and towering pine trees, lowlanders from the plains and meadows, and manufacturers from the neighboring small towns. After quietly surveying the motley crowd, the princess remarked to her companion that all the people she saw seemed to take delight in using more stuff for their garments than was necessary, whether it consisted of cloth, linen, ribbon or trimming. It seemed as if the wearers, both men and women, thought they would be the better if they looked a little larger.

“We must leave that matter to themselves,” answered the uncle; “every man must dispose of his superfluity as he pleases; well for those who spend it in mere ornament.”

The princess nodded her assent.

They had now arrived at a wide open square which led to one of the suburbs; they there perceived a number of small booths and stalls, and also a large wooden building from whence a most discordant howling issued. It was the feeding hour of the wild animals which were there enclosed for exhibition. The lion roared with that fearful voice with which he was accustomed to terrify both woods and wastes. The horses trembled, and no one could avoid observing how the monarch of the deserts made himself terrible in the tranquil circles of civilized life. Approaching nearer, they remarked the tawdry colossal pictures on which the beasts were painted in the brightest colors, intended to afford irresistible temptation to the busy citizen. The grim and fearful tiger was in the act of springing upon a negro to tear him to pieces. The lion stood in solemn majesty as if he saw no worthy prey before him. Other wonderful creatures in the same group presented inferior attractions.

“Upon our return,” said the princess, “we will alight and take a nearer inspection of these rare creatures.”

“Is it not extraordinary,” replied the prince, “that man takes pleasure in fearful excitements? The tiger, for instance, is lying quietly enough within his cage, and yet here the brute must be painted in the act of springing fiercely on a negro, in order that the public may believe that the same scene is to be witnessed within. Do not murder and death, fire and desolation, sufficiently abound, but that every mountebank must repeat such horrors? The worthy people like to be alarmed, that they may afterwards enjoy the delightful sensation of freedom and security.”

But whatever feelings of terror such frightful representations might have inspired, they disappeared when they reached the gate, and surveyed the cheerful prospects around. The road led down to a river, a narrow brook in truth, and only calculated to bear light skiffs, but destined afterwards, when swelled into a wider stream, to take another name, and to water distant lands. They then bent their course further through carefully cultivated fruit and pleasure gardens, in an orderly and populous neighborhood, until first a copse and then a wood received them as guests, and delighted their eyes with a limited but charming landscape. A green valley leading to the heights above, which had been lately mowed for the second time, and wore the appearance of velvet, having been watered copiously by a rich stream, now received them with a friendly welcome. They then bent their course to a higher and more open spot, which, upon issuing from the wood, they reached after a short ascent, and whence they obtained a distant view of the old castle, the object of their pilgrimage, which shone above the groups of trees, and assumed the appearance of a well-wooded rock. Behind them (for no one ever attained this height without turning to look round) they saw through occasional openings in the lofty trees the prince’s castle on the left, illuminated by the morning sun; the higher portion of the town obscured by a light cloudy mist, and on the right hand, the lower part through which the river flowed in many windings, with its meadows and its mills; whilst straight before them the country extended in a wide productive plain.

After they had satisfied their eyes with the landscape, or rather, as is often the case in surveying an extensive view from an eminence, when they had become desirous of a wider and less circumscribed prospect, they rode slowly along a broad and stony plain, where they saw the mighty ruin standing with its coronet of green, whilst its base was clad with trees of lesser height; and proceeding onwards they encountered the steepest and most impassable side of the ascent. It was defended by enormous rocks which had endured for ages; proof against the ravages of time, they were fast rooted in the earth and towered aloft. One part of the castle had fallen, and lay in huge fragments irregularly massed, and seemed to act as an insurmountable barrier, the mere attempt to overcome which is a delight to youth, as supple limbs ever find it a pleasure to undertake, to combat and to conquer. The princess seemed disposed to make the attempt; Honorio was at hand: her princely uncle assented, unwilling to acknowledge his want of agility. The horses were directed to wait for them under the trees, and it was intended they should make for a certain point where a large rock had been rendered smooth, and from which a prospect was beheld, which, though of the nature of a bird’s-eye view, was sufficiently picturesque.

It was midday; the sun had attained its highest altitude, and shed its clearest rays around; the princely castle in all its parts, battlements, wings, cupolas and towers presented a glorious appearance. The upper part of the town was seen in its full extent, the eye could even penetrate into parts of the lower town, and with the assistance of the telescope distinguish the market-place, and even the very booths. It was Honorio’s invariable custom to sling this indispensable instrument to his side. They took a view of the river, in its course and its descent, and of the sloping plain, and of the luxuriant country with its gentle undulations, and then of the numerous villages, for it had been from time immemorial a subject of contention how many could be counted from this spot.

Over the wide plain there reigned a calm stillness, such as is accustomed to rule at midday—an hour when, according to classical phraseology, the god Pan sleeps, and all nature is breathless, that his repose may be undisturbed.

“It is not the first time,” observed the princess, “that, standing upon an eminence which presents a wide extended view, I have thought how pure and peaceful is the look of holy nature, and the impression comes upon me that the world beneath must be free from strife and care; but returning to the dwellings of man, be they the cottage or the palace, be they wide or circumscribed, we find that there is in truth ever something to subdue, to struggle with, to quiet and allay.”

Honorio, in the meantime, had directed the telescope towards the town, and now exclaimed, “Look, look! the town is on fire in the market-place.”

They looked and saw a column of smoke arising, but the glare of daylight eclipsed the flames. “The fire increases,” they exclaimed, still looking through the instrument. The princess saw the calamity with the naked eye; from time to time they perceived a red flame ascending amid the smoke. Her uncle at length exclaimed, “Let us return; it is calamitous. I have always feared the recurrence of such a misfortune.”

They descended, and having reached the horses, the princess thus addressed her old relative, “Ride forward, sir, hastily with your attendant, but leave Honorio with me, and we will follow.”

Her uncle perceived the prudence and utility of this advice, and riding on as quickly as the nature of the ground would allow, descended to the open plain. The princess mounted her steed, upon which Honorio addressed her thus: “I pray your highness to ride slowly; the fire-engines are in the best order, both in the town and in the castle, there can surely be no mistake or error even in so unexpected an emergency. Here, however, the way is dangerous, and riding is insecure, from the small stones and the smooth grass, and, in addition, the fire will no doubt be extinguished before we reach the town.”

But the princess indulged no such hope; she saw the smoke ascend, and thought she perceived a flash of lightning and heard a thunder-clap, and her mind was filled with the frightful pictures of the conflagration which her uncle’s oft-repeated narrative had impressed upon her.

That calamity had indeed been dreadful, sudden and impressive enough to make one apprehensive for the repetition of a like misfortune. At midnight a fearful fire had broken out in the market-place, which was filled with booths and stalls, before the occupants of those temporary habitations had been roused from their deep slumber. The prince himself, after a weary day’s journey, had retired to rest, but rushing to the window perceived with dismay the flames which raged around on every side and approached the spot where he stood. The houses of the market-place, crimsoned with the reflection, appeared already to burn, and threatened every instant to burst out into a general conflagration. The fierce element raged irresistibly, the beams and rafters crackled, whilst countless pieces of consumed linen flew aloft, and the burnt and shapeless rags sported in the air and looked like foul demons revelling in their congenial element. With loud cries of distress, each individual endeavored to rescue what he could from the flames. Servants and assistants vied with their masters in their efforts to save the huge bales of goods already half consumed, to tear what still remained uninjured from the burning stalls, and to pack it away in chests, although they were even then compelled to abandon their labors and leave the whole to fall a prey to the conflagration. How many wished that the raging blaze would allow but a single moment’s respite, and pausing to consider the possibility of such a mercy, fell victims to their brief hesitation. Many buildings burned on one side, while the other side lay in obscure darkness. A few determined, self-willed characters bent themselves obstinately to the task of saving something from the flames, and suffered for their heroism. The whole scene of misery and devastation was renewed in the mind of the beautiful princess; her countenance was clouded, which had beamed so radiantly in the early morning; her eyes had lost their lustre, and even the beautiful woods and meadows around now looked sad and mournful.

Riding onwards she entered the sweet valley, but she felt uncheered by the refreshing coolness of the place. She had, however, not advanced far, before she observed an unusual appearance in the copse near the meadow where the sparkling brook which flowed through the adjacent country took its rise. She at once recognized a tiger couched in the attitude to spring, as she had seen him represented in the painting. The impression was fearful. “Fly! gracious lady,” cried Honorio, “fly at once!” She turned her horse to mount the steep hill which she had just descended, but her young attendant drew his pistol, and approaching the monster, fired; unfortunately he missed his mark, the tiger leaped aside, the horse started, and the terrified beast pursued his course and followed the princess. The latter urged her horse up the steep stony acclivity, forgetting for a moment that the pampered animal she rode was unused to such exertions. But urged by his impetuous rider the spirited steed made a new effort, till at length, stumbling at an inequality of the ground, after many attempts to recover his footing, he fell exhausted to the ground. The princess released herself from the saddle with great expertness and presence of mind, and brought her horse again to its feet. The tiger was in pursuit at a slow pace. The uneven ground and sharp stones appeared to retard his progress, though as Honorio approached, his speed and strength seemed to be renewed. They now came nearer to the spot where the princess stood by her horse, and Honorio, bending down, discharged a second pistol. This time he was successful and shot the monster through the head. The animal fell, and as he lay stretched upon the ground at full length, gave evidence of that might and terror, which was now reduced to a lifeless form. Honorio had leaped from his horse, and was now kneeling on the body of the huge brute. He had already put an end to his struggles, with the hunting knife which gleamed within his grasp. He looked even more handsome and active than the princess had ever seen him in list or tournament. Thus had he oftentimes driven his bullet through the head of the Turk in the riding-school, piercing his forehead under the turban, and, carried onward by his rapid courser, he had oftentimes struck the Moor’s head to the ground with his shining sabre. In all such knightly feats he was dexterous and successful, and here he had found an opportunity for putting his skill to the test.

“Despatch him quickly,” said the princess faintly, “I fear he may injure you with his claws.”

“There is no danger,” answered the youth, “he is dead enough, and I do not wish to spoil his skin—it shall ornament your sledge next winter.”

“Do not jest at such a time,” continued the princess; “such a moment calls forth every feeling of devotion that can fill the heart.”

“And I never felt more devout than now,” added Honorio, “and therefore are my thoughts cheerful; I only consider how this creature’s skin may serve your pleasure.”

“It would too often remind me of this dreadful moment,” she replied.

“And yet,” answered the youth, with burning cheek, “this triumph is more innocent than that in which the arms of the defeated are borne in proud procession before the conqueror.”

“I shall never forget your courage and skill,” rejoined the princess; “and let me add that you may during your whole life command the gratitude and favor of the prince. But rise, the monster is dead; rise, I say, and let us think what next is to be done.”

“Since I find myself now kneeling before you,” replied Honorio, “let me be assured of a grace, of a favor, which you can bestow upon me. I have oftentimes implored your princely husband for permission to set out upon my travels. He who dares aspire to the good fortune of becoming your guest, should have seen the world. Travellers flock hither from all quarters, and when the conversation turns on some town, or on some peculiar part of the globe, your guests are asked if they have never seen the same. No one can expect confidence who has not seen everything. We must instruct ourselves for the benefit of others.”

“Rise,” repeated the princess; “I can never consent to desire or request anything contrary to the wish of my husband; but, if I mistake not, the cause of your detention here has already been removed. It was the wish of your prince to mark how your character should ripen, and prove worthy of an independent nobleman, who might one day be required to assert his honor abroad, as you have done hitherto here at court, and I doubt not that your present deed of bravery will prove as good a passport as any youth can carry with him through the world.”

The princess had scarcely time to mark that, instead of an expression of youthful delight, a shade of grief now darkened his countenance, and, he could scarcely display his emotion, before a woman approached, climbing the mountain hastily, and leading a boy by the hand. Honorio had just risen from his kneeling posture and seemed lost in thought, when the woman advanced with piercing cries, and immediately flung herself upon the lifeless body of the tiger. Her conduct, no less than her gaudy and peculiar attire, bore evidence that she was the owner and attendant of the animal. The boy by whom she was accompanied was remarkable for his sparkling eyes and jet-black hair. He carried a flute in his hand, and he united his tears to those of his mother, whilst, with a more calm but deep-felt sorrow than she displayed, he knelt quietly at her side.

The violent expression of this wretched woman’s grief was succeeded by a torrent of expostulations, which rushed from her in broken sentences, reminding one of a mountain stream whose course is interrupted by impending rocks. Her natural expressions, short and abrupt, were forcible and pathetic; it would be a vain task to endeavor to translate them into our idiom; we must be satisfied with their general meaning. “They have murdered thee, poor animal, murdered thee without cause. Tamely thou would’st have lain down to await our arrival, for thy feet pained thee, and thy claws were powerless. Thou didst lack thy burning native sun to bring thee to maturity. Thou wert the most beautiful animal of thy kind. Who ever beheld a more noble royal tiger stretched out to sleep, than thou art as thou liest here never to rise again? When in the morning thou awokest at the earliest dawn of day, opening thy wide jaws and stretching out thy ruddy tongue, thou seemedst to us to smile; and even when a growl burst from thee, still didst thou ever playfully take thy food from the hand of a woman, or from the fingers of a child. Long did we accompany thee in thy travels, and long was thy society to us as indispensable as profitable. To us, in very truth, did food come from the ravenous, and sweet refreshment from the strong. But alas! alas! this can never be again!”

She had not quite finished her lamentations, when a troop of horsemen was observed riding in a body over the heights which led from the castle. They were soon recognized as the hunting cavalcade of the prince, and he himself was at their head. Riding amongst the distant hills, they had observed the dark columns of smoke which obscured the atmosphere, and, pushing on over hill and dale, as if in the heat of the chase, they had followed the course indicated by the smoke, which served them as a guide. Rushing forwards, regardless of every obstacle, they had come by surprise upon the astonished group, who presented a remarkable appearance in the opening of the hills. The recognition of each other produced a general surprise, and after a short pause a few words of explanation cleared up the apparent mystery. The prince heard with astonishment the extraordinary occurrence, as he stood surrounded by the crowd of horsemen and pedestrian attendants. There seemed no doubt about the necessary course. Orders and commands were at once issued by the prince.

A stranger now forced his way forward, and appeared within the circle. He was tall in figure, and attired as gaudily as the woman and her child. The members of the family recognized each other with mutual surprise and pain. But the man, collecting himself, stood at a respectful distance from the prince, and addressed him thus:—

“This is not a moment for complaining. My lord and mighty master, the lion has also escaped, and is concealed somewhere here in the mountain; but spare him, I implore you; have mercy upon him, that he may not perish, like this poor animal.”

“The lion escaped!” exclaimed the prince. “Have you found his track?”

“Yes, sire. A peasant in the valley, who needlessly took refuge in a tree, pointed to the direction he had taken—this is the way, to the left; but perceiving a crowd of men and horses before me I became curious to know the occasion of their assembling, and hastened forward to obtain help.”

