SOCIAL LIFE IN GERMANY; ILLUSTRATED IN THE DRAMAS OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS AMELIA OF SAXONY. Translated from the German, with Notes and a Memoir, by MRS. ANNA JAMESON. DEDICATION. These Illustrations of German Social Life, selected from the Acted Dramas of the Princess Amelia of Saxony, are especially dedicated to the young of my own sex, to whom they come recommended not less by the purity of taste and the beautiful moral feeling they display, than by the novel picture of manners and society therein represented with such lively yet unexaggerated truth. ANNA JAMESON. VOLUME ONE. FALSEHOOD AND TRUTH. REMARKS. A Play. A Play. THE play of "Falsehood and Truth" was the first of the Princess Amelia's productions which was publicly represented. It was performed at the Royal Theatre of Berlin, in the Spring of 1834. This drama, though written in the original with much spirit and elegance, strikes me as inferior in the interest of the story, in variety of incident, and conception of character to many which succeeded; it proved, however, one of her most popu lar pieces, and is very frequently performed. The part of Juliana was originally played by Mademoiselle Hagen, the first actress in elegant comedy at Berlin: her exquisite impersonation of the part, and the success of the piece, made it a fashion for the best actresses to exert their powers in Juliana. Mrs. Butler tells us in her journal, that she has known actresses, who, in the performance of unvirtuous and unlovely characters, seemed anxious to impress the audience with the wide difference between their assumed and their real disposition, by acting as ill and looking as cross as they possibly could; which," she humorously adds, "could not but be a great satisfaction to any moral audience." This vulgar misconception of the duty and aim of an artist I never saw in Germany, where the part of Juliana, in the hands of such performers as Mademoiselle Hagen und Mademoiselle Bauer, is always rendered as captivating as the most sparkling grace of demeanor and elegance of person and costume can make it, certainly in accordance with the conception and intention of the author, and, let me add, in accordance with the truth of Nature. In reading the play, the character of Juliana is something next to hateful; her insolent airs and her almost gratuitous artifices come before us unsoftened and unredeemed by any of the graces of look and mauner, which give such an effect to the beautiful impersonation I have seen on the stage. "So much the better," I hear some worthy people exclaim; as if the notion that vice must always look ugly, were not one of the most dangerous and absurd ever circulated. Others have regarded the union of generous and amiable qualities with that one revolting fault-a total want of integrity, as inconsistent and unnatural. Now a character is not to be pronounced inconsistent which exhibits the combination of opposite and apparently contradictory qualities, for such in our intercourse with society meet us at every turn. Lately, in turning over "Boswell's Life of Johnson," I met with an account of a gentleman, who, at the time when the "Man of Feeling" first appeared anonymously, represented himself as the author, took all the merit on himself, dined out day after day as "the Man of Feeling;" excited the "sensibilities" of tender-hearted young ladies, and accepted of attentions and friendships on the strength of his pretended authorship. The miserable and paltry falsehoods, by which he must have sustained the deception, and the mean vanity which prompted it, fill us with disgust and indignation; yet the same man, a few years afterward, perished in attempting to save a poor drowning boy, who was in no way connected with him. I To return to Juliana. I am afraid it must be admitted that the character is both natural and consistent, and I am afraid I must add, after a good deal of experience and observation, as regards my own sex, that a turn for intrigue, and a want of courageous straightforward truth, are too frequent in women. Upon what conventional principle is it, that a lie is presumed to dishonor the man, and does not dishonor the woman?whence that disposition to subterfuge and evasion-that inclination to prefer the devious path to a given object; to seem, rather than to be; and-where they do not, or dare not lieto arrange the truth so as to serve a purpose ;-in short, all the petty artifices about trifles which have been a standing reproach against womankind from time immemorial? And whence that neglect of accuracy in the use of words-accuracy, one of the signs and safeguards of the spirit of truth? scarcely ever hear a woman relate or describe any thing accurately, though, from the