My father
sanctions
my choice.
Friedrich Schiller
Dost thou fear; then erase from the vocabulary of thy sex's
virtues the word courage, for a maiden will have put thee to shame. "
(MILLER lays down the letter and fixes his eyes upon the ground in deep
sorrow. At length he turns to LOUISA, and says, in a low, broken voice)
Daughter, where is that place?
LOUISA. Don't you know it, father? Do you really not know it? 'Tis
strange! I have described it unmistakably! Ferdinand will not fail to
find it.
MILLER. Pray speak plainer!
LOUISA. I can think of no pleasing name for it just now! You must not
be alarmed, father, if the name I give it has a terrible sound. That
place,----Oh! why has no lover invented a name for it! He would have
chosen the softest, the sweetest--that place, my dear father--but you
must not interrupt me--that place is--the grave!
MILLER (staggering to a seat). Oh, God!
LOUISA (hastens to him, and supports him). Nay, father, be not alarmed!
These are but terrors which hover round an empty word! Take away the
name and the grave will seem to be a bridal-bed over which Aurora spreads
her golden canopy and spring strews her fairest flowers. None but a
groaning sinner pictures death as a skeleton; to others he is a gentle,
smiling boy, blooming as the god of love, but not so false--a silent,
ministering spirit who guides the exhausted pilgrim through the desert of
eternity, unlocks for him the fairy palace of everlasting joy, invites
him in with friendly smiles, and vanishes forever!
MILLER. What meanest thou, my child? Surely, thou wilt not lay guilty
hands on thine own life?
LOUISA. Speak not thus, father! To quit a community from which I am
already rejected, to fly voluntarily to a place from which I cannot much
longer be absent, is that a sin?
MILLER. Suicide is the most horrible of sins, my child. 'Tis the only
one that can never he repented, since death arrives at the moment the
crime is committed.
LOUISA (stands motionless with horror). That is dreadful! But my death
will not be so sudden, father. I will spring into the river, and while
the waters are closing over me, cry to the Almighty for mercy and
forgiveness!
MILLER. That is to say, you will repent the theft as soon as the
treasure is secure! Daughter! Daughter! beware how you mock your God
when you most need his help! Oh! you have gone far, far astray! You have
forgotten the worship of your Creator, and he has withdrawn his
protecting hand from you!
LOUISA. Is it, then, a crime to love, father?
MILLER. So long as thou lovest God thou wilt never love man to idolatry.
Thou hast bowed me down low, my only one! low! very low! perhaps to the
grave! Yet will I not increase the sadness of thy heart. Daughter! I
gave vent to my feelings as I entered. I thought myself alone! Thou
hast overheard me! and why should I longer conceal the truth. Thou wert
my idol! Hear me, Louisa, if there is yet room in thy heart for a
father's feelings. Thou wert my all! Of thine own thou hast nothing
more to lose, but I have my all at stake! My life depends on thee! My
hairs are turning gray, Louisa; they show that the time is drawing nigh
with me when fathers look for a return of the capital invested in the
hearts of their children. Wilt thou defraud me of this, Louisa? Wilt
thou away and bear with thee all the wealth of thy father?
LOUISA (kissing his hand in the deepest emotion). No, father, no! I go
from this world deeply in your debt, and will repay you with usury in the
world to come.
MILLER. Beware, my child, lest thy reckoning should be false! (very
earnestly and solemnly). Art thou certain that we shall meet in that
world to come? Lo! how the color fades from thy cheek! My child must
feel that I can scarcely overtake her in that other world if she hurries
there before me. (LOUISA throws herself shuddering into his arms, he
clasps her warmly to his bosom, and continues in a tone of fervent
adjuration. ) Oh! Louisa! Louisa! Fallen, perhaps already lost,
daughter! Treasure in thy heart the solemn counsels of a father! I
cannot eternally watch over thee! I may snatch the dagger from thy
hands; but thou canst let out life with a bodkin. I may remove poison
from thy reach; but thou canst strangle thyself with a necklace. Louisa!
