Part 2

FREDERICK. But tell me my father’s name, that I may know how to shun him.

AGATHA. Baron Wildenhaim.

FREDERICK. Baron Wildenhaim! I shall never forget it.—Oh! you are near fainting. Your eyes are cast down. What’s the matter? Speak, mother!

AGATHA. Nothing particular.—Only fatigued with talking. I wish to take a little rest.

FREDERICK. I did not consider that we have been all this time in the open road. [_Goes to the Inn, and knocks at the door._] Here, Landlord!

LANDLORD _re-enters._

LANDLORD. Well, what is the matter now?

FREDERICK. Make haste, and get a bed ready for this good woman.

LANDLORD. [_with a sneer_]. A bed for this good woman! ha, ha ha! She slept last night in that pent-house; so she may to-night. [_Exit, shutting the door._

FREDERICK. You are an infamous—[_goes back to his mother_] Oh! my poor mother—[_runs to the Cottage at a little distance, and knocks_]. Ha! halloo! Who is there?

_Enter_ COTTAGER.

COTTAGER. Good day, young soldier.—What is it you want?

FREDERICK. Good friend, look at that poor woman. She is perishing in the public road! It is my mother.—Will you give her a small corner in your hut? I beg for mercy’s sake—Heaven will reward you.

COTTAGER. Can’t you speak quietly? I understand you very well. [_Calls at the door of the hut._] Wife, shake up our bed—here’s a poor sick woman wants it. [_Enter_ WIFE]. Why could not you say all this in fewer words? Why such a long preamble? Why for mercy’s sake, and heaven’s reward? Why talk about reward for such trifles as these? Come, let us lead her in; and welcome she shall be to a bed, as good as I can give her; and our homely fare.

FREDERICK. Ten thousand thanks, and blessings on you!

WIFE. Thanks and blessings! here’s a piece of work indeed about nothing! Good sick lady, lean on my shoulder. [_To_ Frederick] Thanks and reward indeed! Do you think husband and I have lived to these years, and don’t know our duty? Lean on my shoulder. [_Exeunt into the Cottage._

## ACT II.

## SCENE I.

_A room in the Cottage._

AGATHA, COTTAGER, _his_ WIFE, _and_ FREDERICK _discovered_—AGATHA _reclined upon a wooden bench,_ FREDERICK _leaning over her._

FREDERICK. Good people have you nothing to give her? Nothing that’s nourishing.

WIFE. Run, husband, run, and fetch a bottle of wine from the landlord of the inn.

FREDERICK. No, no—his wine is as bad as his heart: she has drank some of it, which I am afraid has turned to poison.

COTTAGER. Suppose, wife, you look for a new-laid egg?

WIFE. Or a drop of brandy, husband—that mostly cures me.

FREDERICK. Do you hear, mother—will you, mother? [Agatha _makes a sign with her hand as if she could not take any thing._] She will not. Is there no doctor in this neighbourhood?

WIFE. At the end of the village there lives a horse-doctor. I have never heard of any other.

FREDERICK. What shall I do? She is dying. My mother is dying.—Pray for her, good people!

AGATHA. Make yourself easy, dear Frederick, I am well, only weak—Some wholesome nourishment—

FREDERICK. Yes, mother, directly—directly. [_Aside_] Oh where shall I—no money—not a farthing left.

WIFE. Oh, dear me! Had you not paid the rent yesterday, husband—

COTTAGER. I then, should know what to do. But as I hope for mercy, I have not a penny in my house.

FREDERICK. Then I must—[_Apart, coming forward_]—Yes, I will go, and beg.—But should I be refused—I will then—I leave my mother in your care, good people—Do all you can for her, I beseech you! I shall soon be with you again. [_Goes off in haste and confusion._]

COTTAGER. If he should go to our parson, I am sure he would give him something.

[Agatha _having revived by degrees during the scene, rises._]

AGATHA. Is that good old man still living, who was minister here some time ago?

WIFE. No—It pleased Providence to take that worthy man to heaven two years ago.—We have lost in him both a friend and a father. We shall never get such another.

COTTAGER. Wife, wife, our present rector is likewise a very good man.

WIFE. Yes! But he is so very young.

COTTAGER. Our late parson was once young too.

WIFE. [_to_ Agatha.] This young man being tutor in our Baron’s family, he was very much beloved by them all; and so the Baron gave him this living in consequence.

COTTAGER. And well he deserved it, for his pious instructions to our young lady: who is, in consequence, good, and friendly to every body.