quickness and discriminating delicacy It arises from some most mistaken principles in the early edu of our perceptions, this ought to be a feminine characteristic. cation of women; the influence of the negative principle, the principle of fear, in which we are brought up, and made dissemblers on system. A really honest, simple-minded woman, seeking and speaking the truth for its own sake, is what I have very rarely met with; while women, whose whole existence seemed to me one lie, who lived and moved in a network of petty artifices, I have too often seen, and with more of shame and commisscration than any other feeling. I have sometimes thought that only a woman could ever sound the depths of a woman's dissimulation-only a woman could chase truth through the labyrinthine recesses of a woman's heart to that last recess where it hides itself, unspeakable, unspoken.— Truth in one sense we certainly may boast; we are as true to our affections, our duties, our engagements, as men can be ; but we are less sincere: we are perhaps afraid to be as sincere as we ought to be, and would be if we could. How often have I seen a woman who would die for the man she loved a thousand times over, cheat him ten times a day about straws! At her own breakfast she'll project a scheme, Nor take her tea without a stratagem! writers in our own country, as in Miss Edgworth's "ManceuThis failing in our sex has been admirably treated by some vring," in her charming tale of "Helen;" in Mrs. Opie's "White Lies;" but to these and other excellent and well-intentioned works I have one general objection-they do not adpear to me to take sufficiently high ground. I speak it with deference, but the moral of these and similar works, including words :-" Always speak the truth, because-it is extremely this play of the Princess Amelia, might be summed up in these disagreeable and inconvenient to be found out in a lie." Now truth, like religion, should be a habit of the soul-a state of being-the fountain from which our words and actions flowstructing your daughters to avoid the palpable verbal lie, as a not a thing of expediency. Think ye, mothers, that by inwicked or a dangerous thing, you teach her truth? You may by manifold whippings, and such like appliances, make your child afraid to tell a lie, but thus you will never implant the principle and habit of clear-thoughted, upright sincerity, in heart, in purpose, in deed, in word. Be true with your child; teach her to be true for truth's sake; give her courage and freedom, which, if they are the sure result, are as often the springs of truth: weakness, whether it arise from organization or position, is seldom true. I could say much more on this subject; but in a work of this light nature, it would scarce be fitting to touch on the more elevated and sacred source of all truth-the holy law which has pronounced all untruth defilement. We dismiss Juliana in this play, with a hope that, as she has an excellent understanding, she will for the future prudently avoid the inconvenient habit of lying; but confidence is destroyed: who would trust her, except, indeed, the man who is over head and ears in love with her? and that because, as he says himself, "es ist nicht zu helfen,"-" he cannot help it." Meerfeld is capital, and essentially German in the bluntness and even rudeness of his plain dealing, and in the sentiment and magnanimity which lie beneath this crust. The part of Wiesel, when well played, produces much comic effect; the creeping, crawling, cat-like movements of this mean parasite, the bent body, the features fixed in an eternal grin of acquiescence and complacency, I have seen admirably given. Frederica, with her embroidery and cookery-book, her kitchen cares, and her taste for Schiller and for poetry, her simplicity and her timidity, is very pretty and very very German. I am not sure that I should call her true; she is in a false position, which always implies some sacrifice to appearance. some discrepancy between the inner and the outward life, which cannot last long without more or less deterioration of the whole moral being. The scene we may suppose at Leipsig, with which locale, the manners represented, and the allusions scattered throughout the play, would suit perfectly. ACT I. SCENE-A Room in Freymann's House. FREDERICA seated at her work, (near a window,) afterward CHRISTINE. FREDERICA. At last I have all my accounts ready, and may sit down to my work again. It is unusually quiet here to-day, and I will take advantage of the leisure and the daylight. This must be finished in a week at farthest; and there is yet so much to be done, that I shall be obliged to borrow a night or two from sleep to get on with it. CHRISTINE [entering]. Do I find