Louisa! I can only warn thee. Wilt thou rush boldly forward till the
perfidious phantom which lured thee on vanishes at the awful brink of
eternity? Wilt thou dare approach the throne of the Omniscient with the
lie on thy lips? "At thy call am I here, Creator! " while thy guilty eyes
are in search only of their mortal idol! And when thou shalt see this
perishable god of thine own creation, a worm like thee, writhing at the
Almighty's feet; when thou shalt hear him in the awful moment give the
lie to thy guilty daring, and blast thy delusive hopes of eternal mercy,
which the wretch implores in vain for himself; what then! (Louder and
more fervently), What, then, unhappy one? (He clasps her still closer to
his bosom, and gazes upon her with wild and piercing looks; then suddenly
disengages himself. ) I can do no more! (Raising his right hand towards
heaven. ) Immortal Judge, I can do no more to save this soul from ruin!
Louisa, do what thou wilt. Offer up a sacrifice at the altar of this
idolized youth that shall make thy evil genius howl for transport and thy
good angels forsake thee in despair. Go on! Heap sin upon sin,--add to
them this, the last, the heaviest,--and, if the scale be still too light
throw in my curse to complete the measure. Here is a knife; pierce thy
own heart, and (weeping aloud and rushing away), and with it, thy
father's!
LOUISA (following and detaining him). Stay! stay! Oh! father, father! --
to think that affection should wound more cruelly than a tyrant's rage!
What shall I? --I cannot! --what must I do?
MILLER. If thy lover's kisses burn hotter than thy father's tears--then
die!
LOUISA (after a violent internal struggle, firmly). Father! Here is my
hand! I will--God! God! what am I doing! What would I? --father, I
swear. Woe is me! Criminal that I am where'er I turn! Father, be it
so! Ferdinand. God, look down upon the act! Thus I destroy the last
memorial of him. (Tearing the letter. )
MILLER (throwing himself in ecstasy upon her neck). There spoke my
daughter! Look up, my child! Thou hast lost a lover, but thou hast made
a father happy. (Embracing her, and alternately laughing and crying. )
My child! my child! I was not worthy to live so blest a moment! God
knows how I, poor miserable sinner, became possessed of such an angel!
My Louisa! My paradise! Oh! I know but little of love; but that to rend
its bonds must be a bitter grief I can well believe!
LOUISA. But let us hasten from this place, my father! Let us fly from
the city, where my companions scoff at me, and my good name is lost
forever--let us away, far away, from a spot where every object tells of
my ruined happiness,--let us fly if it be possible!
MILLER. Whither thou wilt, my daughter! The bread of the Lord grows
everywhere, and He will grant ears to listen to my music. Yes! we will
fly and leave all behind. I will set the story of your sorrows to the
lute, and sing of the daughter who rent her own heart to preserve her
father's. We will beg with the ballad from door to door, and sweet will
be the alms bestowed by the hand of weeping sympathy!
SCENE II.
The former; FERDINAND.
LOUISA (who perceives him first, throws herself shrieking into MILLER'S
arms). God! There he is! I am lost!
MILLER. Who? Where?
LOUISA (points, with averted face, to the MAJOR, and presses closer to
her father). 'Tis he! 'Tis he! himself! Look round, father, look
round! --he comes to murder me!
MILLER (perceives him and starts back). How, baron? You here?
FERDINAND (approaches slowly, stands opposite to LOUISA, and fixes a
stern and piercing look upon her. After a pause, he says). Stricken
conscience, I thank thee! Thy confession is dreadful, but swift and
true, and spares me the torment of an explanation! Good evening, Miller!
MILLER. For God's sake! baron, what seek you? What brings you hither?
What means this surprise?
FERDINAND. I knew a time when the day was divided into seconds, when
eagerness for my presence hung upon the weights of the tardy clock, and
when every pulse-throb was counted until the moment of my coming. How is
it that I now surprise?
MILLER. Oh, leave us, leave us, baron! If but one spark of humanity
still linger in your bosom;--if you seek not utterly to destroy her whom
you profess to love, fly from this house, stay not one moment longer.