“Well,” said the prince, “the chase must begin in this direction. Load your rifles; go deliberately to work; no misfortune can happen, if you but drive him into the thick woods below us; but in truth, worthy man, we can scarcely spare your favorite; why were you negligent enough to let him escape?”

“The fire broke out,” replied the other, “and we remained quiet and prepared; it spread quickly round, but raged at a distance from us. We were provided with water in abundance, but suddenly an explosion of gunpowder took place, and the conflagration immediately extended to us and beyond us. We were too precipitate, and are now reduced to ruin.”

The prince was still engaged in issuing his orders, and there was general silence for a moment, when a man was observed flying, rather than running, down from the castle. He was quickly recognized as the watchman of the artist’s studio, whose business it was to occupy the dwelling and to take care of the workmen. Breathless he advanced, and a few words served to announce the nature of his business.

“The lion had taken refuge on the heights, and had lain down in the sunshine behind the lofty walls of the castle. He was reposing at the foot of an old tree in perfect tranquillity. But,” continued the man, in a tone of bitter complaint, “unfortunately, I took my rifle to the town yesterday to have it repaired, or the animal had never risen again; his skin, at least, would have been mine, and I had worn it in triumph for my life.”

The princes whose military experience had often served him in time of need, for he had frequently been in situations where unavoidable danger pressed on every side—observed, in reply to the man, “What pledge can you give that, if we spare your lion, he will do no mischief in the country?”

“My wife and child,” answered the father, hastily, “will quiet him and lead him peacefully along, until I repair his shattered cage, and then we shall keep him harmless and uninjured.”

The child seemed to be looking for his flute. It was that species of instrument which is sometimes called the soft, sweet flute, short in the mouthpiece, like a pipe. Those who understood the art of using it could extract from it the most delicious tones.

In the meantime the prince inquired of the caretaker on which path the lion had ascended the mountain.

“Through the low road,” replied the latter; “it is walled in on both sides, has long been the only passage, and shall continue so. Two footpaths originally led to the same point, but we destroyed them, that there might remain but one way to that castle of enchantment and beauty which is to be formed by the taste and talent of Prince Frederick.”

After a thoughtful pause, during which the prince stood contemplating the child, who continued playing softly on his flute, the former turned towards Honorio, and said:

“Thou hast this day rendered me an essential service; finish the task you have begun. Occupy the narrow road of which we have heard, hold your rifle ready, but do not shoot if you think it likely that the lion may be driven back; but under any circumstances kindle a fire, that he may be afraid to descend in this direction. The man and his wife must answer for the consequences.”

Honorio proceeded without delay to execute the orders he had received.

The child still continued to play upon his flute. He produced no exact melody, as a mere succession of notes followed, without any precise order or artistic arrangement, yet, perhaps for this very reason, the effect seemed replete with enchantment. Every one was delighted with the simple music, when the father, full of a noble enthusiasm, addressed the assembled spectators thus:—

“God has bestowed the gift of wisdom upon the prince, and the power of seeing that all divine works are good, each after its kind. Behold how the rocks stand firm and motionless, proof against the effects of sun and storm. Their summits are crowned with ancient trees, and, elated with the pride of their ornaments, they look round boldly far and wide. But should a part become detached, it no longer appears as before; it breaks into a thousand pieces, and covers the side of the declivity. But even there the pieces find no resting-place; they pursue their course downwards, till the brook receives them, and carries them onward to the river. Thence, unresisting and submissive, their sharp angles having become rounded and smooth, they are borne along with greater velocity from stream to stream, till they finally attain the ocean, in whose mighty depths giants abide and dwarfs abound.

“But who celebrates the praise of the Lord, whom the stars praise from all eternity? Why, however, should we direct our vision so far? Behold the bee, how he makes his provision in harvest time, and constructs a dwelling, rectangular and level, at once the architect and workman. Behold the ant, she knows her way, and loses it not; she builds her habitation of grass and earth and tiny twigs, builds it high and strengthens it with arches, but in vain,—the prancing steed approaches and treads it into nothing, destroying the little rafters and supports of the edifice. He snorts with impatience and with restlessness, for the Lord has formed the horse as companion to the wind, and brother to the storm, that he may carry mankind whither he will. But in the palm forest even he takes to flight. There, in the wilderness, the lion roams in proud majesty; he is monarch of the beasts, and nothing can resist his strength. But man has subdued his valor; the mightiest of animals has respect for the image of God, in which the very angels are formed, and they minister to the Lord and His servants. Daniel trembled not in the lions’ den; he stood full of faith and holy confidence, and the wild roaring of the monsters did not interrupt his pious song.”

This address, which was delivered with an expression of natural enthusiasm, was accompanied by the child’s sweet music. But when his father had concluded, the boy commenced to sing with clear and sonorous voice, and some degree of skill. His parent in the meantime seized his flute, and in soft notes accompanied the child as he sung:

• “Hear the Prophet’s song ascending
• From the cavern’s dark retreat.
• Whilst an Angel, earthward bending,
• Cheers his soul with accents sweet.
• Fear and terror come not o’er him,
• As the lion’s angry brood
• Crouch with placid mien before him,
• By his holy song subdued.”

The father continued to accompany the verses with his flute, whilst the mother’s voice was occasionally heard to intervene as second.

The effect of the whole was rendered more peculiar and impressive by the child’s frequently inverting the order of the verses. And if he did not, by this artifice, give a new sense and meaning to the whole, he at least highly excited the feelings of his audience:

• “Angels o’er us mildly bending,
• Cheer us with their voices sweet.
• Hark! what strains enchant the ear!
• In the cavern’s dark retreat,
• Can the Prophet quake with fear?
• Holy accents sweetly blending,
• Banish ev’ry earthly ill,
• Whilst an Angel choir descending
• Executes the heavenly will.”

Then all three joined with force and emphasis:

• “Since the Eternal eye, far-seeing,
• Earth and sea surveys in peace,
• Lion shall with lamb agreeing
• Live, and angry tempests cease.
• Warriors’ sword no more shall lour;
• Faith and Hope their fruit shall bear;
• Wondrous is the mighty power
• Of Love, which pours its soul in prayer.”

The music ceased. Silence reigned around. Each one listened attentively to the dying tones, and now for the first time could one observe and note the general impression. Every listener was overcome, though each was affected in a different manner. The prince looked sorrowfully at his wife, as though he had only just perceived the danger which had lately threatened him, whilst she, leaning upon his arm, did not hesitate to draw forth her embroidered handkerchief to dry the starting tear. It was delightful to relieve her youthful heart from the weight of grief with which she had for some time felt oppressed. A general silence reigned around, and the fears were forgotten which all had experienced both from the conflagration below and the appearance of the formidable lion above.

The repose of the whole company was first interrupted by the prince, who made a signal to lead the horses nearer; he then turned to the woman and addressed her thus: “You think, then, to master the lion wherever you meet him, by the power of your song, assisted by that of the child and the tones of your flute, and believe that you can thus lead him harmless and uninjured to his cage?”

She protested and assured him that she would do so; whereupon a servant was ordered to show her the way to the castle. The prince and a few of his attendants now took their departure hastily, whilst the princess, accompanied by the rest, followed more slowly after. But the mother and the child, accompanied by the servant, who had armed himself with a rifle, hastened to ascend the mountain.

At the very entrance of the narrow road which led to the castle, they found the hunting attendants busily employed in piling together heaps of dry brushwood to kindle a large fire.

“There is no necessity for such precaution,” observed the woman; “all will yet turn out well.”

They perceived Honorio at a little distance from them, sitting upon a fragment of the wall, with his double-barrelled rifle in his lap, prepared as it seemed for every emergency. But he paid little attention to the people who approached; he was absorbed in his own contemplations, and seemed engaged in deepest thought. The woman entreated that he would not permit the fire to be kindled; he, however, paid not the smallest attention to her request. She then raised her voice, and exclaimed with a loud cry: “Thou handsome youth, who killed my tiger, I curse thee not; but spare my lion, and I will bless thee.”

But Honorio was looking upon vacancy; his eyes were bent upon the sun, which had finished its daily course and was now about to set.

“You are looking to the evening,” cried the woman, “and you are right, for there is yet much to do; but hasten, delay not, and you will conquer. But, first of all, conquer yourself.” He seemed to smile a this observation—the woman passed on, but could not avoid looking round to observe him once more. The setting sun had cast a rosy glow upon his countenance; she thought she had never beheld so handsome a youth.

“If your child,” said the attendant, “can, as you imagine, with his fluting and his singing, entice and tranquillize the lion, we shall easily succeed in mastering him; for the ferocious animal has lain down to sleep under the broken arch, through which we have secured a passage into the castle court, as the chief entrance has been long in ruins. Let the child then entice him into the interior, when we can close the gate without difficulty, and the child may, if he please, escape by a small winding staircase, which is situated in one of the corners. We may in the meantime conceal ourselves; but I shall take up a position which will enable me to assist the child at any moment with my rifle.”

“These preparations are all needless; Heaven and our own skill, bravery and good fortune are our best defence.”

“But first let me conduct you by this steep ascent to the top of the tower, right opposite to the entrance of which I have spoken. The child may then descend into the arena, and there he can try to exercise his power over the obedient animal.”

This was done. Concealed above, the attendant and the mother surveyed the proceeding. The child descended the narrow staircase and soon appeared in the wide courtyard. He immediately entered into the narrow opening opposite, when the sweet sounds of his flute were heard, but these gradually diminished till at length they finally ceased. The pause was fearful—the solemnity of the proceeding filled the old attendant with apprehension, accustomed as he was to every sort of danger. He declared that he would rather engage the enraged animal himself. But the mother preserved her cheerful countenance, and, leaning over the parapet in a listening attitude, betrayed no sign of the slightest fear.

At length the flute was heard again. The child had issued from the dark recess, his face beaming with triumph; the lion was slowly following, and seemed to walk with difficulty. Now and then the animal appeared disposed to lie down, but the child continued to lead him quietly along, bending his way through the half-leafless autumn-tinged trees, until he arrived at a spot which was illumined by the last rays of the setting sun. They were shedding their parting glory through the ruins, and in this spot he recommenced his sweet song, which we cannot refrain from repeating:

• “Hear the Prophet’s song ascending
• From the cavern’s dark retreat,
• Whilst an Angel, earthward bending,
• Cheers his soul with accents sweet.
• Fear and terror come not o’er him,
• As the lion’s angry brood
• Crouch with placid mien before him,
• By his holy song subdued.”

The lion in the meantime had lain quietly down, and raising his heavy paw, had placed it in the lap of the child. The latter stroked it gently and continued his chant, but soon observed that a sharp thorn had penetrated into the ball of the animal’s foot. With great tenderness the child extracted the thorn, and taking his bright-colored silk handkerchief from his neck, bound it round the foot of the huge creature, whilst the attentive mother, still joyfully leaning over the parapet with outstretched arms, would probably have testified her approbation with loud shouts and clapping of hands, if the attendant had not rudely seized her and reminded her that the danger was not yet completely over.

The child now joyfully continued his song, after he had hummed a few notes by way of prelude:

• “Since the Eternal eye, far-seeing,
• Earth and sea surveys in peace,
• Lion shall with lamb agreeing
• Live, and angry tempests cease.
• Warriors’ sword no more shall lour;
• Faith and Hope their fruit shall bear;
• Wondious is the mighty power
• Of Love, which pours its soul in prayer.”

If it were possible to conceive that the features of so fierce a monster, at once the tyrant of the forest and the despot of the animal kingdom, could display an expression of pleasure and grateful joy, it might have been witnessed upon this occasion; and, in very truth, the child, in the fulness of his beauty, looked like some victorious conqueror, though it could not be said that the lion seemed subdued, for his mighty power was only for a time concealed; he wore the aspect of some domesticated creature, who had been content to make a voluntary surrender of the mighty power with which it was endued. And thus the child continued to play and to sing, transposing his verses or adding to them, as he felt inclined:

• “Holy Angels, still untiring,
• Aid the good and virtuous child,
• Every noble deed inspiring
• And restraining actions wild
• So the forest king to render
• Tame as child at parent’s knee,
• Still be gentle, kind, and tender,
• Use sweet love and melody.”

The Good Women.

HENRIETTA and Armidoro had been for some time engaged in walking through the garden in which the Summer Club was accustomed to assemble. It had long been their practice to arrive before the other members, for they entertained the warmest attachment to each other, and their pure and virtuous friendship fostered the delightful hope that they would shortly be united in the bonds of unchanging affection.

Henrietta, who was of a lively disposition, no sooner perceived her friend Amelia approach the summer-house from a distance, than she ran to welcome her. The latter was already seated at a table in the ante-chamber, where the newspapers, journals and other recent publications lay displayed.

It was her custom to spend occasional evenings in reading in this apartment, without paying attention to the company who came and went, or suffering herself to be disturbed by the rattling of the dice or the loud conversation which prevailed at the gaming-tables. She spoke little, except for the purpose of rational conversation. Henrietta, on the contrary, was not so sparing of her words, being of an easily satisfied disposition, and ever ready with expressions of commendation. They were soon joined by a third person, whom we shall call Sinclair. “What news do you bring?” exclaimed Henrietta, addressing him as he approached.

“You will scarcely guess,” replied Sinclair, as he opened a portfolio. “And even if I inform you that I have brought for your inspection the engravings intended for the Ladies’ Almanac of this year, you will hardly guess the subjects they portray; but when I tell you that young ladies are represented in a series of twelve engravings—”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Henrietta, interrupting him, “you have no intention, I perceive, of putting our ingenuity to the test. You jest, if I mistake not; for you know how I delight in riddles and charades, and in guessing my friends’ enigmas. Twelve young ladies, you say—sketches of character, I suppose; some adventures, or situations, or something else that redounds to the honor of the sex.”

Sinclair smiled in silence, whilst Amelia watched him with calm composure, and then remarked, with that fine sarcastic tone which so well became her, “If I read his countenance truly, he has something to produce of which we shall not quite approve. Men are so fond of discovering something which shall have the appearance of turning us into ridicule.”

Sinclair.

You are becoming serious, Amelia, and threaten to grow satirical. I shall scarcely venture to open my little packet.

Henrietta.

Oh! produce it.

Sinclair.

They are caricatures.

Henrietta.

I love them of all things.

Sinclair.

Sketches of naughty ladies.

Henrietta.

So much the better; we do not belong to that class. Their portraits would afford us as little pleasure as their society.

Sinclair.

Shall I show them?

Henrietta.

Do so at once.

So saying, she snatched the portfolio from him, took out the pictures, spread six of them upon the table, glanced over them hastily, and then shuffled them together as if they had been a pack of cards. “Capital!” she exclaimed; “they are done to the very life. This one, for instance, holding a pinch of snuff to her nose, is the very image of Madame S—. whom we shall meet this evening; and this old lady with the cat is not unlike my grand-aunt;—that figure, holding the skein of thread, resembles our old milliner. We can find an original for every one of these ugly figures; and even amongst the men I have somewhere or other seen an old fellow bent double, just like that picture; and also a close resemblance to the figure holding the thread. They are full of fun, these engravings, and admirably executed.”