AGATHA. What young lady do you mean?

COTTAGER. Our Baron’s daughter.

AGATHA. Is she here?

WIFE. Dear me! Don’t you know that? I thought every body had known that. It is almost five weeks since the Baron and all his family arrived at the castle.

AGATHA. Baron Wildenhaim?

WIFE. Yes, Baron Wildenhaim.

AGATHA. And his lady?

COTTAGER. His lady died in France many miles from hence, and her death, I suppose, was the cause of his coming to this estate—For the Baron has not been here till within these five weeks ever since he was married. We regretted his absence much, and his arrival has caused great joy.

WIFE. [_addressing her discourse to_ Agatha.] By all accounts the Baroness was very haughty; and very whimsical.

COTTAGER. Wife, wife, never speak ill of the dead. Say what you please against the living, but not a word against the dead.

WIFE. And yet, husband, I believe the dead care the least what is said against them—And so, if you please, I’ll tell my story. The late Baroness was, they say, haughty and proud; and they do say, the Baron was not so happy as he might have been; but he, bless him, our good Baron is still the same as when a boy. Soon after Madam had closed her eyes, he left France, and came to Waldenhaim, his native country.

COTTAGER. Many times has he joined in our village dances. Afterwards, when he became an officer, he was rather wild, as most young men are.

WIFE. Yes, I remember when he fell in love with poor Agatha, Friburg’s daughter: what a piece of work that was—It did not do him much credit. That was a wicked thing.

COTTAGER. Have done—no more of this—It is not well to stir up old grievances.

WIFE. Why, you said I might speak ill of the living. ’Tis very hard indeed, if one must not speak ill of one’s neighbours, dead, nor alive.

COTTAGER. Who knows whether he was the father of Agatha’s child? She never said he was.

WIFE. Nobody but him—that I am sure—I would lay a wager—no, no husband—you must not take his part—it was very wicked! Who knows what is now become of that poor creature? She has not been heard of this many a year. May be she is starving for hunger. Her father might have lived longer too, if that misfortune had not happened.

[Agatha _faints._]

COTTAGER. See here! Help! She is fainting—take hold!

WIFE. Oh, poor woman!

COTTAGER. Let us take her into the next room.

WIFE. Oh poor woman!—I am afraid she will not live. Come, chear up, chear up.—You are with those who feel for you. [_They lead her off._]

## SCENE II.

_An apartment in the Castle._

_A table spread for breakfast—Several servants in livery disposing the equipage_—BARON WILDENHAIM _enters, attended by a_ GENTLEMAN _in waiting._

BARON. Has not Count Cassel left his chamber yet?

GENTLEMAN. No, my lord, he has but now rung for his valet.

BARON. The whole castle smells of his perfumery. Go, call my daughter hither. [_Exit_ Gentleman.] And am I after all to have an ape for a son-in-law? No, I shall not be in a hurry—I love my daughter too well. We must be better acquainted before I give her to him. I shall not sacrifice my Amelia to the will of others, as I myself was sacrificed. The poor girl might, in thoughtlessness, say yes, and afterwards be miserable. What a pity she is not a boy! The name of Wildenhaim will die with me. My fine estates, my good peasants, all will fall into the hands of strangers. Oh! why was not my Amelia a boy?

_Enter_ AMELIA—[_She kisses the_ Baron’s _hand_.]

AMELIA. Good morning, dear my lord.

BARON. Good morning, Amelia. Have you slept well?

AMELIA. Oh! yes, papa. I always sleep well.

BARON. Not a little restless last night?

AMELIA. No.

BARON. Amelia, you know you have a father who loves you, and I believe you know you have a suitor who is come to ask permission to love you. Tell me candidly how you like Count Cassel?

AMELIA. Very well.

BARON. Do not you blush when I talk of him?

AMELIA. No.

BARON. No—I am sorry for that. [_aside_] Have you dreamt of him?

AMELIA. No.

BARON. Have you not dreamt at all to-night?

AMELIA. Oh yes—I have dreamt of our chaplain, Mr. Anhalt.

BARON. Ah ha! As if he stood before you and the Count to ask for the ring.

AMELIA. No: not that—I dreamt we were all still in France, and he, my tutor, just going to take his leave of us for ever—I ’woke with the fright, and found my eyes full of tears.

BARON. Psha! I want to know if you can love the Count. You saw him at the last ball we were at in France: when he capered round you; when he danced minuets; when he——. But I cannot say what his conversation was.