you at last, my dear Frederica? Do not be offended if I have ventured to follow you into the sitting-room. You know I never did such a thing in my life before; but you are never to be found in your own little room now. FRED. This was washing week; and then I had to make trial of a new cook, and to hire her. I had to make up my accounts for the year, and to give them in; in short, from morning to night I have been unable to stir. But do not think I forget you, for all that, Christine! You must pay your rent in a week; and I shall have the money for you, and something over besides. And now what have you to say? CHR. No, no, my dear child, I cannot allow it! No; your uncle is kind to you, and it were abusing his kindness if you were to trouble him on my account. FRED. That I will never do. I know better what is due to you, my dear Christine. You shall never be obliged to reeive charity as long as I exist. This muslin dress, which I ad to embroider six weeks ago, will be ready in a week; the Countess Solkonska has purchased it, and so I shall have the money that from my heart I offer you. CHR. You poor dear soul! Household cares-the washing -the kitchen to superintend-accounts to keep-vexation to bear, and in hours of recreation-work, work! What good is it that your uncle has taken you into his house, and supports you, if you must now toil for me, as once you toiled for yourself? Alas, alas! 't is time heaven took me to itself! I am good for nothing but to destroy your rest. FRED. Did you think of rest when I lay ill of the measles and the scarlet fever? Ah! I sometimes regret that I cannot repay you, as I could then, out of my own necessities-that I can but offer you now what is to me superfluo is. CHR. Oh do not talk so, or I must weep! I always said it, there is not such another heart in the wide world! but surely you will be rewarded; you will be happy, my Frederica -I am sure of it-Oh, so happy! FRED. Am I not so already? at me with such surprise? You would not spend your whole life long in your present position, would you? FRED. Why not? CHR. Because it will not do at all. True, your uncle maintains you at his cost; but, for all that, you are neither more nor less than his house-keeper. FRED. If you only knew, Christine, what a satisfactionit is to my mind to be able to do him some little service in return for his goodness! CHR. And then your fine lady cousin, with her conceit and her caprices-I can hardly bear the sight of her. Does not she treat you as if you were a sort of Cinderella-a mere simpleton? whereas she might thank Heaven if she were but half so clever. To be sure, she can talk of balls, plays, fashions; but for all that concerns house-keeping, the very servants laugh at her whenever she speaks of such things. FRED. [smiling]. She has accomplishments much more difficult to attain than the art of compounding a soup. CHR. Why, then, why can't she learn as well how to make a good soup, if it is so very easy? FRED. My dear Christine, you don't understand:-my cousin is rich-she has never known the want of servants. and whoso is dependent has no right to be proud. CHR. Whoso requires the service of others is dependent, FRED. Juliana is good-natured-that she really is. If she does not treat me with confidence and intimacy, if she looks on me as a silly child, it is my own fault. She stands before me so assured in herself, so much my superior, that I, with my foolish timidity, scarcely dare utter a word in her presence. CHR. Well, she will soon be married, I suppose, and then you will be rid of her. There is a young gentleman always about the house, a certain Herr Willmar. I hav'n't seen him, but people say FRED. [quickly]. Ho! heaven bless you!-why, she cannot endure him; she treats him so ill sometimes that my very heart bleeds for him,-for Willmar is one of the best of men; poor, I believe indeed, but that only interests me the more, for I think the poor sympathise with each other. That he often comes to the house, I cannot deny. My uncle Freymann educated him, and spared nothing for his maintenance and his advancement in the world: perhaps he would do more for him, if my cousin did not hate him so. This groundless dislike to a man who has never offended her, is the only thing I cannot understand in my cousin, and for which I could sometimes be downright angry with her: somebody must have slandered him to her-but who? I have often, often thought about it till I was giddy, and still it is all a mystery to me. CHR. Ho, ho! you can be quite eloquent, I see, on the subject of this Herr Willmar. FRED. I am, as you know, generally patient and acquiescent, but anything like injustice rouses my indignation—I can not endure it. CHR. Has, then, Willmar complained to you of Mamsell Juliana's behaviour? It is FRED. Do you think I am on such terms with him? He hardly sees me-I doubt whether he knows my name. plain, my good Christine, that you know no one in the house but the servants, who are indeed attached to me, and speak of me kindly, I dare say; but for others, I am nothing more than a living machine. CHRI. I hear some one coming, and will be gone; we shall meet this afternoon or to-morrow morning in your own room; but here I would rather not be caught as your visiter. I will not have you ashamed of me. FRED. Ashamed of you! my kind nurse, my earliest friend! Stay, Christine CHR. 