Amelia, who had glanced carelessly at the pictures, and instantly withdrawn her eyes, inquired how they could look for resemblances in such things. “One deformity is like another, just as the beautiful ever resembles the beautiful. Our minds are irresistibly attracted by the latter, in the same degree as they are repelled by the former.”

Sinclair.

But our fancy and our wit find more amusement in deformity than in beauty. Much can be made of the former, but nothing at all of the latter.

“But beauty exalts, whilst deformity degrades us,” observed Armidoro, who, from his post at the window, had paid silent attention to all that had occurred. Without approaching the table, he then adjourned into the adjoining cabinet.

All clubs have their peculiar epochs. The interest of the various members towards each other, and their friendly harmony together, are of a fluctuating character. The club of which we speak had now attained its zenith. The members were, for the most part, men of refinement, or at least of calm and quiet deportment; they mutually recognized each other’s value, and allowed all want of merit to find its own level. Each one sought his own individual amusement, and the general conversation was often of a nature to attract attention.

At this time a gentleman named Seyton arrived, accompanied by his wife. He was a man who had seen much of the world, first from his engagement in business, and afterwards in political affairs; he was moreover an agreeable companion; although, in mixed society, he was chiefly remarkable for his talent as a card-player. His wife was a worthy woman, kind and faithful, and enjoying the most perfect confidence and esteem of her husband. She felt happy that she could now give uncontrolled indulgence to her taste for pleasure. At home she could not exist without a companion, and she found in amusement and dissipation the only incentive to home enjoyment.

We must treat our readers as strangers, or rather as visitors to the club, and in full confidence we must introduce them speedily to our new society. A poet paints his characters by describing their actions; we must adopt a shorter course, and by a hasty sketch introduce our readers rapidly to the scenes.

Seyton approached the table and looked at the pictures.

“A discussion has arisen,” observed Henrietta, “with respect to caricatures. What side do you take? I am an advocate for them, and wish to know whether all caricatures do not possess something irresistibly attractive.”

Amelia.

And does not every evil calumny, provide it relate to the absent, also possess an incredible charm?

Henrietta.

But does not a sketch of this kind produce an indelible impression?

Amelia.

And that is just the reason why I condemn it. Is not the indelible impression of what is disagreeable precisely the evil which so constantly pursues us in life and destroys our greatest enjoyments?

Henrietta.

Favor us, Seyton, with your opinion.

Seyton.

I should propose a truce to the argument. Why should our pictures be better than ourselves? Our nature seems to have two sides, which cannot exist separately. Light and darkness, good and evil, height and depth, virtue and vice, and a thousand other contradictions unequally distributed, appear to constitute the component parts of human nature; and why, therefore, should I blame an artist who, whilst he paints an angel bright, brilliant and beautiful, on the other hand paints a devil black, ugly and hateful?

Amelia.

There could be no objection to such a course if caricaturists did not introduce within their province subjects which belong to higher spheres.

Seyton.

So far I think you perfectly right. But artists, whose province is the Beautiful alone, also appropriate what does not precisely belong to them.

Amelia.

I have no patience, however, with caricaturists who ridicule the portraits of eminent men. In spite of my better sense, I can never consider that great man Pitt as anything else than a snub-nosed broomstick; and Fox, who was in many respects an estimable character, anything better than a stall-fed swine.

Henrietta.

Precisely my view. Caricatures of such a nature make an indelible impression, and I cannot deny that it often affords amusement to evoke their recollection and pervert them even into worse distortions.

Sinclair.

But, ladies, allow us to revert for a moment from this discussion to a consideration of our engravings.

Seyton.

I observe that a fancy for dogs is here delineated in no very flattering manner.

Amelia.

That I have no objection to, for I detest such animals.

Sinclair.

First an enemy to caricatures, and then unfriendly to the dog tribe.

Amelia.

And why not? What are such animals but caricatures of men?

Seyton.

You remember, probably, what a certain traveller relates of the city of Grätz, “that the place was full of dogs, and of dumb persons half idiotic.” Might it not be possible that the habitual sight of so many barking, senseless animals should have produced an effect upon the human race?

Sinclair.

Our attachment to animals deteriorates our passions and affections.

Amelia.

But if our reason, according to the general expression, is sometimes capable of standing still, it may surely do so in the presence of dogs.

Sinclair.

Fortunately there is no one in our company who cares for dogs but Madame Seyton. She is very much attached to her pretty greyhound.

Seyton.

And that same animal is particularly dear and valuable to her husband.

Madame Seyton, from a distance, raised her finger to her lips in an attitude of playful threatening.

Seyton.

I know a proof that such animals detach our affections from their legitimate objects. May I not, my dear child (addressing his wife), relate our anecdote? We need not be ashamed of it.

Madame Seyton signified her assent by a friendly nod, and he commenced his narration.

“We loved each other and had entered into an engagement to marry before we had well considered the possibility of supporting an establishment. At length better hopes began to dawn, when I was unexpectedly compelled to set out upon a journey which threatened to last longer than I could have wished. On my departure I forgot my favorite greyhound. It had often been in the habit of accompanying me to my intended wife’s house, sometimes returning with me, and occasionally remaining behind. It now became her property, was a cheerful companion, and reminded her of my return. At home the little animal afforded much amusement, and in the promenades, where we had so often walked together, it seemed constantly engaged in looking for me, and barked as if announcing me as it sprang from among the trees. My darling little Meta amused itself thus for a considerable time by fancying me really present, until at length, about the time when I had hoped to return, the period of my absence being again indefinitely prolonged, the poor animal pined away and died.”

Madame Seyton.

Just so, dear husband! And your narrative is sweetly interesting.

Seyton.

You are quite at liberty to interrupt me, my dear, if you think fit. My friend’s house now seemed desolate, her walks had lost all their interest, her favorite dog, which had ever been at her side when she wrote to me, had grown to be an actual necessity of existence, and her letters were now discontinued. But she found, however, some consolation in the company of a handsome youth, who evinced an anxiety to fill the place of her former four-footed companion, both in the house and in the promenades. But without enlarging on this subject, and let me be ever so inimical to rash judgments, I may say that matters began to assume a rather critical appearance.

Madame Seyton.

I must let you continue. A story which is all truth and wholly free from exaggeration is seldom worth hearing.

Seyton.

A mutual friend of ours, who was a prudent man, versed in the world, and acquainted with human nature, continued to reside near my dear friend after my departure. He paid frequent visits at her house, and observed with pain and anxiety the change which she had undergone. He formed his plan in secrecy, and called upon her one day, accompanied by a greyhound which precisely resembled mine. The cordially affectionate and appropriate address with which he accompanied his present, the unexpected appearance of a favorite, which seemed to have risen from the grave, the silent rebuke with which her susceptible heart reproached her at the sight, brought back to her mind a lively recollection of me. My young supplanter accordingly received his congé in the politest manner possible, and the new favorite was retained by the lady as her constant companion. When, upon my return, I held my beloved in my embrace, I thought the greyhound was my own, and wondered not a little that he barked at me as at a stranger. I thought that dogs of the present day had far less faithful memories than those of classical times, and observed that Ulysses had been remembered by his dog after many years’ absence, whilst mine had forgotten me in an incredibly short space of time. “But yet he has taken good care of your Penelope,” she replied, promising at the same time to explain her mysterious speech. This was soon done, and unbroken confidence has ever since been the characteristic of our union.

Madame Seyton.

Well, now, conclude with the anecdote. If you please, I will walk for an hour, for you intend doubtless to sit down to the card-table.

He signified his assent. She took the arm of her companion and went towards the door. “Take the dog with you, my dear!” he exclaimed, as she departed. The entire company smiled, as did Seyton also when he saw the precise point of his unintentional observation, and every one else silently felt a trifling degree of malicious satisfaction.

Sinclair.

You have related an anecdote of a dog which was happily instrumental in promoting a marriage; I can tell another whose influence destroyed one. I was also once in love, and it was also my fate to set out upon a journey, and, moreover, left a dear young friend behind me. But there was this difference between the two cases, my wish to possess my treasure had been as yet undeclared. At length I returned. The many adventures in which I had engaged were imprinted strongly upon my mind. Like all travellers, I was fond of recounting them, and I hoped by this means to win the attention and sympathy of my beloved. I was anxious that she should know all the experience I had acquired and the pleasures I had enjoyed. But I found that her attention was wholly directed to a dog. Whether she so engaged herself from that spirit of opposition which so often characterizes the fair sex, or whether it arose from some unlucky accident, it so happened that the amiable qualities of the dog, their amusements together and her attachment to the little animal were the sole topics of conversation which she could find for a lover who had long been passionately devoted to her. I wondered and felt astonished, and related a thousand circumstances to prove my affection for her. I then felt vexed at her coldness, and took my leave, but soon returned with feelings of self-reproach and became even more unhappy than before. Under these circumstances our attachment cooled and our acquaintance was discontinued, and I felt in my heart that I might attribute the misfortune to a dog.

Armidoro, who had once more joined the company from the cabinet, observed, upon hearing the anecdote, “that it would be interesting to make a collection of stories showing the influence which social animals of the lower order exercise over mankind. In the expectation that such a collection will be one day made, I will relate an ancedote to show how a dog was the cause of a very tragical occurrence.

“Ferdinand and Cardano, two young noblemen, had been attached friends from their very earliest youth. As court pages and as officers in the same regiment they had shared many adventures together, and had become thoroughly acquainted with each other’s dispositions. Cardano’s attraction was the fair sex, whilst Ferdinand had a passion for play. The former was thoughtless and haughty, the latter suspicious and reserved. It happened, at a time when Cardano was accidentally obliged to break off a certain tender attachment, that he left a beautiful little pet spaniel behind him. He soon procured another, which he afterwards presented to a second lady, from whom he was about to separate; and from that time, upon taking leave of every new female friend with whom he had become intimate, he invariably presented her with a similar little spaniel. Ferdinand was aware of Cardano’s peculiar habit in this respect, but he never paid much attention to the circumstance.

“The different pursuits of the two friends at length caused a long separation between them, and, when they next met, Ferdinand had become a married man, and was leading the life of a country gentleman. Cardano spent some time with him, either at his house or in the neighborhood, where, as he had many relations and friends, he resided for nearly a year.

“Upon his departure Ferdinand’s attention was attracted by a very beautiful spaniel of which his wife had lately become possessed. He took it in his arms, admired its beauty, stroked it, praised it and inquired where she had obtained so charming an animal. She replied, ‘from Cardano.’ He was struck at once with the memory of bygone times and events, and with a recollection of the significant memorial with which Cardano was accustomed to mark his insincerity; he felt oppressed with the indignity of an injured husband, raged violently, flung the innocent little animal with fury to the earth and ran from the apartment amid the cries of the spaniel and the supplications of his astonished wife. A fearful dispute and countless disagreeable consequences ensued, which, though they did not produce an actual divorce, ended in a mutual agreement to separate; and a ruined household was the termination of this adventure.”

The story was not quite finished when Eulalia entered the apartment. She was a young lady whose society was universally sought after, and she formed one of the most attractive ornaments of the club—an accomplished woman and a successful authoress.

The female caricatures were laid before her with which the clever artist, before alluded to, had attacked the fair sex, and she was invited to defend her good sisterhood.

“Probably,” said Amelia, “a collection of these charming portraits is intended for the almanac, and possibly some celebrated author will undertake the witty task of explaining in words what the ingenious artist has represented in his pictures.”

Sinclair felt that the pictures were not worthy of utter condemnation, nor could he deny that some sort of explanation of their meaning was necessary, as a caricature which is not understood is worthless, and is in fact only valuable for its application. For however the ingenious artist may endeavor to display his wit, he cannot always succeed, and without a title or an explanation his labor is lost: words alone can give it value.

Amelia.

Then let words bestow a value upon this little picture. A young lady has fallen asleep in an armchair, having been engaged, as it appears, with some sort of writing. Another lady, who stands by weeping, presents a small box, or something else, to her companion. What can it mean?

Sinclair.

Shall I endeavor to explain it, notwithstanding that the ladies seem but ill-disposed both to caricatures and their exposition? I am told that it is intended to represent an authoress who was accustomed to compose at night; she always obliged her maid to hold her inkstand, and forced the poor creature to remain in that posture even when she herself had been overcome by sleep, and the office of her maid had thus been rendered useless. She was desirous, on awaking, to resume the thread of her thoughts and of her composition, and wished to find her pen and ink ready at the same moment.

Arbon, an artist of talent who had accompanied Eulalia, declared war against the picture. He observed that to delineate the situation or circumstance above alluded to another course should have been adopted.

Henrietta.

Let us then compose the picture afresh.

Arbon.

But let us first of all consider the subject attentively. It seems natural enough that a person employed in writing should cause the inkstand to be held, if the circumstances are such that no place can be found to set it down. So Brantome’s grandmother held the inkstand for the Queen of Navarre, when the latter, reposing in her litter, composed the history which we have all read with so much pleasure. Again, that any one who writes in bed should cause his inkstand to be held is quite conceivable. But tell us, pretty Henrietta, you who are so fond of questioning and guessing, tell us what the artist should have done to represent this subject properly.

Henrietta.

He should have put the table away, and have so arranged the sleeper that nothing should appear at hand upon which an inkstand could be placed.

Arbon.

Quite right. I should have drawn her in a well-cushioned easy-chair, of the fashion which, if I mistake not, are called Bergères; she should have been near the fireplace, and presenting a front view to the spectator. I should suppose her to be engaged in writing upon her knee, for usually one becomes uncomfortable in exacting an inconvenience from another. The paper sinks upon her lap, the pen from her hand, and a sweet maiden stands near holding the inkstand with a forlorn look.

Henrietta.

Quite right. But here we have an inkstand upon the table already; and what is to be done, therefore, with the inkstand in the hand of the maiden? It is not easy to conceive why she should be engaged in wiping away her tears.

Sinclair.

Here I defend the artist; he allows scope for the ingenuity of the commentator.

Arbon.

Who will probably be engaged in exercising his wit upon the headless men that hang against the wall. This seems to me a clear proof of the inevitable confusion that arises from uniting arts between which there is no natural connection. If we were not accustomed to see engravings with explanations appended to them, the evil would cease. I have no objection that a clever artist should attempt witty representations; but they are difficult to execute, and he should at all events endeavor to make his subject independent of explanations. I could even tolerate remarks and little sentences issuing from the mouths of his figures, provided he restricted himself to being his own commentator.

Sinclair.

But if you allow such a thing as a witty picture, you must admit that it is intended only for persons of intelligence; it can possess an attraction for none but those conversant with the occurrences of the day; why then should we object to a commentator who enables us to understand the nature of the intellectual amusement prepared for us?

Arbon.