The blessing of God deserted us when your foot first crossed its
threshold. You have brought misery under a roof where all before was joy
and happiness. Are you not yet content? Do you seek to deepen the wound
which your fatal passion has planted in the heart of my only child?
FERDINAND. Strange father, I have come to bring joyful tidings to your
daughter.
MILLER. Perchance fresh hopes, to add to her despair. Away, away, thou
messenger of ill! Thy looks belie thy words.
FERDINAND. At length the goal of my hopes appears in view! Lady
Milford, the most fearful obstacle to our love, has this moment fled the
land.
My father sanctions my choice. Fate grows weary of persecuting
us, and our propitious stars now blaze in the ascendant--I am come to
fulfil my plighted troth, and to lead my bride to the altar.
MILLER. Dost thou hear him, my child? Dost thou hear him mock at thy
cheated hopes? Oh, truly, baron! It is so worthy of the deceiver to
make a jest of his own crime!
FERDINAND. You think I am jesting? By my honor I am not! My
protestations are as true as the love of my Louisa, and I will keep them
as sacred as she has kept her oaths. Nothing to me is more sacred. Can
you still doubt? Still no joyful blush upon the cheek of my fair bride?
'Tis strange! Falsehood must needs be here the current coin, since truth
finds so little credit. You mistrust my words, it seems? Then read this
written testimony. (He throws LOUISA her letter to the MARSHAL. She
opens it, and sinks upon the floor pale as death. )
MILLER (not observing this). What can this mean, baron? I do not
understand you.
FERDINAND. (leads him to LOUISA). But your daughter has understood me
well.
MILLER (throws himself on his knees beside her). Oh, God! my child!
FERDINAND. Pale as a corpse! 'Tis thus your daughter pleases me the
best. Your demure and virtuous daughter was never half so lovely as with
that deathlike paleness. The blast of the day of judgment, which strips
the varnish from every lie, has wafted the painted colors from her cheek,
or the juggler might have cheated even the angels of light. This is her
fairest countenance. Now for the first time do I see it in its truth.
Let me kiss it. (He approaches her. )
MILLER. Back! Away, boy! Trifle not with a father's feelings. I could
not defend her from your caresses, but I can from your insults.
FERDINAND. What wouldst thou, old man? With thee I have naught to do.
Engage not in a game so irrevocably lost. Or hast thou, too, been wiser
than I thought? Hast thou employed the wisdom of thy sixty years in
pandering to thy daughter's amours, and disgraced those hoary locks with
the office of a pimp? Oh! if it be not so, wretched old man, then lay
thyself down and die. There is still time. Thou mayest breathe by last
in the sweet delusion, "I was a happy father! " Wait but a moment longer
and thine own hand will dash to her infernal home this poisonous viper;
thou wilt curse the gift, and him who gave it, and sink to the grave in
blasphemy and despair. (To LOUISA. ) Speak, wretched one, speak! Didst
thou write this letter?
MILLER (to LOUISA, impressively). For God's sake, daughter, forget not!
forget not!
LOUISA. Oh, father--that letter!
FERDINAND. Oh! that it should have fallen into the wrong hands. Now
blessed be the accident! It has effected more than the most consummate
prudence, and will at the day of judgment avail more than the united
wisdom of sages. Accident, did I say? Oh! Providence directs, when a
sparrow falls, why not when a devil is unmasked? But I will be answered!
Didst thou write that letter?
MILLER (to LOUISA, in a tone of entreaty). Be firm, my child, be firm!
But a single "Yes," and all will be over.
FERDINAND. Excellent! excellent! The father, too, is deceived! All,
all are deceived by her! Look, how the perfidious one stands there; even
her tongue refuses participation in her last lie. I adjure thee by that
God so terrible and true--didst thou write that letter?
LOUISA (after a painful struggle, with firmness and decision). I did!
