Chapter VI: Act V: Scene I (1)

Sara's _room_.

Sara (_reclining in an armchair_), Betty.

BETTY.

Do you feel a little better, Miss?

SARA.

Better--I wish only that Mellefont would return! You have sent for him, have you not?

BETTY.

Norton and the landlord have gone for him.

SARA.

Norton is a good fellow, but he is rash. I do not want him by any means to be rude to his master on my account. According to his story, Mellefont is innocent of all this. She follows him; what can he do? She storms, she raves, she tries to murder him. Do you see, Betty, I have exposed him to this danger? Who else but me? And the wicked Marwood at last insisted on seeing me or she would not return to London. Could he refuse her this trifling request? Have not I too often been curious to see Marwood. Mellefont knows well that we are curious creatures. And if I had not insisted myself that she should remain with me until his return, he would have taken her away with him. I should have seen her under a false name, without knowing that I had seen her. And I should perhaps have been pleased with this little deception at some future time. In short, it is all my fault. Well, well, I was frightened; nothing more! The swoon was nothing. You know, Betty, I am subject to such fits.

BETTY.

But I had never seen you in so deep a swoon before.

SARA.

Do not tell me so, please! I must have caused you a great deal of trouble, my good girl.

BETTY.

Marwood herself seemed moved by your danger. In spite of all I could do she would not leave the room, until you had opened your eyes a little and I could give you the medicine.

SARA.

After all I must consider it fortunate that I swooned. For who knows what more I should have had to hear from her! She certainly can hardly have followed me into my room without a purpose! You cannot imagine how terrified I was. The dreadful dream I had last night recurred to me suddenly, and I fled, like an insane woman who does not know why and whither she flies. But Mellefont does not come. Ah!

BETTY.

What a sigh, Miss! What convulsions!

SARA.

God! what sensation was this----

BETTY.

What was that?

SARA.

Nothing, Betty! A pain! Not one pain, a thousand burning pains in one! But do not be uneasy; it is over now!

Scene II.

Norton, Sara, Betty.

NORTON.

Mellefont will be here in a moment.

SARA.

That is well, Norton! But where did you find him?

NORTON.

A stranger had enticed him beyond the town gate, where he said a gentleman waited for him, to speak with him about matters of the greatest importance. After taking him from place to place for a long time, the swindler slunk away from him. It will be bad for him if he lets himself be caught; Mellefont is furious.

SARA.

Did you tell him what has happened?

NORTON.

All.

SARA.

But in such a way!----

NORTON.

I could not think about the way. Enough! He knows what anxiety his imprudence has again caused you.

SARA.

Not so, Norton; I have caused it myself.

NORTON.

Why may Mellefont never be in the wrong? Come in, sir; love has already excused you.

Scene III.

Mellefont, Norton, Sara, Betty.

MELLEFONT.

Ah, Sara! If this love of yours were not----

SARA.

Then I should certainly be the unhappier of the two. If nothing more vexatious has happened to you in your absence than to me, I am happy.

MELLEFONT.

I have not deserved to be so kindly received.

SARA.

Let my weakness be my excuse, that I do not receive you more tenderly. If only for your sake, I would that I was well again.

MELLEFONT.

Ha! Marwood! this treachery too! The scoundrel who led me with a mysterious air from one street to another can assuredly have been a messenger of her only! See, dearest Sara, she employed this artifice to get me away from you. A clumsy artifice certainly, but just from its very clumsiness, I was far from taking it for one. She shall have her reward for this treachery! Quick, Norton, go to her lodgings; do not lose sight of her, and detain her until I come!

SARA.

What for, Mellefont? I intercede for Marwood.

MELLEFONT.

Go! (_Exit_ Norton.)

Scene IV.

Sara, Mellefont, Betty.

SARA.

Pray let the wearied enemy who has ventured the last fruitless assault retire in peace! Without Marwood I should be ignorant of much----

MELLEFONT.

Much? What is the "much?"

SARA.

What you would not have told me, Mellefont! You start! Well, I will forget it again, since you do not wish me to know it.

MELLEFONT.

I hope that you will not believe any ill of me which has no better foundation than the jealousy of an angry slanderer.

SARA.

More of this another time! But why do you not tell me first of all about the danger in which your precious life was placed? I, Mellefont, I should have been the one who had sharpened the sword, with which Marwood had stabbed you.

MELLEFONT.

The danger was not so great. Marwood was driven by blind passion, and I was cool, so her attack could not but fail. I only wish that she may not have been more successful with another attack--upon Sara's good opinion of her Mellefont! I must almost fear it. No, dearest Sara, do not conceal from me any longer what you have learned from her.

SARA.

Well! If I had still had the least doubt of your love, Mellefont, Marwood in her anger would have removed it. She surely must feel that through me she has lost that which is of the greatest value to her; for an uncertain loss would have let her act more cautiously.