I have no objection to explanations of pictures which fail to explain themselves. But they should be short and to the point. Wit is for the intelligent; they alone can understand a witty work; and the productions of bygone times and foreign lands are completely lost upon us. It is all well enough with the aid of such notes as we find appended to Rabelais and Hudibras, but what should we say of an author who should find it necessary to write one witty work to elucidate another? Wit, even when fresh from its fountain, is oftentimes feeble enough; it will scarcely become stronger by passing through two or three hands.

Sinclair.

How I wish that, instead of thus arguing, we could assist our friend, the owner of these pictures, who would be glad to hear the opinions that have been expressed.

Armidoro.

(Coming from the cabinet.) I perceive that the company is still engaged about these censurable pictures: had they produced a pleasant impression, they would doubtless have been laid aside long ago.

Amelia.

I propose that that be their fate now; the owner must be required to make no use of them. What! a dozen and more hateful, objectionable pictures to appear in a ladies’ almanac! Can the man be blind to his own interest? He will ruin his speculation. What lover will present a copy to his mistress, what husband to his wife, what father to his daughter, when the first glance will display such a libel upon the sex?

Armidoro.

I have a proposal to make. These objectionable pictures are not the first of the kind which have appeared in the best almanacs. Our celebrated Chodoviecki has, in his collection of monthly engravings, already represented scenes not only untrue to nature, but low and devoid of all pretensions to taste; but how did he do it? Opposite the pictures I allude to he delineated others of a most charming character—scenes in perfect harmony with nature, the result of a high education, of long study, and of an innate taste for the Good and Beautiful. Let us go a step beyond the editor of the proposed almanac and act in opposition to his project. If the intelligent artist has chosen to portray the dark side of his subject, let our author or authoress, if I may dare to express my view, choose the bright side to exercise her talents, and so form a complete work. I shall not longer delay, Eulalia, to unite my own wishes to this proposal. Undertake a description of good female characters. Create the opposite to these engravings, and employ the charm of your pen, not to elucidate these pictures, but to annihilate them.

Sinclair.

Promise to comply, Eulalia. Place us under so great an obligation to you.

Eulalia.

Authors are ever apt to promise too easily, because they hope for ability to execute their wishes: but experience has rendered me cautious. And even if I could foresee the necessary leisure, within so short a space of time, I should yet hesitate to undertake the arduous duty. The praises of our sex should be spoken by a man—a young, ardent, loving man. A degree of enthusiasm is requisite for the task, and who has enthusiasm for one’s own sex?

Armidoro.

I should prefer intelligence, justice and delicacy of taste.

Sinclair.

And who can discourse better on the character of good women than the authoress from whose fairy tale of yesterday we all derived such pleasure and so much incomparable instruction?

Eulalia.

The fairy tale was not mine.

Sinclair.

Not yours?

Armidoro.

To that I can bear witness.

Sinclair.

But still it was a lady’s?

Eulalia.

The production of a friend.

Sinclair.

Then there are two Eulalias.

Eulalia.

Many, perhaps; and better than—

Armidoro.

Will you relate to the company what you so lately confided to me? You will all hear with astonishment how this delightful production originated.

Eulalia.

A young lady, with whose great excellence I became accidentally acquainted upon a journey, found herself once in a situation of extreme perplexity, the circumstances of which it would be tedious to narrate. A gentleman to whom she was under many obligations, and who finally offered her his hand, having won her entire esteem and confidence, in a moment of weakness obtained from her the privileges of a husband, before their vows of love had been cemented by marriage. Some peculiar circumstances compelled him to travel, and, in the retirement of a country residence, she anticipated with fear and apprehension the moment when she should become a mother. She used to write to me daily, and informed me of every circumstance that happened. But there was shortly nothing more to fear—she now needed only patience, and I observed, from the tone of her letters, that she began to reflect with a disturbed mind upon all that had already occurred, and upon what was yet to take place in her regard. I determined, therefore, to address her in an earnest tone on the duty which she owed no less to herself than to her infant, whose support, particularly at the commencement of its existence, depended so much upon her mind being free from anxiety. I sought to console and to cheer her, and for this purpose sent her several volumes of fairy tales, which I expressed a wish that she should read. Her own desire to escape from the burden of her melancholy thoughts, and the arrival of these books, formed a remarkable coincidence. She could not help reflecting frequently upon her peculiar fate, and she therefore adopted the expedient of clothing all her past sorrowful adventures, as well as her painful apprehensions for the future, in a garb of romance. The events of her past life—her attachment, her passion, her errors and her sweet maternal cares—no less than her present sad condition, were all embodied by her imagination in forms vivid, though impalpable, and passed before her mind in a varied succession of strange and unearthly fancies. With pen in hand, she spent many a day and night in noting down her reflections.

Amelia.

In which occupation she must have found it difficult to hold her inkstand.

Eulalia.

Thus did I acquire the rare collection of letters which I now possess. They are all picturesque, strange and romantic. I never received from her an account of anything actual, so that I sometimes trembled for her reason. Her own situation, the birth of her infant, her sweet affection for her offspring, her joys, her hopes and her maternal fears, were all treated as events of another world, from which she only expected to be liberated by the arrival of her husband. Upon her nuptial day she concluded the fairy tale, which you heard recited yesterday, almost in her own words, and which derives its chief interest from the unusual circumstances under which it was composed.

The company could not sufficiently express their astonishment at this statement, and Seyton, who had abandoned his place at the gaming-table to another person, now entered the apartment, and made inquiries concerning the subject of conversation. He was briefly informed that it related to a fairy tale, which, partly founded on facts, had been composed by the fantastic imagination of a mind that was diseased.

“It is a great pity,” he remarked, “that private diaries are so completely out of fashion. Twenty years ago they were in general use, and many persons thought they possessed a veritable treasure in the record of their daily thoughts. I recollect a very worthy lady upon whom this custom entailed a sad misfortune. A certain governess had been accustomed from her earliest youth to keep a regular diary, and, in fact, she considered its composition to form an indispensable part of her daily duties. She continued the habit when she grew up, and did not lay it aside even when she married. Her memorandums were not looked upon by her as absolute secrets, she had no occasion for such mystery, and she frequently read passages from it for the amusement of her friends and of her husband. But the book in its entirety was intrusted to nobody. The account of her husband’s attachment had been entered in her diary with the same minuteness with which she had formerly noted down the ordinary occurrences of the day: and the entire history of her own affectionate feelings had been described from their first opening hour until they had ripened into a passion, and become at length a rooted habit. Upon one occasion this diary accidentally fell in her husband’s way, and the perusal afforded him a strange entertainment. He had undesignedly approached the writing-desk upon which the book lay, and, without suspicion or intention, had read through an entire page which was open before him. He took the opportunity of referring to a few previous and subsequent passages, and then retired with the comfortable assurance that it was high time to discontinue the disagreeable amusement.

Henrietta.

But, according to the wish of my friend, our conversation should be confined to good women, and already we are turning to those who can scarcely be counted amongst the best.

Seyton.

Why this constant reference to bad and good? Should we not be quite as well contented with others as with ourselves, either as we have been formed by nature, or improved by education?

Armidoro.

I think it would be at once pleasant and useful to arrange and collect a series of anecdotes such as we have heard narrated, and many of which are founded on real occurrences. Light and delicate traits, which mark the characters of men, are well worthy of our attention, even though they give birth to no extraordinary adventures. They are useless to writers of romance, being devoid of all exciting interest; and worthless to the tribe of anecdote-collectors, for they are for the most part destitute of wit and spirit; but they would always prove entertaining to a reader who, in a mood of quiet contemplation, should wish to study the general characteristics of mankind.

Sinclair.

Well said. And if we had only thought of so praiseworthy a work a little earlier, we might have assisted our friend, the editor of the Ladies’ Calendar, by composing a dozen anecdotes, if not of model women, at least of well-behaved personages, to balance his catalogue of naughty ladies.

Amelia.

I should be particularly pleased with a collection of incidents to show how a woman forms the very soul and existence of a household establishment; and this because the artist has introduced a sketch of a spendthrift and improvident wife, to the defamation of our sex.

Seyton.

I can furnish Amelia with a case precisely in point.

Amelia.

Let us hear it. But do not imitate the usual custom of men who undertake to defend the ladies: they frequently begin with praise and end with censure.

Seyton.

Upon this occasion, however, I do not fear the perversion of my intention through the influence of any evil spirit. A young man once became tenant of a large hotel which was established in a good situation. Amongst the qualities which recommend a host, he possessed a more than ordinary share of good temper, and as he had from his youth been a friend to the ale-house, he was peculiarly fortunate in selecting a pursuit in which he found it necessary to devote a considerable portion of the day to his home duties. He was neither careful nor negligent, and his own good temper exercised a perceptible influence over the numerous guests who assembled around him.

He had married a young person who was of a quiet, passive disposition. She paid punctual attention to her business, was attached to her household pursuits, and loved her husband, though she often found fault with him in secret for his carelessness in money matters. She had a great love for ready money; she thoroughly comprehended its value and understood the advantage of securing a provision for herself. Devoid of all activity of disposition, she had every tendency to avarice. But a small share of avarice becomes a woman, however ill extravagance may suit her. Generosity is a manly virtue, but parsimony is becoming in a woman. This is the rule of nature, and our judgments must be subservient thereto.

Margaret (for such was the name of this prudent personage) was very much dissatisfied with her husband’s carelessness. Upon occasions when large payments were made to him by his customers, it was his habit to leave the money lying for a considerable time upon the table, and then to collect it in a basket, from which he afterwards paid it away, without making it up into packages, and without keeping any account of its application. His wife plainly perceived that, even without actual extravagance, where there was such a total want of system, considerable sums must be wasted. She was above all things anxious to make her husband change his negligent habits, and she became grieved to observe that the small savings which she collected and so carefully retained were as nothing in comparison with the money that was squandered; and she determined, therefore, to adopt a rather dangerous expedient to make her husband open his eyes. She resolved to defraud him of as much money as possible, and for this purpose had recourse to an extraordinary plan. She had observed that when he had once counted his money, which he allowed to remain so long upon the table, he never reckoned it over a second time before putting it away; she therefore rubbed the bottom of a candlestick with tallow, and then, apparently without design, she placed it near the spot where the ducats lay exposed, a species of coin for which she entertained a warm partiality. She thus gained possession of a few pieces, and subsequently of some other coins, and was soon sufficiently well satisfied with her success. She therefore repeated the operation frequently, and entertained no scruple about employing such evil means to effect so praiseworthy an object, and she tranquillized her conscience on the subject by the reflection that such a mode of abstracting her husband’s money could not be termed robbery, as her hands were not employed for the purpose. Her secret treasure increased gradually, and soon became very much greater by the addition of the ready money which she herself received from the customers of the hotel, and of which she invariably retained possession.

She had carried on this practice for a whole year, and, though she carefully watched her husband, she never had reason to believe that his suspicions were awakened, until at length he began to grow discontented and unhappy. She induced him to tell her the cause of his anxiety, and learned that he was grievously perplexed. After the last payment which he had made of a considerable sum of money, he had laid aside the amount of his rent, and not only this had disappeared, but he was unable to meet the demand of his landlord from any other channel; and as he had always been accustomed to keep his accounts in his head, and to write down nothing, he could not possibly understand the cause of the deficiency.

Margaret reminded him of his great carelessness, censured his thoughtless manner of receiving and paying away money, and spoke of his general imprudence. Even his generous disposition did not escape her remarks; and, in truth, he had no excuse to offer for a course of conduct the consequences of which he had so much reason to regret.

But she could not leave her husband long in this state of grievous trouble, more especially as she felt a pride in being able to render him once more happy. Accordingly, to his great astonishment, on his birthday, which she was always accustomed to celebrate by presenting him with something useful, she entered his private apartment with a basket filled with rouleaux of money. The different descriptions of coin were packed together separately, and the contents were carefully indorsed in a handwriting by no means of the best. It would be difficult to describe his astonishment at finding before him the precise sums which he had missed, or at his wife’s assurance that they belonged to him. She thereupon circumstantially described the time and the manner of her abstracting them, confessed the amount which she had taken, and told also how much she had saved by her own careful attention. His despair was now changed into joy, and the result was that he abandoned to his wife all the duty of receiving and paying away money for the future. His business was carried on even more prosperously than before; although from the day of which we have spoken not a farthing ever passed through his hands. His wife discharged the duty of banker with extraordinary credit to herself; no false money was ever taken; and the establishment of her complete authority in the house was the natural and just consequence of her activity and care; and, after the lapse of ten years, she and her husband were in a condition to purchase the hotel for themselves.

Sinclair.

And so all this truth, love and fidelity ended in the wife becoming the veritable mistress. I should like to know how far the opinion is just that women have a tendency to acquire authority.

Amelia.

There it is again. Censure, you observe, is sure to follow in the wake of praise.

Armidoro.

Favor us with your sentiments on this subject, good Eulalia. I think I have observed in your writings no disposition to defend your sex against this imputation.

Eulalia.

In so far as it is a grievous imputation, I should wish it were removed by the conduct of our sex. But where we have a right to authority we can need no excuse. We like authority because we are human. For what else is authority, in the sense in which we use it, than a desire for independence, and for the enjoyment of existence as much as possible. This is a privilege which all men seek with determination; but our ambition appears, perhaps, more objectionable because nature, usage and social regulations place restraints upon our sex, whilst they enlarge the authority of men. What men possess naturally, we have to acquire; and property obtained by a laborious struggle will always be more obstinately held than that which is inherited.

Seyton.

But women, as I think, have no reason to complain on that score. As the world goes, they inherit as much as men, if not more; and in my opinion it is a much more difficult task to become a perfect man than a perfect woman. The phrase, “He shall be thy master,” is a formula characteristic of a barbarous age long since passed away. Men cannot claim a right to become educated and refined without conceding the same privilege to women. As long as the process continues, the balance is even between them; but, as women are more capable of improvement than men, experience shows that the scale soon turns in their favor.

Armidoro.

There is no doubt that in all civilized nations women in general are superior to men, for where the two sexes exert a corresponding influence over each other, man becomes effeminate, and that is a disadvantage; but when a woman acquires any masculine virtue, she is the gainer, for if she can improve her own peculiar qualities by the addition of masculine energy, she becomes an almost perfect being.

Seyton.

I have never considered the subject so deeply. But I think it is generally admitted that women do rule and must continue to do so; and therefore whenever I become acquainted with a young lady, I always inquire upon what subjects she exercises her authority, since it must be exercised somewhere.

Amelia.

And thus you establish the point with which you started?

Seyton.

And why not? Is not my reasoning as good as that of philosophers in general, who are convinced by their experience? Active women, who are given to habits of acquisition and saving, are invariably mistresses at home; pretty women, at once graceful and superficial, rule in large societies, whilst those who possess more sound accomplishments exert their influence in smaller circles.

Amelia.

And thus we are divided into three classes.

Sinclair.

All honorable, in my opinion; and yet those three classes do not include the whole sex. There is still a fourth, to which perhaps we had better not allude, that we may escape the charge of converting our praise into censure.

Henrietta.

Then we must guess the fourth class. Let us see.

Sinclair.

Well, then, the first three classes were those whose activity was displayed at home, in large societies, or in smaller circles.