FERDINAND (stands aghast). No! As my soul liveth, thou hast lied. Even
innocence itself, when extended on the rack, confesses crime which it
never committed--I ask too passionately. Is it not so, Louisa? Thou
didst but confess, because I asked passionately?
LOUISA. I confessed the truth!
FERDINAND. No, I tell thee! No! no! Thou didst not write that letter!
It is not like thy hand! And, even though it were, why should it be more
difficult to counterfeit a writing than to undo a heart? Tell me truly,
Louisa! Yet no, no, do not! Thou mightest say yes again, and then I
were lost forever. A lie, Louisa! A lie! Oh! if thou didst but know
one now--if thou wouldst utter it with that open angelic mien--if thou
wouldst but persuade mine ear and eye, though it should deceive my heart
ever so monstrously! Oh, Louisa! Then might truth depart in the same
breath--depart from our creation, and the sacred cause itself henceforth
bow her stiff neck to the courtly arts of deception.
LOUISA. By the Almighty God! by Him who is so terrible and true! I did!
FERDINAND (after a pause, with the expression of the most heartfelt
sorrow). Woman! Woman! With what a face thou standest now before me!
Offer Paradise with that look, and even in the regions of the damned thou
wilt find no purchaser. Didst thou know what thou wert to me, Louisa?
Impossible! No! thou knewest not that thou wert my all--all! 'Tis a
poor insignificant word! but eternity itself can scarcely circumscribe
it. Within it systems of worlds can roll their mighty orbs. All! and to
sport with it so wickedly. Oh, 'tis horrible.
LOUISA. Baron von Walter, you have heard my confession! I have
pronounced my own condemnation! Now go! Fly from a house where you have
been so unhappy.
FERDINAND. 'Tis well! 'tis well! You see I am calm; calm, too, they
say, is the shuddering land through which the plague has swept. I am
calm. Yet ere I go, Louisa, one more request! It shall be my last. My
brain burns with fever! I need refreshment! Will you make me some
lemonade?
[Exit LOUISA.
SCENE III.
FERDINAND and MILLER.
They both pace up and down without speaking, on opposite sides
of the room, for some minutes.
MILLER (standing still at length, and regarding the MAJOR with a
sorrowful air). Dear baron, perhaps it may alleviate your distress to
say that I feel for you most deeply.
FERDINAND. Enough of this, Miller. (Silence again for some moments. )
Miller, I forget what first brought me to your house. What was the
occasion of it?
MILLER. How, baron? Don't you remember? You came to take lessons on
the flute.
FERDINAND (suddenly). And I beheld his daughter! (Another pause. ) You
have not kept your faith with me, friend! You were to provide me with
repose for my leisure hours; but you betrayed me and sold me scorpions.
(Observing MILLER'S agitation. ) Tremble not, good old man! (falling
deeply affected on his neck)--the fault was none of thine!
MILLER (wiping his eyes). Heaven knows, it was not!
FERDINAND (traversing the room, plunged in the most gloomy meditation).
Strange! Oh! beyond conception strange, are the Almighty's dealings with
us! How often do terrific weights hang upon slender, almost invisible
threads! Did man but know that he should eat death in a particular
apple! Hem! Could he but know that! (He walks a few more turns; then
stops suddenly, and grasps MILLER'S hand with strong emotion. ) Friend, I
have paid dearly for thy lessons--and thou, too, hast been no gainer--
perhaps mayst even lose thy all. (Quitting him dejectedly. ) Unhappy
flute-playing, would that it never entered my brain!
MILLER (striving to repress his feelings). The lemonade is long in
coming. I will inquire after it, if you will excuse me.
FERDINAND. No hurry, dear Miller! (Muttering to himself. ) At least to
her father there is none. Stay here a moment. What was I about to ask
you? Ay, I remember! Is Louisa your only daughter? Have you no other
child?
MILLER (warmly). I have no other, baron, and I wish for no other. That
child is my only solace in this world, and on her have I embarked my
whole stock of affection.
FERDINAND (much agitated). Ha! Pray see for the drink, good Miller!
[Exit MILLER.
