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.

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!