MELLEFONT.

I shall soon learn to set some store by her bloodthirsty jealousy, her impetuous insolence, her treacherous cunning! But Sara! You wish again to evade my question and not to reveal to me----

SARA.

I will; and what I said was indeed a step towards it. That Mellefont loves me, then, is undeniably certain. If only I had not discovered that his love lacked a certain confidence, which would be as flattering to me as his love itself. In short, dearest Mellefont--Why does a sudden anxiety make it so difficult for me to speak?--Well, I suppose I shall have to tell it without seeking for the most prudent form in which to say it. Marwood mentioned a pledge of love; and the talkative Norton--forgive him, pray--told me a name--a name, Mellefont, which must rouse in you another tenderness than that which you feel for me.

MELLEFONT.

Is it possible? Has the shameless woman confessed her own disgrace? Alas, Sara, have pity on my confusion! Since you already know all, why do you wish to hear it again from my lips? She shall never come into your sight,--the unhappy child, who has no other fault than that of having such a mother.

SARA.

You love her, then, in spite of all?

MELLEFONT.

Too much, Sara, too much for me to deny it.

SARA.

Ah, Mellefont! How I too love you, for this very love's sake! You would have offended me deeply, if you had denied the sympathy of your blood for any scruples on my account. You have hurt me already in that you have threatened me never to let her come into my sight. No, Mellefont! That you will never forsake Arabella must be one of the promises which you vow to me in presence of the Almighty! In the hands of her mother she is in danger of becoming unworthy of her father. Use your authority over both, and let me take the place of Marwood. Do not refuse me the happiness of bringing up for myself a friend who owes her life to you--a Mellefont of my own sex. Happy days, when my father, when you, when Arabella will vie in your calls on my filial respect, my confiding love, my watchful friendship. Happy days! But, alas! They are still far distant in the future. And perhaps even the future knows nothing of them, perhaps they exist only in my own desire for happiness! Sensations, Mellefont, sensations which I never before experienced, turn my eyes to another prospect. A dark prospect, with awful shadows! What sensations are these? (_puts her hand before her face_.)

MELLEFONT.

What sudden change from exultation to terror! Hasten, Betty! Bring help! What ails you, generous Sara! Divine soul! Why does this jealous hand (_moving it away_) hide these sweet looks from me? Ah, they are looks which unwillingly betray cruel pain. And yet this hand is jealous to hide these looks from me. Shall I not share your pain with you? Unhappy man, that I can only share it--that I may not feel it alone! Hasten, Betty!

BETTY.

Whither shall I hasten?

MELLEFONT.

You see, and yet ask? For help!

SARA.

Stay. It passes over. I will not frighten you again, Mellefont.

MELLEFONT.

What has happened to her, Betty? These are not merely the results of a swoon.

Scene V.

Norton, Mellefont, Sara, Betty.

MELLEFONT.

You are back again already, Norton? That is well! You will be of more use here.

NORTON.

Marwood is gone----

MELLEFONT.

And my curses follow her! She is gone? Whither? May misfortune and death, and, were it possible, a whole hell lie in her path! May Heaven thunder a consuming fire upon her, may the earth burst open under her, and swallow the greatest of female monsters!

NORTON.

As soon as she returned to her lodgings, she threw herself into her carriage, together with Arabella and her maid, and hurried away, at full gallop. This sealed note was left behind for you.

MELLEFONT (_taking the note_).

It is addressed to me. Shall I read it, Sara?

SARA.

When you are calmer, Mellefont.

MELLEFONT.

Calmer? Can I be calmer, before I have revenged myself on her, and before I know that you are out of danger, dearest Sara?

SARA.

Let me not hear of revenge! Revenge is not ours.--But you open the letter? Alas, Mellefont! Why are we less prone to certain virtues with a healthy body, which feels its strength, than with a sick and wearied one? How hard are gentleness and moderation to you, and how unnatural to me appears the impatient heat of passion! Keep the contents for yourself alone.

MELLEFONT.

What spirit is it that seems to compel me to disobey you? I opened it against my will, and against my will I must read it!

SARA (_whilst_ Mellefont _reads to himself_).

How cunningly man can disunite his nature, and make of his passions another being than himself, on whom he can lay the blame for that which in cold blood he disapproves.--The water, Betty! I fear another shock, and shall need it. Do you see what effect the unlucky note has on him? Mellefont! You lose your senses, Mellefont! God! he is stunned! Here, Betty. Hand him the water! He needs it more than I.

MELLEFONT (_pushing_ Betty _back_).

Back, unhappy girl! Your medicines are poison!

SARA.

What do you say? Recover yourself! You do not recognise her.

BETTY.

I am Betty,--take it!

MELLEFONT.