'Tis your fine lady cousin-I will not meet her. [She hurries ont.] FRED. I Willmar's confidante! I could hardly forbear laughing at my good simple Christine. Enter JULIANA.b JUL. You here, Frederica! Who was it who left you just now? FRED. Old Christine. JUL. Indeed! I thought it might have been--but no matter! I am invited to tea this evening to Hofrath Weiler's. I have refused his invitation so often that I must abso CHR, So you say; but I have taken it into my head that lutely go this time, so I do not want my ticket for the theatre; things might be better with you. FRED. I desire nothing better. here it is--you can take it, and use it if you like. FRED. [timidly] Perhaps you may have intended it for CHR. Well, then, I desire it for you. Why do you look another? JUL. You goose! if I had, I should not have offered it to you; you have not seen many plays, I fancy? FRED. One or two. JUL. It is the Maid of Orleans to-night-Schiller's. WILL. I presume you are not very fond of reading? FRED. I mean, it ought to be something more useful. WILL. But now-a-days in literature the useful and the agreeable are blended; we have historical romances. Here, for instance, is the history of Mary Stuart arranged in the most JUL. [laughing]. I do n't mean the haberdasher Schiller, delicious poetry. our neighbor; he did n't write the tragedy. FRED. [looking down]. I know JUL. You'll not understand much of it, probably, but it will amuse you. There is a good deal of spectacle in it-soldiers, fighting, a grand procession, and-only think!-a woman all dressed up in armor! FRED. Yes, the Maid JUL. Of Orleans. Do you know where Orleans is? JUL. In Turkey, eh? FRED. You laugh at me, cousin! JUL. Oh Heaven forbid !-my good Frederica, one may fulfil one's duties in the world without knowing whereabouts Orleans is. Now I think of it, that disagreeable man, that Willmar, has been expecting news from his uncle, which are probably in this letter [taking out a letter]. There, be so good as to give it to him if he should come this way. I am too glad to spare myself the necessity of exchanging a word with him. FRED. Why are you so unkind to him? JUL. Oh he tires me; he provokes me; his face likes me not! Enough of him-I must give the tailor an audience,d and then-[she goes to the door, and then turns back quickly] -Frederica, do n't forget the letter. FRED. Never fear me. FRED. I only know it comes from your uncle. WILL. From my uncle? FRED. It may be so, and yet WILL. Such a production has at once all the attraction of truth, and all the charm of fiction. FRED. Of truth? I do not quite agree with you. FRED. I think truth can never be interwoven with fiction, without in some degree suffering from the contact. WILL. [with an expression of surprise.] Perhaps you may be right there. ERED. And therefore it is that these historical romances seem to me hardly fit reading for the unlearned; for were it not almost better not to be informed at all on such subjects, than to be imperfectly informed, or imbued with false impressions of real facts or persons? WILL. [aside.] Really, the girl is worth talking to. JUL. I must take refuge here, it is so intolerably hot in my own room. Ha! you here, Herr Willmar! have you had your uncle's letter? WILL. Mamsell Frederica had the goodness JUL. And therefore, in return, you must have the good ness to accompany her to the theatre this evening. WILL. To the theatre ? JUL. Yes, I have given her my ticket; she will find Madame Stoll in the box, to be sure; but it will not do to send her through the streets alone. WILL. Certainly, by no means. FRED. If-if it be convenient to Herr Willmar, I would rather give up the play. JUL. Herr Willmar must and will deem it a high honour to be your cavalier. I am curious to hear what you will have to tell us to-morrow of the Maid of Orleans. I expect we shall have you talking in blank verse. WILL. I hall be pleased to witness the first impression which such a masterpiece must make on Mamsell Frederica. JUL. And you can explain to her what she does not understand of it. WILL. That will hardly be necessary. JUL. Why, to be sure, Frederica has taken to reading lately; I caught her turning over the leaves of a huge quarte volume the other day. I thought of course she was studying the Magdeburgh cookery-book-peeped over-and what do you think it was?