AMELIA. Nor I either—I do not remember a syllable of it.

BARON. No? Then I do not think you like him.

AMELIA. I believe not.

BARON. But I think it proper to acquaint you he is rich, and of great consequence: rich and of consequence; do you hear?

AMELIA. Yes, dear papa. But my tutor has always told me that birth and fortune are inconsiderable things, and cannot give happiness.

BARON. There he is right—But if it happens that birth and fortune are joined with sense and virtue——

AMELIA. But is it so with Count Cassel?

BARON. Hem! Hem! [_Aside._] I will ask you a few questions on this subject; but be sure to answer me honestly—Speak truth.

AMELIA. I never told an untruth in my life.

BARON. Nor ever _conceal_ the truth from me, I command you.

AMELIA. [_Earnestly._] Indeed, my lord, I never will.

BARON. I take you at your word—And now reply to me truly—Do you like to hear the Count spoken of?

AMELIA. Good, or bad?

BARON. Good. Good.

AMELIA. Oh yes; I like to hear good of every body.

BARON. But do not you feel a little fluttered when he is talked of?

AMELIA. No. [_shaking her head._]

BARON. Are not you a little embarrassed?

AMELIA. No.

BARON. Don’t you wish sometimes to speak to him, and have not the courage to begin?

AMELIA. No.

BARON. Do not you wish to take his part when his companions laugh at him?

AMELIA. No—I love to laugh at him myself.

BARON. Provoking! [_Aside._] Are not you afraid of him when he comes near you?

AMELIA. No, not at all.—Oh yes—once. [_recollecting herself._]

BARON. Ah! Now it comes!

AMELIA. Once at a ball he trod on my foot; and I was so afraid he should tread on me again.

BARON. You put me out of patience. Hear, Amelia! [_stops short, and speaks softer._] To see you happy is my wish. But matrimony, without concord, is like a duetto badly performed; for that reason, nature, the great composer of all harmony, has ordained, that, when bodies are allied, hearts should be in perfect unison. However, I will send Mr. Anhalt to you——

AMELIA. [_much pleased_]. Do, papa.

BARON. ——He shall explain to you my sentiments. [_Rings._] A clergyman can do this better than——[_Enter servant._] Go directly to Mr. Anhalt, tell him that I shall be glad to see him for a quarter of an hour if he is not engaged. [_Exit servant._

AMELIA. [_calls after him_]. Wish him a good morning from me.

BARON. [_looking at his watch_]. The Count is a tedious time dressing.—Have you breakfasted, Amelia?

AMELIA. No, papa. [_they sit down to breakfast._]

BARON. How is the weather? Have you walked this morning?

AMELIA. Oh, yes—I was in the garden at five o’clock; it is very fine.

BARON. Then I’ll go out shooting. I do not know in what other way to amuse my guest.

_Enter Count_ CASSEL.

COUNT. Ah, my dear Colonel! Miss Wildenhaim, I kiss your hand.

BARON. Good morning! Good morning! though it is late in the day, Count. In the country we should rise earlier.

[Amelia _offers the_ Count _a Cup of tea_.]

COUNT. Is it Hebe herself, or Venus, or——

AMELIA. Ha, ha, ha! Who can help laughing at his nonsense?

BARON. [_rather angry_]. Neither Venus, not Hebe; but Amelia Wildenhaim, if you please.

COUNT. [_Sitting down to breakfast_]. You are beautiful, Miss Wildenhaim.—Upon my honour, I think so. I have travelled, and seen much of the world, and yet I can positively admire you.

AMELIA. I am sorry I have not seen the world.

COUNT. Wherefore?

AMELIA. Because I might then, perhaps, admire you.

COUNT. True;—for I am an epitome of the world. In my travels I learnt delicacy in Italy—hauteur, in Spain—in France, enterprize—in Russia, prudence—in England, sincerity—in Scotland, frugality—and in the wilds of America, I learnt love.

AMELIA. Is there any country where love is taught?

COUNT. In all barbarous countries. But the whole system is exploded in places that are civilized.

AMELIA. And what is substituted in its stead?

COUNT. Intrigue.

AMELIA. What a poor, uncomfortable substitute!

COUNT. There are other things—Song, dance, the opera, and war.

[_Since the entrance of the_ Count _the_ Baron _has removed to a table at a little distance._

BARON. What are you talking of there?

COUNT. Of war, Colonel.

BARON. [_rising_]. Ay, we like to talk on what we don’t understand.

COUNT. [_rising_]. Therefore, to a lady, I always speak of politics; and to her father, on love.