Wish rather, unhappy girl, that you were not she! Quick! Fly, before in default of the guiltier one you become the guilty victim of my rage.

SARA.

What words! Mellefont, dearest Mellefont----

MELLEFONT.

The last "dearest Mellefont" from these divine lips, and then no more for ever! At your feet, Sara----(_throwing himself down_). But why at your feet? (_springing up again_). Disclose it? I disclose it to you? Yes! I will tell you, that you will hate me, that you must hate me! You shall not hear the contents, no, not from me. But you will hear them. You will----Why do you all stand here, stock still, doing nothing? Run, Norton, bring all the doctors? Seek help, Betty! Let your help be as effective as your error! No, stop here! I will go myself----

SARA.

Whither, Mellefont? Help for what? Of what error do you speak?

MELLEFONT.

Divine help, Sara! or inhuman revenge! You are lost, dearest Sara! I too am lost! Would the world were lost with us!

Scene VI.

Sara, Norton, Betty.

SARA.

He is gone! I am lost? What does he mean? Do you understand him, Norton? I am ill, very ill; but suppose the worst, that I must die, am I therefore lost? And why does he blame you, poor Betty? You wring your hands? Do not grieve; you cannot have offended him; he will bethink himself; Had he only done as I wished, and not read the note! He could have known that it must contain the last poisoned words from Marwood.

BETTY.

What terrible suspicion! No, it cannot be. I do not believe it!

NORTON (_who has gone towards the back of the stage_).

Your father's old servant, Miss.

SARA.

Let him come in, Norton.

Scene VII.

Waitwell, Sara, Betty, Norton.

SARA.

I suppose you are anxious for my answer, dear Waitwell. It is ready except a few lines. But why so alarmed? They must have told you that I am ill.

WAITWELL.

And more still.

SARA.

Dangerously ill? I conclude so from Mellefont's passionate anxiety more than from my own feelings. Suppose, Waitwell, you should have to go with an unfinished letter from your unhappy Sara to her still more unhappy father! Let us hope for the best! Will you wait until to-morrow? Perhaps I shall find a few good moments to finish off the letter to your satisfaction. At present, I cannot do so. This hand hangs as if dead by my benumbed side. If the whole body dies away as easily as these limbs----you are an old man, Waitwell, and cannot be far from the last scene. Believe me, if that which I feel is the approach of death, then the approach of death is not so bitter. Ah! Do not mind this sigh! Wholly without unpleasant sensation it cannot be. Man could not be void of feeling; he must not be impatient. But, Betty, why are you so inconsolable?

BETTY.

Permit me, Miss, permit me to leave you.

SARA.

Go; I well know it is not every one who can bear to be with the dying. Waitwell shall remain with me! And you, Norton, will do me a favour, if you go and look for your master. I long for his presence.

BETTY (_going_).

Alas, Norton, I took the medicine from Marwood's hands!

Scene VIII.

Waitwell, Sara.

SARA.

Waitwell, if you will do me the kindness to remain with me, you must not let me see such a melancholy face. You are mute! Speak, I pray! And if I may ask it, speak of my father! Repeat all the comforting words which you said to me a few hours ago. Repeat them to me, and tell me too, that the Eternal Heavenly Father cannot be less merciful. I can die with that assurance, can I not? Had this befallen me before your arrival, how would I have fared? I should have despaired, Waitwell. To leave this world burdened with the hatred of him, who belies his nature when he is forced to hate--what a thought! Tell him that I died with the feelings of the deepest remorse, gratitude and love. Tell him--alas, that I shall not tell him myself--how full my heart is of all the benefits I owe to him. My life was the smallest amongst them. Would that I could yield up at his feet the ebbing portion yet remaining!

WAITWELL.

Do you really wish to see him, Miss?

SARA.

At length you speak--to doubt my deepest, my last desire!

WAITWELL.

Where shall I find the words which I have so long been vainly seeking? A sudden joy is as dangerous as a sudden terror. I fear only that the effect of his unexpected appearance might be too violent for so tender a heart!

SARA.

What do you mean? The unexpected appearance of whom?

WAITWELL.

Of the wished-for one! Compose yourself!

Scene IX.

Sir William Sampson, Sara, Waitwell.

SIR WILLIAM.

You stay too long, Waitwell! I must see her!

SARA.

Whose voice----

SIR WILLIAM.

Oh, my daughter!

SARA.

Oh, my father! Help me to rise, Waitwell, help me to rise that I may throw myself at his feet, (_she endeavours to rise and falls back again into the arm-chair_). Is it he, or is it an apparition sent from heaven like the angel who came to strengthen the Strong One? Bless me, whoever thou art, whether a messenger from the Highest in my father's form or my father himself!

SIR WILLIAM.

God bless thee, my daughter! Keep quiet (_she tries again to throw herself at his feet_). Another time, when you have regained your strength, I shall not be displeased to see you clasp my faltering knees.