SCENE IV.
FERDINAND alone.
FERDINAND.
virtues the word courage, for a maiden will have put thee to shame. "
(MILLER lays down the letter and fixes his eyes upon the ground in deep
sorrow. At length he turns to LOUISA, and says, in a low, broken voice)
Daughter, where is that place?
LOUISA. Don't you know it, father? Do you really not know it? 'Tis
strange! I have described it unmistakably! Ferdinand will not fail to
find it.
MILLER. Pray speak plainer!
LOUISA. I can think of no pleasing name for it just now! You must not
be alarmed, father, if the name I give it has a terrible sound. That
place,----Oh! why has no lover invented a name for it! He would have
chosen the softest, the sweetest--that place, my dear father--but you
must not interrupt me--that place is--the grave!
MILLER (staggering to a seat). Oh, God!
LOUISA (hastens to him, and supports him). Nay, father, be not alarmed!
These are but terrors which hover round an empty word! Take away the
name and the grave will seem to be a bridal-bed over which Aurora spreads
her golden canopy and spring strews her fairest flowers. None but a
groaning sinner pictures death as a skeleton; to others he is a gentle,
smiling boy, blooming as the god of love, but not so false--a silent,
ministering spirit who guides the exhausted pilgrim through the desert of
eternity, unlocks for him the fairy palace of everlasting joy, invites
him in with friendly smiles, and vanishes forever!
MILLER. What meanest thou, my child? Surely, thou wilt not lay guilty
hands on thine own life?
LOUISA. Speak not thus, father! To quit a community from which I am
already rejected, to fly voluntarily to a place from which I cannot much
longer be absent, is that a sin?
MILLER. Suicide is the most horrible of sins, my child. 'Tis the only
one that can never he repented, since death arrives at the moment the
crime is committed.
LOUISA (stands motionless with horror). That is dreadful! But my death
will not be so sudden, father. I will spring into the river, and while
the waters are closing over me, cry to the Almighty for mercy and
forgiveness!
MILLER. That is to say, you will repent the theft as soon as the
treasure is secure! Daughter! Daughter! beware how you mock your God
when you most need his help! Oh! you have gone far, far astray! You have
forgotten the worship of your Creator, and he has withdrawn his
protecting hand from you!
LOUISA. Is it, then, a crime to love, father?
MILLER. So long as thou lovest God thou wilt never love man to idolatry.
Thou hast bowed me down low, my only one! low! very low! perhaps to the
grave! Yet will I not increase the sadness of thy heart. Daughter! I
gave vent to my feelings as I entered. I thought myself alone! Thou
hast overheard me! and why should I longer conceal the truth. Thou wert
my idol! Hear me, Louisa, if there is yet room in thy heart for a
father's feelings. Thou wert my all! Of thine own thou hast nothing
more to lose, but I have my all at stake! My life depends on thee! My
hairs are turning gray, Louisa; they show that the time is drawing nigh
with me when fathers look for a return of the capital invested in the
hearts of their children. Wilt thou defraud me of this, Louisa? Wilt
thou away and bear with thee all the wealth of thy father?
LOUISA (kissing his hand in the deepest emotion). No, father, no! I go
from this world deeply in your debt, and will repay you with usury in the
world to come.
MILLER. Beware, my child, lest thy reckoning should be false! (very
earnestly and solemnly). Art thou certain that we shall meet in that
world to come? Lo! how the color fades from thy cheek! My child must
feel that I can scarcely overtake her in that other world if she hurries
there before me. (LOUISA throws herself shuddering into his arms, he
clasps her warmly to his bosom, and continues in a tone of fervent
adjuration. ) Oh! Louisa! Louisa! Fallen, perhaps already lost,
daughter! Treasure in thy heart the solemn counsels of a father! I
cannot eternally watch over thee! I may snatch the dagger from thy
hands; but thou canst let out life with a bodkin. I may remove poison
from thy reach; but thou canst strangle thyself with a necklace. Louisa!