-only guess-Rollin's Roman History! WILL. In French? JUL. Yes; et je parie qu'elle ne sait pas le mot de FranFRED. And my cousin says that you have been long ex-çais. [FREDERICA, who has all this time kept her eyes fixed pecting it. WILL. [walking aside as he opens the letter]. Dissimulation-nothing but dissimulation! How it goes against my heart! whither has this lovely tyrant allured me? Thank heaven, which has taken pity on me at last, I am now provided for; I may hope this very day to throw this burthen of deceit from my conscience, and once more look my benefactor in the face like an honest man. [He reads.] FRED. [aside, looking at him]. The letter makes him sad. WILL. Scruples and caution! not accept the invitation of Hofrath Weiler!-why should I not? Before evening comes, will she not be my affianced bride? [he reads in a low voice], "My dearest Francis, I know you will again reproach me, and call me false dissembling-but my dissembling is but the excess of my love. I know I am doing wrong-that I am practising falsehood and deceit, but I cannot repent; I even love my fault for the sake of the object, and shall that dear object be more severe upon me than myself?" How tender how full of feeling! who could behold her, and read such a letter as this, and not acquit me![To Fredrica.] Do you think your cousin Juliana will be here again in the course of the morning? FRED. I think she will. WILL. Permit me to wait for her. [He sits down and akes a book from the table]—A new annual," I see, with drawings and engravings. FRED. It is my cousin's. FRED. O no! how should I find time to read such things? | on her work in painful embarrassment, rises, and is going.] FRED. I have things to attend to. [She goes out.] JUL. O Lord, no, she did n't understand me-but I'm glad she's gone; we may now, for the first time for a week past, speak without witnesses. What do you say to my letter, Willmar? the command to absent yourself from a party, where I intended to be, will seem hard to you, but I could not avoid it; I have remarked that here and there people have begun to suspect our mutual understanding, and it has therefore become necessary to go to work with double caution. WILL. Caution! thank heaven we need no more caution. I am at length happy-the happiest of men, my Juliana! I am appointed Secretary to Prince Adolphus: I may now venture to appear before your father, openly ask your hand, and renounce all falsehood and dissimulation forever, JUL. You are the Prince's Secretary. WILL. I am; tis but an hour since the letter reached me; and only one who has suffered as I have suffered, can conceive the feelings of my heart at this moment. JUL. So! secretary to the prince! I wish you joy; but do you think my father will the more readily consent to our union? WILL. And when you acknowledge that you love me? O Juliana! your father is the best of men! nor will he condemn me, if that which I have obtained through his good help I now lay at his daughter's feet. JUL. And what have you obtained, pray? what is it you lay at his daughter's feet?-a poor two thousand dollars a year! enough to satisfy love; but will it satisfy a father's pride? WILL. A father's pride? I know not; but a benefactor's. JUL. Do not be angry with me, Willmar; but I do wish you would not hurry. WILL. By heavens! I can endure this no longer-my principles have given way too far before your system of concealment and deception. I was-yes, I was a man of honorstraightforward and open as day, when first you knew me, Juliana! I gazed on you with admiration, as we gaze on the sun -on the moon in heaven-on all which we may admire unreproved, even because we regard it as unattainable. I never had dared to raise my eyes to you with a wish until-O think on it well!—you allowed me to hope-you stooped to me in kindness-I dared to confess my love, which till then I had concealed even from myself-and became you slave; but you have abused your power, Juliana! For your sake-for yours, I have become a dissembler, and repaid my benefactor with ingratitude: yet fear not that I will reproach you with that which has, perhaps, led me to the summit of happiness. Only do not ask me to proceed one step farther in these crooked paths: since fate has, almost by a miracle, led me back to the path of honor, I were a despicable wretch if I did not at once accept the boon. JUL. Do I deserve this vehemence? This, then, is the reward I reap for having renounced so many conquests, and re fused so many brilliant offers for your sake! WILL. My heart and soul, my existence are yours; but that which is far above all these-conscience that no human being should place in the keeping of another. JUL. This is one of your tragedy fits; but do what you will for me, in the worst case, my father will only turn you out of his house, and for me there is always the convent; for, Willmar, another's will I never be-never! WILL. Juliana!