Henrietta.

What other sphere can there be where we can exercise our activity?

Sinclair.

There may be many. But I am thinking of the reverse of activity.

Henrietta.

Indolence! How could an indolent woman rule?

Sinclair.

Why not?

Henrietta.

In what manner?

Sinclair.

By opposition. Whoever adopts such a course, either from character or principle, acquires more authority than one would readily think.

Amelia.

I fear we are about to fall into the tone of censure so general to men.

Henrietta.

Do not interrupt him, Amelia. Nothing can be more harmless than these mere opinions, and we are the gainers by learning what other persons think of us. Now, then, for the fourth class, what about it?

Sinclair.

I must take the liberty of speaking unreservedly. The class I allude to does not exist in our country, and does not exist in France, because the fair sex, both amongst us and our gallant neighbors, enjoys a proper degree of freedom. But in countries where women are under restraint and debarred from sharing in public amusements, the class I speak of is numerous. In a neighboring country there is a peculiar name by which ladies of this class are invariably designated.

Henrietta.

You must tell us the name; we can never guess names.

Sinclair.

Well, I must tell you, they are called roguish.

Henrietta.

A strange appellation.

Sinclair.

Some time ago you took great interest in reading the speculations of Lavater upon physiognomy; do you remember nothing about roguish countenances in his book?

Henrietta.

It is possible; but it made no impression upon me. I may perhaps have construed the word in its ordinary sense, and read on without noticing it.

Sinclair.

It is true that the word “roguish” in its ordinary sense is usually applied to a person who, with malicious levity, turns another into ridicule; but in its present sense it is meant to describe a young lady, who, by her indifference, coldness and reserve—qualities which attach to her as a disease—destroys the happiness of one upon whom she is dependent. We meet with examples of this everywhere; sometimes even in our own circle. For instance, when I have praised a lady for her beauty, I have heard it said in reply, “Yes, but she is a bit of a rogue.” I even remember a physician saying to a lady who complained of the anxiety she suffered about her maid-servant, “My dear madam, the girl is somewhat of a rogue, and will give a deal of trouble.”

Amelia rose from her seat and left the apartment.

Henrietta.

That seems rather strange.

Sinclair.

I thought so too, and I therefore took a note of the symptoms, which seemed to mark a disease half moral and half physical, and framed an essay which I entitled “A Chapter on Rogues,” and as I meant it to form a portion of a work on general anthropological observations, I have kept it by me hitherto.

Henrietta.

But you must let us see it, and if you know any interesting anecdotes to elucidate your meaning of the word “rogue,” they must find a place in our intended collection of novels.

Sinclair.

This may be all very well, but I find I have failed in the object which brought me hither. I was anxious to find some one in this intelligent assembly to undertake an explanation of these engravings, or who could recommend a talented writer for the purpose; in place of which, the engravings are abused and pronounced worthless, and I must take my leave without having attained my purpose. But if I had only made notes of our conversation and anecdotes this evening, I should almost possess an equivalent.

Armidoro.

(Coming from the cabinet, to which he had frequently retired.) Your wish is accomplished. I know the motive of our friend, the editor of the work. I have taken down the heads of our conversation upon this paper. I will arrange the draft, and if Eulalia will kindly promise to impart to the whole that spirit of charming animation which she possesses, the graceful tone of the work, and perhaps also its contents, will in some measure expiate the offence of the artist for his ungallant attack.

Henrietta.

I cannot blame your officious friendship, Armidoro, but I wish you had not taken notes of our conversation; it is setting a bad example. Our intercourse together has been quite free and unrestrained, and nothing can be worse than that our unguarded conversation should be overheard and written down, perhaps even printed for the amusement of the public.

But Henrietta’s scruples were silenced by a promise that nothing should meet the public eye except the little anecdotes which had been related.

Eulalia, however, could not be persuaded to edit the notes of the short-hand writer. She had no wish to withdraw her attention from the fairy tale with which she was then occupied. The notes remained in possession of the gentlemen of the party, who, with the aid of their own memories, generously afforded their assistance, that they might thereby contribute to the general edification of all “good women.”

Reynard the Fox.

CHAPTER I.

THE ACCUSATION.

THE pleasant feast of Whitsuntide was come;

The woods and hills were clad in vernal bloom;

The full-awakened birds, from every tree,

Made the air ring with cheerful melody;

Sweet were the meadows after passing showers;

Brilliant the heaven with light, the earth with flowers.

Noble, the king of beasts, now holds his court;

Thither his summoned vassals all resort;

From north and south they troop, from east and west,

Of birds and quadrupeds the first and best.

The royal will had been proclaimed, that all

Of ev’ry class should come, both great and small,

To grace the pomp of that high festival:

Not one should fail; and yet there did fail one;

Reynard the Fox, the rogue, was seen of none;

His many crimes from court kept him away;

An evil conscience shuns the light of day.

To face that grave assembly much he feared,

For all accused him; no one had he spared;

Graybeard, the Badger, stood his friend alone,

The Badger, who was Reynard’s brother’s son.

Begirt with many a relative and friend,

Who aid in war, in peace might counsel lend,

Sir Isegrim, the Wolf, approached the throne,

And with due rev’rence bowing humbly down,

His suit in plaintive accents he began,

And thus his wrathful accusation ran:—

“Most gracious lord and king! in pity hear!

Let my complaint find favor in your ear.

Happy the subjects of your glorious reign;

Here none who seek for justice seek in vain.

Vouchsafe, then, to commis’rate my distress;

For Reynard’s malice grant me some redress.

Me in all ways the wretch hath wronged and shamed,

My spouse dishonored and my children maimed;

Three lie at home, the youngest born of six,

Befouled and blinded by his filthy tricks.

“ ’Tis long ago my plaint in court was filed,

Showing by Reynard how I’d been beguiled:

The cunning Fox knew well a plea to draw,

And boldly he presumed to wage his law:

He dared not come at the appointed day;

So I had judgment—and my costs to pay.

All present here can vouch this tale is true;

But none can tell such things as I can do.

Had I the tongues of angels, lungs of brass,

Whole days and weeks—nay, months and years would pass

Ere I could mention all my injuries,

Or tell one half his crimes and tricks and lies.

If all the Sheep on earth were killed and flayed,

And all their skins were into parchment made,

Not half sufficient were they to contain

The wrongs whereof I justly would complain:

The worst is the dishonor of my wife;

That eats away my heart, and sours my life;

Desire of vengeance haunts me night and day,

And vengeance I will have, come what come may.”

He ceased, and stood in silent mood apart,

Gloom on his brow and anger in his heart.

Up jumped a Poodle from a neighboring bench.

Hight Frizpate, who addressed the kind in French.

And he complained, it was not long ago,

In winter, when the ground was deep in snow,

That not a single beast could hunt his prey,

He’d given much in charity away,

And for himself had but one sausage left;

By the false Fox of this he was bereft:

A foul and almost sacrilegious theft!

Scant had he spoken, when with fiery eyes

Tybalt, the Cat, sprang forth in angry wise.

And kneeling cried—“My august and gracious king.

Reynard must answer many a grievous thing:

Most dreaded of all living beasts is he;

Ay, more than e’en your sacred majesty.

Grant me your patience, though; and hear me out:

Frizpate hath little to complain about:

The thing he speaks of happened years bygone:

That sausage ne’er was his; it was my own,

My all, my only remaining sustenance;

I stumbled on it by the merest chance.

I happened once into a mill to creep;

It was deep night: the miller fast asleep:

Being at that time stinted in my diet,

I took the sausage: why should I deny it?

But Frizpate filched it from me; so that he

Should be the last to speak of robbery.”

The Panther then—“These jars are little use:

Reynard’s misdeeds admit of no excuse:

He is a robber and a murderer;

That in this presence, boldly I aver.

No kind of crime but he doth exercise;

Naught sacred is there in his impious eyes:

His soul is fixed upon ungodly pelf;

Although the noble, nay, the king himself

Should suffer loss of health and wealth and all,

And the whole state to hopeless rum fall

So he could get the leg of a fat capon, he

Would never care the value of a half-penny.

“Let me relate the trick he tried to play

To Puss, the gentle Hare, but yesterday;—

Poor Puss, who lives just like an anchoret,

And never injured moral being yet.

Reynard, who latterly has given out

That he has turned ascetic and devout,

Promised he’d teach him at the quickest rate,

How he, as chaplain, might officiate;

‘The service you shall chant;’ quoth he, ‘as we do;

And we’ll begin our lesson with the Credo!’

So down they sat together and began;

For he had no misgivings, the good man.

But not long time continued they to sing;

For, ’gainst the peace of our dread lord, the king,

And setting at defiance all his laws,

He seized on Puss with his pernicious claws.

I heard their song as I was passing by,

And wondered that it stopped so suddenly;

I’d scarce proceeded though a dozen span, ere

I took the felon Reynard with the mamour.

Fast hold had he of Pussy by the throat,

That he could scarce articulate one note.

Certes, at that time had I not come up,

He’d gone that night in Paradise to sup.

You stands our timid friend; and in his flesh

You still may see his wounds all raw and fresh.

“Will not our sov’reign lord these ills abate?

Will you, brave peers and pillars of the State,

Such daily breaches of the peace permit,

Such violations of the royal writ?

If there no stop be put to these foul crimes,

Much do I fear me, that in future times

Frequent reproach the king will have to hear

From all to whom justice and right are dear.”

Again spoke Isegrim; “’Tis even so,

Reynard has ever been the common foe;

’Twere better he had perished long ago.

For while that wretch shall live, no rest will be

For honest, loyal, peaceful folk like me.

Albeit, according to the present fashion,

The felon ever meets with most compassion;

If such crimes pass unpunished, not a year hence

We all shall rue our most unwise forbearance.”

Undaunted by this host of angry foes,

The Badger, Reynard’s nephew, now uprose;

Boldly prepared to plead his uncle’s cause,

All stained with crime and falsehood as he was.

“Now fair and soft, Sir Isegrim,” said he;

“Your words smack less of truth than enmity.

’Tis known you hate my uncle; and, in sooth,

A fair word had he ne’er from your foul mouth.

Yet from your malice hath he naught to fear:

In the king’s favor stood he now but here,

He’d give you ample reason to repent

Stirring in these stale subjects of complaint.

You take good care too not to say one word

Of ills that he for your sake hath incurred.

Yet many of the barons here well know

What happened not so very long ago;

When you and he a solemn cov’nant sware,

That friendship each should to the other bear,

And, like true comrades, good and evil share.

I must relate, it is not long to tell,

The strange adventure which that time befell,

When you and he, in the cold winter weather,

Went through the country travelling together.

“It chanced a Carter, on the king’s high road,

Was driving homeward with a heavy load;

Your subtle nostrils soon sniffed out ’twas fish,

You’d soon have had them if you’d had your wish:

But they were closely packed; and what was worse,

You’d not a single stiver in your purse.

What then did my kind-hearted uncle do?

Ah! what indeed hath he not done for you?

Down in the road he laid himself for dead:

’Twas a bold thought to come into his head!

And when the Carter saw him lying there,

To kill him out-an-end did he prepare;

But, cunning Reynard still held in his breath,

Stiff’ning his limbs and counterfeiting death;

’Twas a consummate masterpiece of art,

That showed him cool of head as brave of heart;

The Carter picked him up and pitched him in his cart.

A cap he thought to make out of his skin,

And a bag too to keep his dollars in.

This did my uncle do for Isegrim:

When would he venture such a risk for him?

While onward went the Carter with his load,

Reynard kept throwing fish down in the road;

And Isegrim, who was in haste to sup,

Fast as he threw them down, gobbled them up.

Reynard grew weary of this sport at last,

And thought ’twas his turn now to break his fast;

So down he sprang; but with disgust and wonder

Found Isegrim had pilfered all the plunder:

He’d stuffed till he was nigh to burst in sunder.

He told my uncle he had left his share—

But nothing but the heads and bones were there.

“Another of his tricks I must narrate;

And so Heaven help me, as I truth relate.

A countryman had lately killed a swine;

Large were its hams and noble was its chine.

Reynard had found out where the carcass hung.

And told it Isegrim with truthful tongue.

And they agreed in common they would toil.

Would share the danger and divide the spoil

To Reynard’s share the danger fell alone.

But of the spoil, forsooth, he’d next to none.

The larder-walls were strong and steep and high;

My uncle climb’d them, though, right skillfully:

True to his word, did he the Porker throw

Out of the window to the Wolf below.

Now, by bad fortune, there were in the grounds

A couple of most ill-conditioned Hounds:

They chased my uncle with appalling din.

He got away, but not with a whole skin:

And straight unto the Wolf his way did make.

To show what he had suffered for his sake,

And claim his lawful share: then Isegrim

Said he’d reserved the prime tit-bit for him:

And thrusting in his cheek his lying tongue,

Produced the hook by which the Pig had hung.

His feelings Reynard had no words t’express.

But what he felt all present here may guess.

“Scores of such pranks I might remember well,

Were you inclined to hear, and I to tell:

But ’Tis enough: were Reynard summoned here,

Soon would he make his innocence appear.

“As for the other charge, ’tis most absurd

You, my dread liege, and you, my lords, have heard

What Isegrim has said about his wife.

Whom ’twas his duty ti protect with life.

In all its details that affair I know,

It happened now just seven years ago.

That Reynard’s bosom first received a wound

From the soft eyes of Lady Gieremund.

My uncle is not to be blamed at all

They met together at a fancy hall

Isegrim had gone upon a tour to Rome:

Husbands, if wise, would always stay at home.

My uncle proffered her his farb and troth.

She sanctioned his attentions, nothing foil

Is it not, therefore, a most crying shame,

That her own lord should sully not fair dame?

What any man of honor would conceal,

He seems to take a pleasure to reveal.

“What have we next? This trumpery affair.

The Panther has brought up about the Hare

Such utter trash’ what’ shall a master scruple

To chastise a perverse or sluggish pupil?

If this be so, how are out youth to be

Trained up in learning and morality?

The wisest book that ever was compiled

Says, if you spare the rod you spoil the child

“Then we have Monsieur Frizpate, who complains

He was deprived of his ill-gotten gains.

A pretty fuss, forsooth, about a sausage!

’Twere better he said nothing of that passage.

For it turns out ’twas stolen; and the thief

Has the assurance now to ask relief.

The evil on his own head has recoiled:

’Tis only just the spoiler should be spoiled.

Is Reynard blamed, that from a robber he

Has wrung the fruits of his dishonesty?

He did his duty, that deny who can,

Like a true Fox and loyal gentleman.

Why, had he hanged him on the spot, I ween,

He must assuredly have pardoned been:

But he respects the king’s prerogative,

And therefore spared the thief and let him live.

“But little justice can my uncle get;

At least, but little hath he got as yet;

Since the king’s peace was publicly made known,

No one hath led the life that he hath done,

With books he passes half his time away,

And takes but one abstemious meal a day.

Water his only drink, and roots his food;

Poultry and butchers’ meat he hath eschewed,

And cannot bear the very thought of blood;

With whips doth mortify his flesh, and wear

Next to his very skin a shirt of hair.