Louisa! I can only warn thee. Wilt thou rush boldly forward till the
perfidious phantom which lured thee on vanishes at the awful brink of
eternity? Wilt thou dare approach the throne of the Omniscient with the
lie on thy lips? "At thy call am I here, Creator! " while thy guilty eyes
are in search only of their mortal idol! And when thou shalt see this
perishable god of thine own creation, a worm like thee, writhing at the
Almighty's feet; when thou shalt hear him in the awful moment give the
lie to thy guilty daring, and blast thy delusive hopes of eternal mercy,
which the wretch implores in vain for himself; what then! (Louder and
more fervently), What, then, unhappy one? (He clasps her still closer to
his bosom, and gazes upon her with wild and piercing looks; then suddenly
disengages himself. ) I can do no more! (Raising his right hand towards
heaven. ) Immortal Judge, I can do no more to save this soul from ruin!
Louisa, do what thou wilt. Offer up a sacrifice at the altar of this
idolized youth that shall make thy evil genius howl for transport and thy
good angels forsake thee in despair. Go on! Heap sin upon sin,--add to
them this, the last, the heaviest,--and, if the scale be still too light
throw in my curse to complete the measure. Here is a knife; pierce thy
own heart, and (weeping aloud and rushing away), and with it, thy
father's!
LOUISA (following and detaining him). Stay! stay! Oh! father, father! --
to think that affection should wound more cruelly than a tyrant's rage!
What shall I? --I cannot! --what must I do?
MILLER. If thy lover's kisses burn hotter than thy father's tears--then
die!
LOUISA (after a violent internal struggle, firmly). Father! Here is my
hand! I will--God! God! what am I doing! What would I? --father, I
swear. Woe is me! Criminal that I am where'er I turn! Father, be it
so! Ferdinand. God, look down upon the act! Thus I destroy the last
memorial of him. (Tearing the letter. )
MILLER (throwing himself in ecstasy upon her neck). There spoke my
daughter! Look up, my child! Thou hast lost a lover, but thou hast made
a father happy. (Embracing her, and alternately laughing and crying. )
My child! my child! I was not worthy to live so blest a moment! God
knows how I, poor miserable sinner, became possessed of such an angel!
My Louisa! My paradise! Oh! I know but little of love; but that to rend
its bonds must be a bitter grief I can well believe!
LOUISA. But let us hasten from this place, my father! Let us fly from
the city, where my companions scoff at me, and my good name is lost
forever--let us away, far away, from a spot where every object tells of
my ruined happiness,--let us fly if it be possible!
MILLER. Whither thou wilt, my daughter! The bread of the Lord grows
everywhere, and He will grant ears to listen to my music. Yes! we will
fly and leave all behind. I will set the story of your sorrows to the
lute, and sing of the daughter who rent her own heart to preserve her
father's. We will beg with the ballad from door to door, and sweet will
be the alms bestowed by the hand of weeping sympathy!
SCENE II.
The former; FERDINAND.
LOUISA (who perceives him first, throws herself shrieking into MILLER'S
arms). God! There he is! I am lost!
MILLER. Who? Where?
LOUISA (points, with averted face, to the MAJOR, and presses closer to
her father). 'Tis he! 'Tis he! himself! Look round, father, look
round! --he comes to murder me!
MILLER (perceives him and starts back). How, baron? You here?
FERDINAND (approaches slowly, stands opposite to LOUISA, and fixes a
stern and piercing look upon her. After a pause, he says). Stricken
conscience, I thank thee! Thy confession is dreadful, but swift and
true, and spares me the torment of an explanation! Good evening, Miller!
MILLER. For God's sake! baron, what seek you? What brings you hither?
What means this surprise?
FERDINAND. I knew a time when the day was divided into seconds, when
eagerness for my presence hung upon the weights of the tardy clock, and
when every pulse-throb was counted until the moment of my coming. How is
it that I now surprise?
MILLER. Oh, leave us, leave us, baron! If but one spark of humanity
still linger in your bosom;--if you seek not utterly to destroy her whom
you profess to love, fly from this house, stay not one moment longer.