-but be more composed! some one is coming. Enter FREYMANN. WILL. [anxiously]. And, trusting in your accustomed goodness, may I hope that the news I have for you will not be indifferent to you? JUL. [carelessly]. He came to tell you that he is secretary to Prince Adolphus. FREY. Why, then, I will celebrate this day as one of the happiest of my life! two of my first objects attained at oncemy two children provided for: my son- -for you are the son of my heart-in a good office! and my daughter married! WILL. HOW! FREY. [to Juliana]. My correspondent in Hamburg, the son of my old friend Meerfeld, proposed for you a month ago; I asked you then, without letting you guess my motive, if your heart were quite free; you told me it was, and your answer went by the next post to Hamburg. Meerfeld, who, like myself, never lets the grass grow under his feet, threw himself into his carriage he is young, handsome, rich-he has just alighted at the Golden Lion, and in five minutes he will be here. On Monday you shall be betrothed, and Monday week is your wedding-day. JUL. In a week, my dear father? Pardon me, but how are we even to know each other in a week? FREY. To see each other a week is enough—to know each other a year too little-and then, who talks of lovers knowing each other? They always appear in masquerade, as they do at the Redoute. If the gentleman were to pine for half a century, and you to coquette and dress at him for another half century, think you, you would know each other a bit the better for it all? Both your heads would be addled at last by playing such a farce, and for so long-and that's all the good we should have of it. JUL. As the daughter of Freymann, the rich banker, I cannot be married as if I had come out of the orphan school; my wedding must be solemnized with becoming splendour, and preparations must be made accordingly. FREY. Which are already looked to: I have been myself to Madame Girard, and have bespoke your wedding dress, all of French blonde, such as the queen herself might wear-cost two hundred dollars; in my room, on the sofa, lie a dozen India shawls, and thirty silks or more, all from Franke's warehouse; go choose what you like. My head clerk has gone to the jeweller's, to see about your jewels; your Doro thy has gone to the fair to buy linen and laces, and John has been sent for the tailor, who will be here in a moment to take your measure. The whole household are on their legs for you. Your dowry lies ready in bank bills. So do not fearnothing shall be wanting, nothing forgotten; in a week you shall be Madame Meerfeld, and in a fortnight we shall all be on the road to Hamburg. JUL. And suppose I shouldn't like this Meerfeld? FREY. Not like him! and pray why should you not love him? JUL. If my heart FREY. Your heart is free-didn't you tell me so yourself? and don't we know that a young girl's heart, when it is free, is ever just on the spring? let but a wooer appear with a good face and a ready tongue, and it's off like a shot at once. What do you think, eh, Francis? WILL. I think the heart of your daughter far too precious to be yielded to the first who offers himself. FREY. Early wooed, and early won, Was never repented under the sun.' Is she to wait, pr'ythee, till she's forty, and take the the last who offers? WILL. A young lady possessed of your daughter's beauty and understanding, and surrounded by a host of admirersJUL. [petulantly]. Pray let us have no more of this, sir: I must be in a better humor than I am to-day, to endure your complimentary fadeurs. FREY. Oh ho! Juliana, what objection have you to this day, of all days in the year? the third of June, a charming sunshiny day, and Saturday too: I like Saturday-it has always been my lucky day; fie! I know not how you look! I will not have those frowns when your bridegroom comes; they will not do at all, Juliana. JUL. I don't care, not I, how I look. I certainly shall put no restraint on my looks for the sake of this Meerfeld! FREY. The idea of being married seems to have put you into a mighty ill humor. JUL. Only if you would not be in such a hurry, my dear father! FREY. But when I tell you that the dress is there, and the shawls, and that the tailor is coming, and-eh, Juliana? you havn't imposed on me now with that free heart of yours? JUL. What do you mean, papa? FREY. Only this Lieutenant