I heard it mentioned only yesterday.

By one who happened to have passed that way;

His castle, Malepartus, he hath shut.

And in the desert built a hermit’s hut.

So lean and pale and haggard he hath grown,

By his best friends he scarcely would be known.

But ’tis the burden of a good old song,

That absent folks are ever in the wrong.

I only wish to heav’n that he were here;

From all these scandals he would soon be clear.”

Scarce had he ceased, when from a neighb’ring hill

A cry resounded, like a clarion shrill.

The voice it was of honest Chanticleer,

Who with his wives and concubines drew near;

A dead Hen borne behind him on a bier.

It was the headless corpse of young Grayleg,

As good a fowl as ever laid an egg;

His fav’rite daughter of a num’rous brood;

And impious Reynard now had shed her blood.

Foremost the sad and mourning sire doth stride,

His dappled wings low trailing by his side:

While after him two youthful Cock’rels march,

Each bearing in his grasp a burning torch;

Cantart of one, Cryart the other’s name;

’Twixt France and Holland none more known to fame;

They were the brothers of the murdered dame.

Four tender Pullets bore their mother’s bier,

Clucking so loud ’twas pitiful to hear;

Dire was the clatter, awful were the cries,

And the shrill clamor pierced the startled skies.

Soon as the Heralds silence had restored,

Unto the throne stepped up the martial bird;

O’erwhelmed with woe he thrice essayed to speak,

And thrice the words died choking in his beak.

Ashamed so chicken-hearted to appear,

He gave one vig’rous crow his voice to clear,

And thus began:—“My liege and sov’reign, hail!

With pity listen to my grievous tale;

Before you stands the wretchedest of Cocks,

A hapless victim of that cruel Fox.

“Whenas stern winter fled on stormy wing,

And the glad earth welcomed the cheery spring,

How pleased was my paternal heart and proud,

As I surveyed my young and hopeful brood:

Ten gallant sons and fourteen daughters fair

Partlett had hatched me, with parental care;

Partlett, the best and most submissive wife

That ever solaced a poor husband’s life.

How joyed was I with her and them to rove,

And watch my offspring full of life and love.

That time no terrors for their lot I felt,

For in complete security we dwelt:

Our home was in a convent’s spacious yard,

Whose lofty walls its inmates safely guard;

And six stout Dogs belonging to the farm,

Who loved us well, protected us from harm.

“Reynard, it seems, that lawless reprobate,

Like Satan, envying our happy state,

Around our Eden often lay in wait.

Stealthily round the walls by night he’d creep.

And through the crannies of the gates would peep.

The trusty guardians of myself and wife

Oft made the ruffian scamper for dear life;

Once they did catch him, and well tanned his hide,

He got away, though sorely scarified;

And for a good while after let us bide.

“But ah, sire! now begins my tale of woe:

Again he came, and that not long ago;

Within our convent walls he slyly slunk

Clad in the vestments of a holy monk.

Wore a long frock, and sandals ’stead of shoes,

And looked for all the world like a recluse.

He brought a writ: ’twas sealed with the great seal;

’Twas genuine; I know the impress well:

This writ proclaimed, in unambiguous words,

Peace should be kept between all beasts and birds.

As for himself, he’d vowed his ways to mend,

And think of nothing but his latter end;

He’d quite reformed, he said, his mode of life,

Had e’en forsworn the embraces of his wife;

Water his only drink and roots his food;

All flesh of ev’ry kind he had eschewed,

And could not bear the very thought of blood.

But that my wife and daughters present were,

He said he would have shown the shirt of hair,

Which he for penance next his skin must wear:

And, on the word and honor of a fowl,

I myself saw the tonsure ’neath his cowl.

Tow’rds him I own I felt my heart relent,

He seemed so really, truly penitent;

He spoke of his past sins with such compunction,

And of the heav’nly grace with so much unction.

‘Farewell!’ at length he cried, ‘I needs must go;

I still have many pious deeds to do;

I have the nones and vespers yet to say,

And by a dying Vulture’s bed to pray;

He too was a sad sinner in his day.

Bless you, my children, may you ever thrive

In the calm peace which this world cannot give.’

And saying thus, the odious hypocrite

Crossing himself departed from our sight.

He left us, all his soul on mischief bent;

While ours were filled with happiest content.

“We ventured forth; and habit, more than fear,

Kept us at first to the old convent near.

Reynard we daily saw near our abode;

It seemed some bus’ness led him oft that road;

His looks were ever bent upon the ground,

As though his mind were lost in thought profound;

Or, if he chanced our family to see,

It was ‘Goode’n’ and ‘Benedicite;’

And he would tell his beads and seem to pray,

And smite his breast, and so pass on his way.

“Now, bolder grown, we farther went abroad,

In search of pleasure and our daily food.

Ah! fatal error! from behind a bush

Reynard among us made a sudden rush.

Scatt’ring and squand’ring to the left and right,

Tow’rds our old home we took our screaming flight,

In vain, alas! our foe was there before;

In threatening guise he barred us from the door:

With surer aim this time he bore away

Of all my sons the fairest as his prey:

And I was there, and impotent to save!

My son! my son! my beautiful, my brave!

“And now he once had tasted of our blood,

It seemed as he disdained all other food:

At all times came he on us—night and day—

Nor Dogs, nor men, nor gates kept him away.

Of all mine offspring I’m well nigh bereft;

Five, out of twenty, all that now are left:

With grief and terror I am all but wild;

Soon will he leave me neither chick nor child.

Oh, give me justice! ’twas but yesterday

He tore my daughter from my side away;

Villain! without or pity or remorse:

The Dogs were but in time to save her corpse.

See, there she lies! my child whom Reynard slew!

Help me, or he will have the others too!

Oh! Cock-a-doodle, cock-a-doodle doo!”

Fierce was the fire that in the king’s eye burned,

As to the Badger wrathfully he turned,

And thus began: “Come hither, sir, and see

This sample of your uncle’s piety!

Now by my royal mane I make a vow,

This miscreant shall not pass unpunished so,

If Heaven preserve my life another year.

But words avail not. Honest Chanticleer,

I claim the right your inj’ries to redress,

To share, if not to lessen, your distress.

Entombed shall your fair daughter be, with all

The pomp befits a royal funeral:

A vigil shall be sung, a mass be said,

The more to honor the illustrious dead:

We with our council will the while take thought

How may the murd’rer be to justice brought.”

In sable was the Chapel Royal hung;

The mass was duly said, the vigil sung:

The people, joining with the choristers,

Sang Domino placebo, verse by verse.

I could relate who gave each versicle,

Who the responses; but ’twere long to tell;

And so I pass it by: ’tis just as well.

Deep in a grave they laid the honored dead,

And placed a marble tablet at her head;

’Twas thick, and square, and polished bright as glass,

With this inscription graven on its face:

grayleg the speckled one lies buried here

the dear-loved daughter of brave chanticleer

throughout the earth ’twere vain to seek her match

no hen could oft’ner lay or featlier scratch

in reynard’s clutch she drew her latest breath

and passed untimely to the realms of death

[Editor: illegible text] all good men her murd’rer execrate

and shed a tear of pity for her fate

Meanwhile the king in solemn council sate,

Discussing with the wisest in his state,

How they the culprit might to justice draw

And vindicate the majesty of law.

At length it was resolved, by one and all,

To send a summons to the criminal,

Commanding him, all bus’ness laid aside,

He should to court repair, and there his doom abide.

The summons writ and sealed, Bruin, the Bear,

Selected they to be the messenger;

And him the king addressed: “Sir Bruin, see

That you perform your mission faithfully.

We know you stout of limb and brave of heart;

Yet would we counsel caution on your part;

Courage is oft but a poor match for art.

Reynard, remember, speaks but to deceive;

Neither his lies nor flattery believe,

Or you may soon have too good cause to grieve.”

“Fear not, my liege,” the trusty Bear replied,

Confident in his strength and shaggy hide;

“Reynard, however tricksy he may be.

Will not, I wager, try his tricks on me.

Me or my mission an he treat with scorn,

I’ll make him rue the hour that he was born.”

CHAPTER II.

THE FIRST SUMMONS.

NOW with his ragged staff the Bear set forth,

And with his best grease larded the lean earth.

Through forests vast he went and deserts drear;

But his bold heart knew neither doubt nor fear.

At length the mountain region he approached,

Wherein Sir Reynard generally poached:

But Bruin would not tarry or delay;

Tow’rds Malepartus held he on his way,

The fav’rite fastness of the robber chief;

And there he hoped to catch the wily thief:

Thither for safety usually he fled,

When threat’ning danger overhung his head.

At length Sir Bruin stood before the gate,

And, finding it was shut, he scratched his pate,

Not knowing whether best to go or wait.

Then he began to cry, with mighty din:

“What, Cousin Reynard, ho! are you within?

Bruin the Bear it is who calls. I bring

A missive from our sov’reign lord, the king:

He orders you, all bus’ness laid aside,

Repair to court and there your doom abide;

That equal right and justice may be done,

And satisfaction giv’n to every one.

I am to fetch you: if you hesitate,

The gallows or the wheel will be your fate.

Better to come at once, fair cousin, sith

The king, you know, will not be trifled with.”

Reynard, from the beginning to the end,

Had heard this summons; and did now perpend

In what way he might punish his fat friend.

Into a private corner he had fled,

Where he could hear securely all was said.

His keep was built with many a secret door,

With traps above and pits beneath the floor;

With labyrinthine passages and channels,

With secret chambers and with sliding panels.

There he would often hide, the cunning hound,

When he was wanted, and would not be found.

Amid this intricate obscurity,

Where none could safely find his path but he,

Full many a simple beast had lost his way,

And to the wily robber fall’n a prey.

Reynard suspected there might be some cheat;

For the deceitful always fear deceit.

Was Bruin quite alone? He felt afraid,

There might be others hid in ambuscade.

But soon as he was fully satisfied

His fears were vain, forth from the door he hied;

And, “Welcome, dearest uncle, here,” quoth he,

With studied look of deep humility,

And the most jesuitical of whispers.

“I heard you call; but I was reading vespers.

I am quite grieved you should have had to wait,

In this cold wind too, standing at my gate.

How glad I am you’re come; for I feel sure

With your kind aid my cause will be secure;

However that may be, at least, I know

More welcome nobody could be than you.

But truly ’twas a pity I must say

T’ have sent you such a long and tedious way.

Good Heav’ns! how hot you are! you’re tired to death!

How wet your hair is, and how scant your breath!

Although no slight our good king could have meant,

Some other messenger he might have sent

Than Bruin, the chief glory of his court,

His kingdom’s main adornment and support.

Though I should be the last to blame his choice,

Who have, in sooth, no cause but to rejoice.

How I am slandered well aware am I,

But on your love of justice I rely,

That you will speak of things just as you find them;

As to my enemies I need not mind them:

Their malice vainly shall my cause assail;

For truth, we know, is great, and must prevail.

“To court to-morrow we will take our way:

I should myself prefer to start to-day,

Not having cause—why should I have?—to hide;

But I am rather bad in my inside.

By what I’ve eaten I am quite upset,

And nowise fitted for a journey yet.”

“What was it?” asked Sir Bruin, quite prepar’d,

For Reynard had not thrown him off his guard.

“Ah!” quoth the Fox, “what boots it to explain?

E’en your kind pity could not ease my pain.

Since flesh I have abjured, for my soul’s weal,

I’m often sadly put to’t for a meal.

I bear my wretched life as best I can;

A hermit fares not like an alderman.

But yesterday, as other viands failed,

I ate some honey,—see how I am swelled!

Of that there’s always to be had enough:

Would I had never touched the cursed stuff.

I ate it out of sheer necessity:

Physic is not so nauseous near to me.”

“Honey!” exclaimed the Bear; “did you say honey?

Would I could any get for love or money!

How can you speak so ill of what’s so good?

Honey has ever been my fav’rite food;

It is so wholesome, and so sweet and luscious;

I can’t conceive how you can call it nauseous.

Do get me some on’t; and you may depend

You’ll make me evermore your steadfast friend.”

“You’re surely joking, uncle!” Reynard cried;

“No, on my sacred word!” the Bear replied;

“I’d not, though jokes as blackberries were rife,

Joke upon such a subject for my life.”

“Well! you surprise me,” said the knavish beast;

“There’s no accounting certainly for taste;

And one man’s meat is oft another’s poison.

I’ll wager that you never set your eyes on

Such store of honey as you soon shall spy

At Gaffer Joiner’s, who lives here hard by.”

In fancy o’er the treat did Bruin gloat;

While his mouth fairly watered at the thought.

“Oh, take me, take me there, dear coz,” quoth he,

“And I will ne’er forget your courtesy.

Oh, let me have a taste, if not my fill:

Do, cousin.” Reynard grinned, and said, “I will.

Honey you shall not long time be without:

’Tis true just now I’m rather sore of foot;

But what of that? the love I bear to you

Shall make the road seem short and easy too.

Not one of all my kith or kin is there

Whom I so honor as th’ illustrious Bear.

Come then! and in return I know you’ll say

A good word for me on the council-day.

You shall have honey to your heart’s content,

And wax too, if your fancy’s that way bent.”

Whacks of a different sort the sly rogue meant.

Off starts the wily Fox, in merry trim,

And Bruin blindly follows after him.

“If you have luck,” thought Reynard, with a titter,

“I guess you’ll find our honey rather bitter.”

When they at length reached Goodman Joiner’s yard,

The joy that Bruin felt he might have spar’d.

But Hope, it seems, by some eternal rule,

Beguiles the wisest as the merest fool.

’Twas ev’ning now, and Reynard knew, he said,

The Goodman would be safe and sound in bed.

A good and skilful carpenter was he:

Within his yard there lay an old oak tree,

Whose gnarled and knotted trunk he had to split;

A stout wedge had he driven into it:

The cleft gaped open a good three foot wide;

Towards this spot the crafty Reynard hied;

“Uncle,” quoth he, “your steps this way direct,

You’ll find more honey here than you suspect.

In at this fissure boldly thrust your pate;

But I beseech you to be moderate:

Remember, sweetest things the soonest cloy,

And temperance enhances ev’ry joy.”

“What!” said the Bear, a shocked look as he put on

Of self-restraint; “d’ye take me for a glutton?

With thanks I use the gifts of Providence,

But to abuse them count a grave offence.”

And so Sir Bruin let himself be fooled:

As strength will be whene’er by craft ’tis ruled.

Into the cleft he thrust his greedy maw

Up to the ears, and either foremost paw.

Reynard drew near; and tugging might and main

Pulled forth the wedge; and the trunk closed again.

By head and foot was Bruin firmly caught:

Nor threats nor flatt’ry could avail him aught.

He howled, he raved, he struggled and he tore,

Till the whole place re-echoed with his roar;

And Goodman Joiner, wakened by the rout,

Jumped up much wond’ring what ’twas all about;

And seized his axe, that he might be prepar’d,

And danger, if it came, might find him on his guard.