The blessing of God deserted us when your foot first crossed its
threshold. You have brought misery under a roof where all before was joy
and happiness. Are you not yet content? Do you seek to deepen the wound
which your fatal passion has planted in the heart of my only child?
FERDINAND. Strange father, I have come to bring joyful tidings to your
daughter.
MILLER. Perchance fresh hopes, to add to her despair. Away, away, thou
messenger of ill! Thy looks belie thy words.
FERDINAND. At length the goal of my hopes appears in view! Lady
Milford, the most fearful obstacle to our love, has this moment fled the
land.
My father sanctions my choice. Fate grows weary of persecuting
us, and our propitious stars now blaze in the ascendant--I am come to
fulfil my plighted troth, and to lead my bride to the altar.
MILLER. Dost thou hear him, my child? Dost thou hear him mock at thy
cheated hopes? Oh, truly, baron! It is so worthy of the deceiver to
make a jest of his own crime!
FERDINAND. You think I am jesting? By my honor I am not! My
protestations are as true as the love of my Louisa, and I will keep them
as sacred as she has kept her oaths. Nothing to me is more sacred. Can
you still doubt? Still no joyful blush upon the cheek of my fair bride?
'Tis strange! Falsehood must needs be here the current coin, since truth
finds so little credit. You mistrust my words, it seems? Then read this
written testimony. (He throws LOUISA her letter to the MARSHAL. She
opens it, and sinks upon the floor pale as death. )
MILLER (not observing this). What can this mean, baron? I do not
understand you.
FERDINAND. (leads him to LOUISA). But your daughter has understood me
well.
MILLER (throws himself on his knees beside her). Oh, God! my child!
FERDINAND. Pale as a corpse! 'Tis thus your daughter pleases me the
best. Your demure and virtuous daughter was never half so lovely as with
that deathlike paleness. The blast of the day of judgment, which strips
the varnish from every lie, has wafted the painted colors from her cheek,
or the juggler might have cheated even the angels of light. This is her
fairest countenance. Now for the first time do I see it in its truth.
Let me kiss it. (He approaches her. )
MILLER. Back! Away, boy! Trifle not with a father's feelings. I could
not defend her from your caresses, but I can from your insults.
FERDINAND. What wouldst thou, old man? With thee I have naught to do.
Engage not in a game so irrevocably lost. Or hast thou, too, been wiser
than I thought? Hast thou employed the wisdom of thy sixty years in
pandering to thy daughter's amours, and disgraced those hoary locks with
the office of a pimp? Oh! if it be not so, wretched old man, then lay
thyself down and die. There is still time. Thou mayest breathe by last
in the sweet delusion, "I was a happy father! " Wait but a moment longer
and thine own hand will dash to her infernal home this poisonous viper;
thou wilt curse the gift, and him who gave it, and sink to the grave in
blasphemy and despair. (To LOUISA. ) Speak, wretched one, speak! Didst
thou write this letter?
MILLER (to LOUISA, impressively). For God's sake, daughter, forget not!
forget not!
LOUISA. Oh, father--that letter!
FERDINAND. Oh! that it should have fallen into the wrong hands. Now
blessed be the accident! It has effected more than the most consummate
prudence, and will at the day of judgment avail more than the united
wisdom of sages. Accident, did I say? Oh! Providence directs, when a
sparrow falls, why not when a devil is unmasked? But I will be answered!
Didst thou write that letter?
MILLER (to LOUISA, in a tone of entreaty). Be firm, my child, be firm!
But a single "Yes," and all will be over.
FERDINAND. Excellent! excellent! The father, too, is deceived! All,
all are deceived by her! Look, how the perfidious one stands there; even
her tongue refuses participation in her last lie. I adjure thee by that
God so terrible and true--didst thou write that letter?
LOUISA (after a painful struggle, with firmness and decision). I did!
FERDINAND (stands aghast). No! As my soul liveth, thou hast lied. Even
innocence itself, when extended on the rack, confesses crime which it
never committed--I ask too passionately. Is it not so, Louisa? Thou
didst but confess, because I asked passionately?