BARON. I believe, Count, notwithstanding your sneer, I am still as much a proficient in that art as yourself.

COUNT. I do not doubt it, my dear Colonel, for you are a soldier: and since the days of Alexander, whoever conquers men is certain to overcome women.

BARON. An achievement to animate a poltroon.

COUNT. And, I verily believe, gains more recruits than the king’s pay.

BARON. Now we are on the subject of arms, should you like to go out a shooting with me for an hour before dinner?

COUNT. Bravo, Colonel! A charming thought! This will give me an opportunity to use my elegant gun: the but is inlaid with mother-of-pearl. You cannot find better work, or better taste.—Even my coat of arms is engraved.

BARON. But can you shoot?

COUNT. That I have never tried—except, with my eyes, at a fine woman.

BARON. I am not particular what game I pursue.—I have an old gun; it does not look fine; But I can always bring down my bird.

_Enter_ SERVANT.

SERVANT. Mr. Anhalt begs leave——

BARON. Tell him to come in.—I shall be ready in a moment. [_Exit_ Servant.

COUNT. Who is Mr. Anhalt?

AMELIA. Oh, a very good man. [_With warmth._]

COUNT. “A good man.” In Italy, that means a religious man; in France, it means a cheerful man; in Spain, it means a wise man; and in England, it means a rich man.—Which good of all these is Mr. Anhalt?

AMELIA. A good man in every country, except England.

COUNT. And give me the English good man, before that of any other nation.

BARON. And of what nation would you prefer your good woman to be, Count?

COUNT. Of Germany. [_bowing to_ Amelia.]

AMELIA. In compliment to me?

COUNT. In justice to my own judgment.

BARON. Certainly. For have we not an instance of one German woman, who possesses every virtue that ornaments the whole sex; whether as a woman of illustrious rank, or in the more exalted character of a wife, and mother?

_Enter Mr._ ANHALT.

MR. ANHALT. I come by your command, Baron——

BARON. Quick, Count.—Get your elegant gun.—I pass your apartments, and will soon call for you.

COUNT. I fly.—Beautiful Amelia, it is a sacrifice I make to your father, that I leave for a few hours his amiable daughter. [_Exit._

BARON. My dear Amelia, I think it scarcely necessary to speak to Mr. Anhalt, or that he should speak to you, on the subject of the Count; but as he is here, leave us alone.

AMELIA. [_as she retires_]. Good morning, Mr. Anhalt.—I hope you are very well. [_Exit._

BARON. I’ll tell you in a few words why I sent for you. Count Cassel is here, and wishes to marry my daughter.

MR. ANHALT. [_much concerned_]. Really!

BARON. He is—he—in a word I don’t like him.

MR. ANHALT. [_with emotion_]. And Miss Wildenhaim ——

BARON. I shall not command, neither persuade her to the marriage—I know too well the fatal influence of parents on such a subject. Objections to be sure, if they could be removed—But when you find a man’s head without brains, and his bosom without a heart, these are important articles to supply. Young as you are, Anhalt, I know no one so able to restore, or to bestow those blessings on his fellow-creatures, as you. [Anhalt _bows._] The Count wants a little of my daughter’s simplicity and sensibility.—Take him under your care while he is here, and make him something like yourself.—You have succeeded to my wish in the education of my daughter.—Form the Count after your own manner.—I shall then have what I have sighed for all my life—a son.

MR. ANHALT. With your permission, Baron, I will ask one question. What remains to interest you in favour of a man, whose head and heart are good for nothing?

BARON. Birth and fortune. Yet, if I thought my daughter absolutely disliked him, or that she loved another, I would not thwart a first affection;—no, for the world, I would not. [_sighing._] But that her affections are already bestowed, is not probable.

MR. ANHALT. Are you of opinion that she will never fall in love?

BARON. Oh! no. I am of opinion that no woman ever arrived at the age of twenty without that misfortune.—But this is another subject.—Go to Amelia—explain to her the duties of a wife and of a mother.—If she comprehends them, as she ought, then ask her if she thinks she could fulfil those duties, as the wife of Count Cassel.

MR. ANHALT. I will.—But—I—Miss Wildenhaim—[_confused._ I—I shall—I—I shall obey your commands.

BARON. Do so. [_gives a deep sigh._] Ah! so far this weight is removed; but there lies still a heavier next my heart.—You understand me.—How is it, Mr. Anhalt? Have you not yet been able to make any discoveries on that unfortunate subject?