Still howled the Bear and struggled to get free

From the accursed grip of that cleft tree.

He strove and strained; but strained and strove in vain,

His mightiest efforts but mereased his pain:

He thought he never should get loose again.

And Reynard thought the same, for his own part;

And wished it too, devoutly from his heart.

And as the Joiner coming he espied,

Armed with his axe, the jesting ruffian cried:

“Uncle, what cheer? Is th’ honey to your taste?

Don’t eat too quick, there’s no such need of haste.

The Joiner’s coming; and I make no question.

He brings you your desert, to help digestion.”

Then deeming ’twas not longer safe to stay,

To Malepartus back he took his way.

The Joiner, when he came and saw the Bear,

Off to the ale-house did with speed repair,

Where oft the villagers would sit and swill;

And a good many sat carousing still.

“Neighbors,” quoth he, “be quick! In my courtyard

A Bear is trapped; come, and come well prepar’d:

I vow, ’tis true.” Up started every man,

And pell-mell, helter-skelter off they ran;

Seizing whatever handiest they could take,

A pitchfork one, another grasps a rake,

A third a flail; and arm’d was ev’ry one

With some chance weapon, stick or stake or stone.

The priest and sacristan both joined the throng,

A mattock this, the other bore a prong.

The parson’s maid came too; (Judith her name,

And fair was she of face and fair of fame;

His rev’rence could not live without her aid;

She cooked his victuals, and she warmed his bed.)

She brought the distaff she had used all day,

With which she hoped the luckless Bear to pay.

Bruin with terror heard th’ approaching roar,

And with fresh desperation tugged and tore:

His head he thus got free from out the cleft:

But hide and hair, alack! behind he left;

While from the hideous wound the crimson blood

Adown his breast in copious currents flow’d.

Was never seen so pitiable a beast!

It help’d him naught his head to have releas’d:

His feet still being fastened in the tree,

These with one more huge effort he set free.

But than his head no better fared his paws;

For he rent off alike the skin and claws.

This was in sooth a different sort of treat

From what he had expected there to meet;

He wished to Heav’n he ne’er had ventured there:

It was a most unfortunate affair!

Bleeding upon the ground he could but sprawl,

For he could neither stand, nor walk, nor crawl.

The Joiner now came up with all his crew:

To the attack with eager souls they flew;

With thwacks and thumps belaboring the poor wight;

They hoped to slay him on the spot outright.

The priest kept poking at him with his prong,

From afar off—the handle being long.

Bruin in anguish roiled and writhed about;

Each howl of his called forth an answering shout.

On every side his furious foemen swarmed,

With spits and spades, with hoes and hatchets armed:

Weapons all wielded too by nerves of pith:

His large sledge-hammer bore the sinewy smith.

They struck, they yelled, they pelted and they halooed:

While in a pool of filth poor Bruin wallowed

To name these heroes were too long by half:

There was the long-nosed Jem, the bandy Ralph;

These were the worst; but crooked-fingered Jack,

With his flail fetched him many a grievous thwack:

His step-brother, hight Cuckelson the fat,

Stood, but aloof, with an enormous bat:

Dame Judith was not idle with her distaff:

While Gaffer Grumble stirred him up with his staff;

And men and women many more were there,

All vowing vengeance ’gainst th’ unhappy Bear.

The foremost—in the noise—was Cuckelson;

He boasted that he was Dame Gertrude’s son;

And all the world believed that this was true;

But who his father, no one ever knew.

Fame indeed said—but fame is such a liar,

That Brother Joseph, the Franciscan friar,

Might, if he chose, claim the paternity;

Or share the same with others, it might be.

Now stones and brickbats from all sides were shower’d;

And Bruin, tho’ he scorned to die a coward,

Was by opposing numbers all but overpower’d.

The Joiner’s brother then, whose name was Scrub,

Whirling around his head a massive club,

Rushed in the midst, with execrations horrid,

And dealt the Bear a blow plump on the forehead.

That blow was struck with such tremendous might,

Bruin lost both his hearing and his sight.

One desp’rate plunge he made though, and as luck

Would have it, ’mong the women ran a-muck.

Ye saints! how they did scream and shriek and squall!

Over each other how they tumbled all!

And some fell in the stream that ran hard by,

And it was deep just there, unluckily.

The pastor cried aloud—“Look, neighbors, look!

See, yonder—in the water—Jude, my cook;

With all her wool—she’s left her distaff here,

Help! save her! you shall have a cask of beer;

As well as absolution for past crimes,

And full indulgence for all future times.”

Fired with the promised boon, they left the Bear,

Who lay half dead, all stunned and stupid there;

Plunged to the women’s rescue; fished out five;

All that had fallen in, and all alive.

The miserable Bear, while thus his foes

Were busied, finding respite from their blows,

Managed to scramble to the river’s brim;

And in he rolled; but not with hopes to swim;

For life a very burden was to him:

Those shameful blows no more he could abide;

They pierced his soul more than they pained his hide.

He wished to end his days in that deep water,

Nor feared t’ incur the perils of self-slaughter.

But no! against his will he floated down;

It seemed in truth he was not born to drown.

Now when the Bear’s escape the men descried,

“O shame! insufferable shame!” they cried;

Then in a rage began to rate the women;

“See where the Bear away from us is swimming;

Had you but stayed at home, your proper place,

We should not have encountered this disgrace.”

Then to the cleft tree turning, they found there

The bleeding strips of Bruin’s hide and hair;

At this into loud laughter they broke out,

And after him thus sent a jeering shout:

“You’ll sure come back again, old devil-spawn,

As you have left your wig and gloves in pawn.”

Thus insult added they to injury,

And Bruin heard them and sore hurt was he;

He cursed them all, and his own wretched fate;

He cursed the honey that had been his bait;

He cursed the Fox who led him in the snare;

He even cursed the king who sent him there.

Such were his pray’rs as quick he swept along,

For the stream bore him onward, swift and strong;

So, without effort, in a little while,

He floated down the river near a mile.

Then with a heavy heart he crawled on shore,

For he was wet and weary, sick and sore.

The sun throughout his course would never see

A beast in such a shocking plight as he.

Hard and with pain he fetched his lab’ring breath,

And ev’ry moment looked and wished for death.

His head swam round with a strange sort of dizziness,

As he thought o’er the whole perplexing business.

“O Reynard!” he gasped out, “thou traitor vile!

O scoundrel, thief!” and more in the same style.

He thought upon the tree; the jibes and knocks

He had endured; and once more cursed the Fox.

Reynard well pleased t’ have cozened Uncle Bruin,

And lured him, as he thought, to his sure ruin,

Had started off upon a chicken-chase;

He knew, close by, a tried and fav’rite place.

A fine fat Pullet soon became his prey,

Which in his felon clutch he bore away:

This he devoured, bones and all, right speedily;

And, if the truth be spoken, somewhat greedily.

Prepared for any chance that might betide.

He slowly sauntered by the river-side;

Stopping from time to time to take a draught;

And thought aloud, while in his sleeve he laugh’d:

“How pleased I am t’ have tricked that stupid Bear!

Honey he longed for, and has had his share;

I’m not to blame; I warned him of the wax:

By this he knows how tastes a Joiner’s axe.

I’m glad to have shown him this good turn, as he

Has ever been so good and kind to me.

Poor uncle! well; by chance should he be dead,

I’ll for his soul have scores of masses said.

It is the least methinks that I can do.”

While musing thus he chanced to look below;

And saw Sir Bruin on the other shore

Writhing and welt’ring in a pool of gore.

Reynard could scarce, so great was his surprise,

Believe the evidence of his own eyes.

“Bruin alive! and in this place!” quoth he,

“Why, Joiner, what a booby you must be!

A Bear’s hams make the most delicious food!

You could not surely know they were so good.

A dish, by which a duke would set vast store,

To be so slighted by a stupid boor!

My friend has left though, I am glad to see,

A pledge for your kind hospitality.”

Thus spake the Fox, as he beheld the Bear,

Lying all weary-worn and bleeding there.

Then he called out—“Why, uncle, is that you?

What upon earth can you have here to do?

You’ve something at the Joiner’s left, I fear,

Shall I run back and let him know you’re here?

Prithee, is stolen honey very sweet?

Or did you honestly pay for your treat?

How red your face is! you have ate too quick;

I trust you have not gorged till you are sick.

Really you should have been more moderate;

I could have got you lots at the same rate.

Nay, I declare—I trust there is no harm in’t—

You seem t’ have on some sort of priestly garment;

With scarlet gloves, and collar too, and hat;

Rather a dangerous prank to play is that.

Yet, now I look more close, your ears are gone, sure;

Have you of late submitted to the tonsure,

And did the stupid barber cut them off?”

Thus did the cruel-hearted Reynard scoff;

While Bruin, all unable to reply,

Could only moan with grief and agony.

No longer could he these sharp jibes sustain,

So crept into the water back again:

He floated downward with the stream once more,

And again landed on the shelving shore,

There in a miserable state he lay,

And piteously unto himself did say:

“That some one would but slay me here outright!

Ne’er shall I reach the court in this sad plight;

But on this spot in shame and grief shall die,

A mortal proof of Reynard’s treachery.

Oh! I will have a dire revenge, I swear,

If it please Providence my life to spare.”

With firm resolve his pain to overcome,

At length he started on his journey home;

And after four long toilsome days were past,

Crippled and maimed, he reached the court at last.

When the king saw the Bear so sorely maimed,

“Great Heaven! Is this Sir Bruin?” he exclaimed;

“My trusty messenger in such a state!”

“Ah, sire!” said Bruin, “and is this the fate

That should a king’s ambassador befall?

But spare my breath—the Fox has done it all.”

Then spake the king in wrath: “Now by the mass,

This outrage vile shall not unpunished pass.

What! shall the noblest baron of our court

Afford this traitor means of savage sport?

No; by my sceptre and my crown I swear,

If crown or sceptre I am fit to bear,

Or of stern justice longer wield the sword,

Right shall be done! Pledged is my royal word.”

Summoned in haste the council promptly sate,

On this fresh outrage to deliberate.

Subject to the king’s will, they all agree

That Reynard once again must summoned be;

At court he should appear; and, if he might,

Answer th’ impeachment and defend his right:

Tybalt, the Cat, should now the summons carry,

As he was well known to be wise and wary.

So counsell’d one and all: the king concurr’d;

And thus to Tybalt spoke his sov’reign lord:

“Now mark your mission and the sequence well;

If a third summons Reynard should compel,

He and his whole race, I have sworn an oath

Shall feel the deadly power of my wrath.

So let him come in time, if he be wise;

Nor this last warning recklessly despise.”

Tybalt replied: “My liege, I fear that I

Shall scarcely prosper in this embassy;

Not that indeed I ought to say, ‘I fear;’

To do your will all danger would I dare:

I merely hint, that for this task, of all

I am least fit, being so very small.

If the stout, stalwart Bear was so abused,

What can poor I do? Hold me, pray, excused.”

“Nay,” said the king, “wisdom and wit, ‘tis known,

Are not the attributes of strength alone.

How often do we see a little man

Succeed more neatly than a great one can.

Though not a giant, you are learned and wise,

And wisdom compensates for want of size.”

The Cat was flattered and he bowed his head;

“Your will be done, my sov’reign liege,” he said;

“If on my right I only see a sign,

A prosp’rous journey will, I know, be mine.”

CHAPTER III.

THE SECOND SUMMONS.

NOT far did Tybalt on his journey get,

Before a Magpie on the wing he met:

“Hail, noble bird!” quoth he; “vouchsafe to ’light,

As a propitious omen, on my right.”

The Magpie screeched; his onward way he cleft;

Then stooped his wing and perched on Tybalt’s left.

The Cat much serious ill from this forebode,

But on it put the best face that he could.

To Malepartus he proceeded straight,

And found Sir Reynard sitting at his gate.

“Good even, gentle cousin,” Tybalt said,

“May bounteous Heav’n show’r blessings on your head.

I bring sad news; the king has sent to say,

If you come not to court without delay,

Not only your own life will forfeit be,

His wrath will fall on your whole family.”

“Welcome, dear nephew,” quoth the Fox; “not less

I wish you ev’ry kind of happiness.”

Though thus he spoke, it went against his will;

For in his heart he wished him ev’ry ill;

And thought ’twould be the very best of sport

To send him also back disgraced to court.

“Nephew,” said he; for he still called him nephew;

“Step in and see what supper we can give you;

You must be tired; and all physicians tell ye,

You can’t sleep soundly on an empty belly.

I am your host for once; you stay to-night;

And we’ll to court start with to-morrow’s light.

For you of all my kindred love I best,

To you confide myself the readiest.

That brutal Bear was here the other day,

Bouncing and swaggering in such a way,

That not for all the world contains would I

Myself have trusted in his company.

But having you my comrade, travelling

Will be a very diff’rent sort of thing.

So you will share our potluck, then to bed,

And off we start by sunrise: that’s agreed.”

“Nay,” replied Tybalt, “why not go to-night?

The roads are dry; the moon is shining bright.”

May be, the omen on his mem’ry struck;

May be, he had no fancy for potluck.

“I am not fond of trav’lling after night-fall,”

Replies the Fox; “some people are so spiteful;

Who, though by day they civilly would greet you,

Would cut your throat, if they by night should meet you.”

“Well, but,” says Tybalt, in a careless way,

“What have you got for supper if I stay?”

Says Reynard, “Well, I candidly avow,

Our larder is but poorly stocked just now;

But we’ve some honey - comb, if you like that.”

“Like such infernal rubbish!” quoth the Cat,

And spat, and swore a loud and lusty oath,

As he was wont to do when he was wroth;

“If you indeed had got a Mouse or so,

I should much relish them; but honey—pooh!”

“What!” answers Reynard, “are you fond of Mice?

I think I can procure some in a trice,

If you’re in earnest; for the priest, my neighbor,

Vows that to keep them down is quite a labor;

In his tithe barn so num’rously they swarm;

They do him, he declares, no end of harm.”

Thoughtlessly said the Cat, “Do me the favor

To take me where these Mice are; for in flavor

All other game they beat out of the field;

Beside the sport which they in hunting yield.”

“Well.” says the Fox, “now that I know your taste,

I’ll promise you shall have a sumptuous feast.

We’ll start at once and not a moment waste.”

Tybalt had faith and followed; quickly they

Reached the priest’s tithe barn, built with walls of clay.

Only the day before, Reynard a hole

Had through it scratched, and a fat Pullet stole.

Martin, the priest’s young son—or nephew rather,

For he was ne’er allowed to call him father,—

Had found the theft out, and, if possible,

Determined to find out the thief as well;

So, craftily, a running noose he tied,

And fixed it firmly by the hole inside;

Thus hoped he to avenge the stolen Pullet,

Should the thief chance return, upon his gullet.

Reynard, suspecting something of the sort.

Said, “Nephew dear, I wish you lots of sport;

In at this op’ning you can safely glide;

And while you’re mousing, I’ll keep watch outside.

You’ll catch them by the dozen, now ’tis dark:

How merrily they chirrup; only hark!