Kramer, who has been very assiduous in his attentions latelyWILL. Ay, indeed? FREY. We have never been to a party where we did not find him, and he has a wonderful knack at guessing our fancies and intentions in walking and driving, for we are sure to meet him every day. WILL. I never heard your daughter speak of him. JUL. This is really affronting, papa; Lieutenant Kramer, they say, is almost an engaged man, and surely you cannot think FREY. Well, well, my dear girl, I will not think it possible; it were my death-blow if you should come to me at this time o' day with a love-tale. A month ago, God knows, you might have taken whom you liked for me, rich or poor; it had been all the same, if he had been an honest man; but now, in such a case, I must appear in Meerfeld's eyes no better than a fool, a ninny. WILL. [aside]. Wretch that I am! accursed dissimulation! JUL. Do not fret yourself into a fever, my dear father; if it be the decree of fate that Meerfeld is to be my lord and master, why, so it will be. [Aside to Willmar]: Make yourself easy; I shall know how to get rid of him. FREY. What are you saying there? JUL. That I think it would be hardly decorous for me to rejoice over the future, or to select my trousseau before I have even seen my intended bridegroom. FREY. Why, that's true indeed-you are right. She's right there, Willmar. I only ask you not to look as if you were to be hanged; and for my too great haste you must make allowances. You know I have been quick all my life: while my partners were consulting about a speculation, I was already in the midst of it; while rivals were ogling your mother, I had asked her to fix the day; before my doctor could write a prescription I had already swallowed the remedy nearest at hand. I have to thank my promptitude for riches, happiness, perhaps life itself; and when death comes at last, I shall take just a hasty leave of you all, and get over the last hour as quickly as possible. WILL. God grant it may be far distant! FREY. I care not how distant-the farther off the better; but when it does come to the last, no lingering-that 's all. But now to other matters. So you are secretary to Prince Adolphus?-a capital place-plenty to do-and profitable work too-twelve hundred dollars beside fees. Now the next thing you have to do is to get a pretty wife-o' my conscience I believe you have some such thought in your head alreadyeh? WILL. Herr Freymann! FREY. Well, why need you blush? If you are in love, say so at once-there's no need to be ashamed of it, for no doubt your choice is worthy of you-it could not be otherwise. WILL. Oh my benefactor! my father! FREY. I understand-such an exclamation is as good as a confession. Well, and so you are in love;―do I know her? who is it? WILL. O that I dared to speak! FREY. And what hinders you? WILL. I fear lest my choice shonld displease you. FREY. Why, is she not come of honest kin? WILL. She is the daughter of one of the best of men. FREY. Then I require no more; all young ladies are pretty, as a matter of course: and as for money, if she have no fortune, why I can give you a lift at first, and you must begin with economy. WILL. Such condescension-such goodness-O! I were the basest of men if I longer concealed from you JUL. [in a low voice] Go on-and lose me for ever! WILL. What have I said? I am so confused-I hardly know what I mean. FREY. So it seems indeed. JUL. Herr Willmar, pray be so good as to defer your tender confessions to another opportunity; for, as you must perceive, I have an infinity of things to say to my father. WILL. Mamsell Juliana thinks that this is not a fit time for my explanation. I submit-but [with emphasis] for the last time. [He goes out.] FREY. What's the matter with him, do you know? JUL. I certainly shall not take the trouble of guessing his secrets. FREY. Well, Well-don't speak so scornfully of my good Francis; he is an industrious, worthy fellow. JUL. Why, he is not absolutely insufferable, but at this moment very much in my way, for I have a request to make. FREY. Well, out with it. JUL. You will laugh at me, papa! A few minutes ago I would n't hear a word of this trousseau, and now I am really impatient just to see the shawls and the things. FREY. Well, come with me to my room. You young girls are strange creatures, after all. Dress? O we despise it! A husband? Fie, do n't mention such a thing! But let any one think to deprive you of one or the other, what weeping and wailing! Ay, I see it will be with Meerfeld as with the India shawls-come along. [He goes out.] JUL. [aside, and following]. We'll contrive to keep the shawls, and yet send this Herr Meerfeld bootless home. [Exit]. END OF THE FIRST ACT. ACT II. SCENE-The same Apartment. their value. [He takes