MR. ANHALT. I have taken infinite pains; but in vain. No such person is to be found.

BARON. Believe me, this burthen presses on my thoughts so much, that many nights I go without sleep. A man is sometimes tempted to commit such depravity when young.—Oh, Anhalt! had I, in my youth, had you for a tutor;—but I had no instructor but my passions; no governor but my own will. [_Exit._

MR. ANHALT. This commission of the Baron’s in respect to his daughter, I am—[_looks about_]—If I shou’d meet her now, I cannot—I must recover myself first, and then prepare.—A walk in the fields, and a fervent prayer—After these, I trust, I shall return, as a man whose views are solely placed on a future world; all hopes in this, with fortitude resigned. [_Exit._

## ACT III.

## SCENE I.

_An open Field._

FREDERICK _alone, with a few pieces of money which he turns about in his hands._

FREDERICK. To return with this trifle for which I have stooped to beg! return to see my mother dying! I would rather fly to the world’s end. [_Looking at the money._] What can I buy with this? It is hardly enough to pay for the nails that will be wanted for her coffin. My great anxiety will drive me to distraction. However, let the consequence of our affliction be what it may, all will fall upon my father’s head; and may he pant for Heaven’s forgiveness, as my poor mother —— [_At a distance is heard the firing of a gun, then the cry of Hallo, Hallo—Gamekeepers and Sportsmen run across the stage—he looks about._] Here they come—a nobleman, I suppose, or a man of fortune. Yes, yes—and I will once more beg for my mother.—May Heaven send relief!

_Enter the_ BARON _followed slowly by the_ COUNT. _The_ BARON _stops._

BARON. Quick, quick, Count! Aye, aye, that was a blunder indeed. Don’t you see the dogs? There they run—they have lost the scent. [_Exit_ Baron _looking after the dogs._

COUNT. So much the better, Colonel, for I must take a little breath. [_He leans on his gun_—Frederick _goes up to him with great modesty._]

FREDERICK. Gentleman, I beg you will bestow from your superfluous wants something to relieve the pain, and nourish the weak frame, of an expiring woman.

_The_ BARON _re-enters._

COUNT. What police is here! that a nobleman’s amusements should be interrupted by the attack of vagrants.

FREDERICK. [_to the Baron_]. Have pity, noble Sir, and relieve the distress of an unfortunate son, who supplicates for his dying mother.

BARON. [_taking out his purse_]. I think, young soldier, it would be better if you were with your regiment on duty, instead of begging.

FREDERICK. I would with all my heart: but at this present moment my sorrows are too great.—[Baron _gives something._] I entreat your pardon. What you have been so good as to give me is not enough.

BARON. [_surprised_]. Not enough!

FREDERICK. No, it is not enough.

COUNT. The most singular beggar I ever met in all my travels.

FREDERICK. If you have a charitable heart, give me one dollar.

BARON. This is the first time I was ever dictated by a beggar what to give him.

FREDERICK. With one dollar you will save a distracted man.

BARON. I don’t choose to give any more. Count, go on.

[_Exit_ Count—_as the_ Baron _follows_, Frederick _seizes him by the breast and draws his sword._]

FREDERICK. Your purse, or your life.

BARON. [_calling_]. Here! here! seize and secure him.

[_Some of the Gamekeepers run on, lay hold of_ Frederick, _and disarm him._]

FREDERICK. What have I done!

BARON. Take him to the castle, and confine him in one of the towers. I shall follow you immediately.

FREDERICK. One favour I have to beg, one favour only.—I know that I am guilty, and am ready to receive the punishment my crime deserves. But I have a mother, who is expiring for want—pity her, if you cannot pity me—bestow on her relief. If you will send to yonder hut, you will find that I do not impose on you a falsehood. For her it was I drew my sword—for her I am ready to die.

BARON. Take him away, and imprison him where I told you.

FREDERICK. [_as he is forced off by the keepers_]. Woe to that man to whom I owe my birth! [_Exit._

BARON. [_calls another Keeper_]. Here, Frank, run directly to yonder hamlet, inquire in the first, second, and third cottage for a poor sick woman—and if you really find such a person, give her this purse. [_Exit Gamekeeper._]

BARON. A most extraordinary event!—and what a well-looking youth! something in his countenance and address which struck me inconceivably!—If it is true that he begged for his mother—But if he did——for the attempt upon my life, he must die. Vice is never half so dangerous, as when it assumes the garb of morality. [_Exit._]

## SCENE II.