I shall be waiting here till you come back;

So come as soon as you have had your whack.

To-night, whatever happens, we’ll not part,

As we so early in the morning start.”

Tybalt replies, as any prudent beast would,

“I’ve no great faith, I own it, in the priesthood:

Is’t quite safe, think ye?” Reynard answers, “Well;

Perhaps not: ’tis impossible to tell;

We’d best return at once, as you’re so nervous;

My wife, I’ll answer for it, will not starve us;

She’ll toss up for supper something nice,

If not quite so much to your taste as Mice.”

Stung to the quick by Reynard’s taunting tongue,

Into the op’ning Tybalt boldly sprung,

And plunged directly in the ready snare:

Such entertainment and such dainty fare

Did the sly Fox for all his guests prepare.

When the Cat felt the string about his neck,

He gave a sideward spring and got a check;

This made him throw a wondrous somersaut,

And, the noose tight’ning, he was fairly caught.

To Reynard then he loudly called for aid,

Who list’ning at the hole in mock’ry said:

“Nephew, how are the Mice? I hope they’re fat;

They are well fed enough, I’m sure of that:

If the priest knew his vermin were your venison.

I’m sure he’d bring some mustard, with his benison;

Or send his son with it,—that best of boys.

But nephew, prithee, why make such a noise?

Is it at court the fashion so to sing

At meals? It seems an inconvenient thing.

Oh! but I wish the gentle Isegrim

Were in your place; how I would badger him!

I stake my tail on’t I would make him pay

For all the ill he’s wrought me many a day.”

Then off he starts t’ indulge some other vice;

No matter what; he was not over nice:

There never lived a soul, at any time,

More foully tainted with all kinds of crime;

Murder and theft, adultery and perjury;

’Twas past the skill of spiritual surgery:

He’d broke the Ten Commandments o’er and o’er,

And would as readily have broke a score.

He fancied now some fresh sport might be found

In a short visit to Dame Gieremund;

This he proposed with a two-fold intent;

To learn the grounds of Isegrim’s complaint;

And likewise to renew an ancient sin,

Which he especially delighted in.

Is’grim, he knew, was absent at the court;

And it was common subject of report,

The she Wolf’s passion for the shameless Fox

Had made her husband’s hatred orthodox.

When Reynard to the Wolf’s retreat had come,

He found Dame Gieremund was not at home:

“God bless you, my stepchildren dear:” quoth he;

And to the young ones nods good-humor’dly:

The object of his call he never mentions;

But hastes away after his own inventions.

Dame Gieremund returns at break of day;

“Has no one called here, while I’ve been away?”

Asks she; her children answer, “Yes, mamma;

We’ve had a visit from our godpapa,

Reynard; he called us his stepchildren though;

What did he mean by that?” “I’ll let him know,”

Quoth she, and angrily she hurried off,

Determined to avenge this cutting scoff.

She knew where it was likely she should meet him;

And when she found him thus began to greet him:

“Wretch, monster, brute!” her rage was quite bewild’ring;

“How dare you use such language to my children?

You, of all men, t’ attack my character!

But you shall dearly pay for it, I swear.”

With that she flew at him, and—oh, disgrace!

She pulled him by the beard and scratched his face.

Then first he felt the power of her teeth,

As, grappled by the throat, he gasped for breath:

He ’scaped her clutches though, and fled amain;

She after him; and mark what happened then.

It chanced a ruined abbey stood in sight,

And thitherward in haste both bent their flight:

A fissure was there in the crumbling wall,

Narrow it was and low and all ways small;

Through this the subtle Fox contrived to pass,

Though hardly, thin and lanky as he was;

My lady, who was anything but slim,

Rammed in her head and tried to follow him;

But fast she stuck—it seemed fate helped the blackguard,—

And she could neither forward get nor backward.

Soon as the Fox saw how she was confin’d,

Quick he whipped round and fell on her behind:

And not without full many a bitter scoff,

For all she’d done he amply paid her off.

Wearied with vengeance, if not satiated,

The mischief-loving rogue at length retreated.

And when Dame Gieremund at length got free,

No where in all the neighborhood was he.

Homeward, with tottering steps, she then returned;

While with revenge and shame her panting bosom burned.

Return we now to Tybalt; when he found

How in that slipknot durance he was bound,

That strength and struggling nothing might avail,

After the mode of Cats, he ’gan to wail.

This Martin heard, and swift sprang out of bed:

“The Lord be praised!” the impish urchin said,

“The thief is caught that stole our Hen away;

And, please the pigs, he shall the piper pay;

And that right dearly too, if but the noose hold:”

Then struck a light and woke up all the household;

Shouting, “The Fox is caught!” Up rose they all,

And came down helter-skelter, great and small;

Women and men, in shirts, and in chemises,

But ill protected ’gainst the cool night-breezes.

Roused from his sleep, e’en the good father came;

But threw a mantle round his decent frame;

His cook with lighted flambeau ran before;

The little Martin a stout cudgel bore;

With this, soon as the wretched Cat he spies out,

He strikes a blow and knocks one of his eyes out.

All fell upon him; with a three-pronged fork,

The priest approached and deemed to end the work.

Then Tybalt thought it was his hour to die;

One plunge he made with desp’rate energy,

Darting between the rev’rend pastor’s thighs,

He scratched and bit with wild demoniac cries.

And fearfully avenged his injured eyes.

The parson shrieked and fell into a swoon;

The cook beside him knelt in anguish down;

Pitying the suff’rings of the good old priest,

She said, “The devil damn the vicious beast!”

And wildly did she prattle in her ravings;

She would have lost far sooner all her savings,

Than this mishap had chanced; she even swore,

That if she had possessed of gold a store,

In alms she would have freely giv’n it, rather

Than such hurt had been done the worthy father.

Thus did she wail, and many tears she shed:

At length they bore him bleeding to his bed.

In grief some passed the night, and some in chat,

Trying to put together this and that;

And quite forgetting all about the Cat.

But Tybalt, when he found himself alone,

Maimed tho’ he was, with half his senses gone,

Felt the strong love of life tenacious yet,

And from that stubborn noose resolved to get.

He seized it in his teeth and gnawed amain,

And with success, for the cord brake in twain;

And he was loose. How happy then was he,

If such a woeful wretch could happy be.

Out at the hole he crept, where he sprang in,

And fled the spot, where he’d so outraged been.

He hastened on his road, in shame and sorrow,

Towards the court, and reached it on the morrow.

And bitterly did he himself upbraid:

“Me! to be so completely gulled!” he said;

“How shall I ever show my face for shame,

All battered as I am, half blind, and lame?

The very Sparrows in the hedge will cry out,

‘There you go, Master Tybalt, with your eye out!’ ”

Who shall describe the wrath King Noble felt,

When at his feet the injured Tybalt knelt?

He swore the traitor vile should die the death:

His council in all haste he summoneth:

The lords spiritual and temporal

Assembled in obedience to his call:

And the king said—he wished it to be known

He would maintain the honor of his crown;

That is, so it were done consistently

With the true principles of liberty:

But something must at once be done to stem

Rebellion; and he left it all to them.—

Judgment, ’twas moved, against the Fox should pass, he

Being doomed at once to death for contumacy.

The Badger, seeing what a storm was brewing,

How all conspired to work his kinsman’s ruin,

Thus spake: “My liege, it boots not to deny

These charges press on Reynard grievously;

But justice follows one eternal plan:

Remember, sire, the Fox is a free man;

The law in such a case is most precise,

Requiring that he should be summoned thrice:

If then he fail, there is naught more to say;

But law and justice both must have their way.”

“Ha!” said the monarch sternly, “say you so?

Where shall be found the messenger to go?

Who hath an eye too many? who will stake

His life and limbs for this bad traitor’s sake?

’Gainst Reynard’s cunning who will wage his wit?

I doubt if any one will venture it.”

The Badger answered, “I will venture, sire;

And undertake the task, if you desire;

Happen what may. Whether ’tis better, I

A summons bear straight from your majesty;

Or of my own accord appear to go:

Whichever you think best, that will I do.”

“Go then! so let it be;” the monarch said;

“You know what crimes to Reynard’s charge are laid;

You know too all his malice; so beware,

Your predecessors’ fate lest you may share.”

Graybeard replied, “I trust I may prevail;

But shall have done my duty, if I fail.”

Away to Malepartus doth he hie;

Finds Reynard with his wife and family;

And greets him: “Save you, uncle; I can’t tell

How charmed I am to see you look so well.

E’en let your enemies say what they can,

You’re a most extraordinary man:

Prudent and wise and wary as you are,

Yet the king’s wrath so scornfully to dare.

You’d best be warned in time; on ev’ry side

Are ill reports against you multiplied.

Take my advice; with me to court away,

’Twill help you nothing longer to delay.

You’re charged with almost ev’ry sort of crime;

You’re summoned now to-day for the third time,

And surely sentenced if you fail t’ appear:

The king will straightway lead his barons here;

And what can you expect will then befall?

You will be ta’en and hanged: nor is that all:

Your fortress razed, your children and your wife

Cruelly butchered, or enslaved for life.

From the king’s wrath you cannot hope to flee;

Better then, surely, to return with me.

You need not dread to stand before your judges;

You’re never at a loss for cunning dodges:

With your consummate skill and artifice,

You’ve got thro’ many a scrape, and will thro’ this.”

Thus Graybeard spake, and Reynard thus replied:

“Your counsel, nephew, shall my conduct guide:

I were to blame, should I your warning slight;

I will to court; and Heav’n defend the right;

The king besides, I trust, some grace may show;

The use I’ve been to him he well doth know;

That for no other cause than this I’m hated,

And, save your presence, like a Badger baited.

The court would go to pieces but for me;

I don’t pretend that from all blame I’m free;

But were I ten times deeper in disgrace,

Could I but see my sov’reign face to face,

And come to speech with him, I would engage

To soothe the transports of his royal rage.

Many ’tis true may at his council sit;

But many heads have oft but scanty wit:

When they get fixed in one of their dead locks,

To whom send they for aid, but to the Fox?

No matter how involved the case may be,

They find it smooth and easy, thanks to me.

For this I meet with envy; even those

I most befriend turn out my bitt’rest foes;

But moralists agree ’tis not more hateful,

Than it is natural, to be ungrateful.

’Tis this I have to fear; for well I know

My death they have intended long ago.

Ten of the mightiest barons in the land

My utter downfall seek—a pow’rful band:

Can I alone such odds as these withstand?

’Twas only this kept me from court, I vow;

But I agree ’twere best to go there now.

By far more honorable that will be,

Than bring my dearest wife and family,

By tarrying here, into disgrace and trouble;

For that would only make the mischief double.

And of the king I stand in wholesome awe,

His arm is mighty and his will is law.

Mine enemies perchance by courtesy

I may subdue; at least I can but try.”

Then to his wife, who stood with weeping eyne,

He turned and said—“My gentle Ermelyne,

Be mindful of our children; yet I know

You need no hint from me to make you so.

Our youngest, Graykin, will most care require;

He’ll be the living image of his sire,

If these convulsions do not stop his breathing,

And by Heaven’s blessing he survive his teething.

And here’s this cunning little rascal, Russel,

He thro’ the world will manage well to bustle;

His pluck may get him into many a scrape,

His craft will ever teach him how to ’scape:

I love him well, and have no fear for him;

He’ll be a match, I ween, for Isegrim

And all his brood. And now, farewell, dear Chuck;

When I return, as, have I any luck,

I soon shall do, I’ll prove me sensible

Of all your kindness: so once more, farewell.”

Then from his home with Graybeard he departed;

And sad he felt in spirit and down-hearted;

And sad too, grieving for her mate and sick son,

Was the leal soul of Ermelyne, the Vixen.

Reynard nor Graybeard neither silence brake

For near an hour; then thus the former spake:

“Ah, nephew, heavy is my soul to-night;

For, truth to speak, I’m in a mortal fright;

My frame with strange forebodings shuddereth;

I feel assured I go to certain death;

My conscience sinks ’neath mine enormities;

You little think how ill I am at ease.

Will you, dear nephew, my confession hear?

There is, alas! no rev’rend pastor near:

Could I but of this load my bosom free,

I then should face the king more cheerfully.”

“Confession certes benefits the soul,”

Quoth Graybeard; “but you must confess the whole;

All treasons, felonies and misdemeanors,

However great—and great, no doubt, have been yours.”

“Yea,” answered Reynard, “I will naught conceal;

List then, oh, list, while I my crimes reveal.

Confiteor tibi, Pater—” “Nay, no Latin!”

Quoth Graybeard: “’tis a tongue I’m nowise pat in.

It would not much avail you to be shriven,

If I knew not the sins I had forgiven.”

“So be it then;” the Fox rejoined; “I ween

A very wicked sinner I have been;

And I must do what penance you enjoin

To save this miserable soul of mine.

The Otter, and the Dog, and many more,

With many a trick have I tormented sore:

Indeed of living beasts there scarce is one

To whom I’ve not some turn of mischief done.

Mine Uncle Bruin I beguiled of late;

With honey he prepared his maw to sate;

I sent him back with bloody paws and pate:

And Cousin Tibby, he came here to mouse;

I cozened him into a running noose,

And there, I’m told, an eye he chanced to lose.

But I must say the fault was somewhat theirs;

They should have minded more the king’s affairs.

With justice too complains Sir Chanticleer;

I ate his chicks—and very good they were.

Nay, with unfeigned repentance I must own

I have not spared the king upon the throne;

And, Heaven forgive me for it! even the queen

Has not been safe from my malicious spleen.

But most I’ve outraged Isegrim, the Wolf;

’Twixt him and me yawns an abysmal gulf.

Him I’ve disgraced in ev’ry way I could;

And if I might have done so more, I would.

I’ve even called him uncle, as a jibe;

For I’m no kin to any of his tribe.

“He came to me about six years ago;

I lived then in the cloister, down below;

He sought my help a monk to get him made;

His fancy was to toll the bells, he said;

He loved the sound so much: so with a loop,

I fastened his fore-feet into the rope:

He was delighted, and began to toll—

’Twas the great bell—with all his heart and soul;

But not much credit did his efforts win;

For he kicked up such an infernal din,

Out rushed the people when the noise they heard,

Thinking some dread mishap must have occurr’d.

They came and found my friend the Wolf; and ere

His purpose to turn monk he could declare,

They fell to work, and so belabored him,

’Twas all but up with Master Isegrim.

“The fool was still unsatisfied; still craved

To be a monk and have his noddle shaved;

With a hot iron then I singed his poll,

Till the swart skin all shrivelled on his skull.

Ah! many are the blows and thumps and kicks

That he has been regaled with through my tricks.

I taught him the best manner to catch fish;

And he caught just as many as I’d wish.

“Once, when in partnership we chanced t’ engage,

We groped our way into a parsonage;

Well stored the larder was of the good priest.

For he was rich and amply benefic’d.

Bacon there was and hams more than enough,

And lots of pork lay salting in a trough.

Is’grim contrived to scratch the stone wall through,

And crept in at the hole with much ado,