out a case of jewels.] There-look you there-and be wonder-struck! A certain lady-I may name her to you-the Baronness von Brauss, can't forbear giving grand entertainments; and so, like Queen Cleopatra, she has dissolved her pearls in her wine-ha, ha, ha! [He opens the case.] Are they not pearls of the purest water?worth three hundred ducats between brothers, and she 'll let them go for a hundred and fifty. FRED. If you wish to speak to my uncle, I had better call him. WIE. One moment, Mamsell Frederica; you know I am not naturally inquisitive-not in the least; but this inquiry about jewels has excited my curiosity, for it agrees with other reports which have lately come to my ears. FRED. What reports? WIE. They say Mamsell Juliana is a bride," engaged to some Englishman, or Greek, or American, who put up at the Golden Lion this morning. FRED. A correspondent of my uncle's, a certain Herr Meerfeld from Hamburg, was expected to dinner to-day, and we know not why he did not make his appearance. WIE. Do you know whether there is a match in hand between him and Mamsell Juliana? FRED. I really cannot inform you. WIE. I will confess to you that, under the excuse of the jewels, I came here more particularly to have a peep at the stranger. I am known every where as an old friend of the family, and I shall be questioned on all sides. FRED. Well, sir, if you know nothing, I suppose you need say nothing. [She goes out.] WIE. Cunning little jade! she won't speak out. But I see it all; Mamsell Juliana is to be married; that will put the Collector Summer in a rage, and Lieutenant Kramer too. If I could but get at some particulars of the affair, it would keep Madame Flieder quiet. Enter MEERfeld. MEER. Have I the honor to see Herr Freymann ? WIE. [aside]. The deuse! he 's not of our town-a new face entirely. [Aloud.] Herr Freymann, did you say? No, I am not that gentleman, but his oldest and best friend; and if you have any business with him MEER. [examining him]. I merely came to pay him a visit. WIE. May I know your worshipful name? WIE. Why-yes-very true indeed-the name does not signify, as you say; but I can hardly announce you as Mr. Anonymous-he, he! MEER. Then pray tell him, the gentleman he expected is here. WIE. The gentleman he expects is Herr Meerwald-no, Meerfeld, from Hamburg. And so you are Herr Meerfeld of Hamburg! You' see I am informed of every thing, and consequently you need not be under any restraint on my account, my dear sir. for. MEER. Not in the least. WIE. I not only know who you are, but what you are come MEER. Indeed! WIES. And upon my word you know what you are about, and no mistake! Mamsell Juliana is a most beautiful young lady, and her father's sole heiress. MEER. Be so good as to tell me what is your office in this house? [Aside]. This fellow is insufferable! WIES. My office!-the highest-the noblest-the divinest MEER. Ay, indeed! FRED. [entering.] I could scarcely eat a morsel at dinner, and even with difficulty restrained my tears. My cousin thinks me no better than a fool; and in truth I do behave in her presence as if I had not common sense-and yet 't is al--that of a friend! most cruel to make such a poor, timid creature the object of her wit in presence of a third party. What can Willmar think of me? I could see that after what Juliana said, he was ashamed to take me to the theatre. O! he may make himself easy-I shall not go now, whatever pleasure might have been under different circumstances. Enter WIESEL. WIE. Honored young lady, may I entreat a word? I have just heard from the cook-maid of Brand, the jeweller, that Herr Freymann is in want of a set of jewels. FRED. It may be so; I know nothing about it. WIE. Why does n't Herr Freymann in such cases make use of me? I'm no jeweller-no shop-keeper; but if any one wants to make a purchase, the quickest, the cheapest no matter what-I'm your man. Jewels! why, Lord bless you, who would ever think of going to a jeweller for jewels? Here I have something at my friend's service, and at half WIE. A friend, though I say it, who has a heart for his friends's friends; and therefore begs to be allowed the honor of presenting himself as your worship's devoted friend the first time he has the felicity of meeting you in company. MEER. Your most obedient. WIES. No compliments, pray I hate them deadly. WIES. You were expected to dinner to-day; how is it we had not the honor of seeing yon? MEER. I was not invited, that I know of. WIES. How ?-that was a terrible blunder! I know Herr Freymann intended it. I conjure you, my most worthy sir, to pardon the oversight. That's just the way with servants, when one trusts to them. Ay, I will certainly give it to them soundly for this! MEER. Are you the master here, then? |