LOUISA. I confessed the truth!
FERDINAND. No, I tell thee! No! no! Thou didst not write that letter!
It is not like thy hand! And, even though it were, why should it be more
difficult to counterfeit a writing than to undo a heart? Tell me truly,
Louisa! Yet no, no, do not! Thou mightest say yes again, and then I
were lost forever. A lie, Louisa! A lie! Oh! if thou didst but know
one now--if thou wouldst utter it with that open angelic mien--if thou
wouldst but persuade mine ear and eye, though it should deceive my heart
ever so monstrously! Oh, Louisa! Then might truth depart in the same
breath--depart from our creation, and the sacred cause itself henceforth
bow her stiff neck to the courtly arts of deception.
LOUISA. By the Almighty God! by Him who is so terrible and true! I did!
FERDINAND (after a pause, with the expression of the most heartfelt
sorrow). Woman! Woman! With what a face thou standest now before me!
Offer Paradise with that look, and even in the regions of the damned thou
wilt find no purchaser. Didst thou know what thou wert to me, Louisa?
Impossible! No! thou knewest not that thou wert my all--all! 'Tis a
poor insignificant word! but eternity itself can scarcely circumscribe
it. Within it systems of worlds can roll their mighty orbs. All! and to
sport with it so wickedly. Oh, 'tis horrible.
LOUISA. Baron von Walter, you have heard my confession! I have
pronounced my own condemnation! Now go! Fly from a house where you have
been so unhappy.
FERDINAND. 'Tis well! 'tis well! You see I am calm; calm, too, they
say, is the shuddering land through which the plague has swept. I am
calm. Yet ere I go, Louisa, one more request! It shall be my last. My
brain burns with fever! I need refreshment! Will you make me some
lemonade?
[Exit LOUISA.
SCENE III.
FERDINAND and MILLER.
They both pace up and down without speaking, on opposite sides
of the room, for some minutes.
MILLER (standing still at length, and regarding the MAJOR with a
sorrowful air). Dear baron, perhaps it may alleviate your distress to
say that I feel for you most deeply.
FERDINAND. Enough of this, Miller. (Silence again for some moments. )
Miller, I forget what first brought me to your house. What was the
occasion of it?
MILLER. How, baron? Don't you remember? You came to take lessons on
the flute.
FERDINAND (suddenly). And I beheld his daughter! (Another pause. ) You
have not kept your faith with me, friend! You were to provide me with
repose for my leisure hours; but you betrayed me and sold me scorpions.
(Observing MILLER'S agitation. ) Tremble not, good old man! (falling
deeply affected on his neck)--the fault was none of thine!
MILLER (wiping his eyes). Heaven knows, it was not!
FERDINAND (traversing the room, plunged in the most gloomy meditation).
Strange! Oh! beyond conception strange, are the Almighty's dealings with
us! How often do terrific weights hang upon slender, almost invisible
threads! Did man but know that he should eat death in a particular
apple! Hem! Could he but know that! (He walks a few more turns; then
stops suddenly, and grasps MILLER'S hand with strong emotion. ) Friend, I
have paid dearly for thy lessons--and thou, too, hast been no gainer--
perhaps mayst even lose thy all. (Quitting him dejectedly. ) Unhappy
flute-playing, would that it never entered my brain!
MILLER (striving to repress his feelings). The lemonade is long in
coming. I will inquire after it, if you will excuse me.
FERDINAND. No hurry, dear Miller! (Muttering to himself. ) At least to
her father there is none. Stay here a moment. What was I about to ask
you? Ay, I remember! Is Louisa your only daughter? Have you no other
child?
MILLER (warmly). I have no other, baron, and I wish for no other. That
child is my only solace in this world, and on her have I embarked my
whole stock of affection.
FERDINAND (much agitated). Ha! Pray see for the drink, good Miller!
[Exit MILLER.
SCENE IV.
FERDINAND alone.
FERDINAND.