SARA.

Now, my father, or never! Soon I shall be no more! I shall be only too happy if I still have a few moments to reveal my heart to you. But not moments--whole days--another life, would be necessary to tell all that a guilty, chastened and repentant daughter can say to an injured but generous and loving father. My offence, and your forgiveness----

SIR WILLIAM.

Do not reproach yourself for your weakness, nor give me credit for that which is only my duty. When you remind me of my pardon, you remind me also of my hesitation in granting it. Why did I not forgive you at once? Why did I reduce you to the necessity of flying from me. And this very day, when I had already forgiven you, what was it that forced me to wait first for an answer from you? I could already have enjoyed a whole day with you if I had hastened at once to your arms. Some latent spleen must still have lain in the innermost recesses of my disappointed heart, that I wished first to be assured of the continuance of your love before I gave you mine again. Ought a father to act so selfishly? Ought we only to love those who love us? Chide me, dearest Sara! Chide me! I thought more of my own joy in you than of you yourself. And if I were now to lose this joy? But who, then, says that I must lose it? You will live; you will still live long. Banish all these black thoughts! Mellefont magnifies the danger. He put the whole house in an uproar, and hurried away himself to fetch the doctors, whom he probably will not find in this miserable place. I saw his passionate anxiety, his hopeless sorrow, without being seen by him. Now I know that he loves you sincerely; now I do not grudge him you any longer. I will wait here for him and lay your hand in his. What I would otherwise have done only by compulsion, I now do willingly, since I see how dear you are to him. Is it true that it was Marwood herself who caused you this terror? I could understand this much from your Betty's lamentations, but nothing more. But why do I inquire into the causes of your illness, when I ought only to be thinking how to remedy it. I see you growing fainter every moment, I see it and stand helplessly here. What shall I do, Waitwell? Whither shall I run? What shall I give her? My fortune? My life? Speak!

SARA.

Dearest father! all help would be in vain! The dearest help, purchased with your life, would be of no avail.

Scene X.

Mellefont, Sara, Sir William, Waitwell.

MELLEFONT.

Do I dare to set my foot again in this room? Is she still alive?

SARA.

Step nearer, Mellefont!

MELLEFONT.

Am I to see your face again? No, Sara; I return without consolation, without help. Despair alone brings me back. But whom do I see? You, Sir? Unhappy father! You have come to a dreadful scene! Why did you not come sooner? You are too late to save your daughter! But, be comforted! You shall not have come too late to see yourself revenged.

SIR WILLIAM.

Do not remember in this moment, Mellefont, that we have ever been at enmity! We are so no more, and we shall never be so again. Only keep my daughter for me, and you shall keep a wife for yourself.

MELLEFONT.

Make me a god, and then repeat your prayer! I have brought so many misfortunes to you already, Sara, that I need not hesitate to announce the last one. You must die! And do you know by whose hand you die?

SARA.

I do not wish to know it--that I can suspect it is already too much----

MELLEFONT.

You must know it, for who could be assured that you did not suspect wrongly? Marwood writes thus: (_he reads_) "When you read this letter, Mellefont, your infidelity will already be punished in its cause. I had made myself known to her and she had swooned with terror. Betty did her utmost to restore her to consciousness. I saw her taking out a soothing-powder, and the happy idea occurred to me of exchanging it for a poisonous one. I feigned to be moved, and anxious to help her, and prepared the draught myself. I saw it given to her, and went away triumphant. Revenge and rage have made me a murderess; but I will not be like a common murderess who does not venture to boast of her deed. I am on my way to Dover; you can pursue me, and let my own handwriting bear witness against me. If I reach the harbour unpursued I will leave Arabella behind unhurt. Till then I shall look upon her as a hostage, Marwood." Now you know all, Sara! Here, Sir, preserve this paper! You must bring the murderess to punishment, and for this it is indispensable.--How motionless he stands!

SARA.

Give me this paper, Mellefont! I will convince myself with my own eyes (_he hands it to her and she looks at it for a moment_). Shall I still have sufficient strength? (_tears it_.)

MELLEFONT.

What are you doing, Sara!

SARA.

Marwood will not escape her fate; but neither you nor my father shall be her accusers. I die, and forgive the hand through which God chastens me. Alas, my father, what gloomy grief has taken hold of you? I love you still, Mellefont, and if loving you is a crime, how guilty shall I enter yonder world! Would I might hope, dearest father, that you would receive a son in place of a daughter! And with him you will have a daughter too, if you will acknowledge Arabella as such. You must fetch her back, Mellefont; her mother may escape. Since my father loves me, why should I not be allowed to deal with this love as with a legacy? I bequeath this fatherly love to you and Arabella. Speak now and then to her of a friend from whose example she may learn to be on her guard against love. A last blessing, my father!--Who would venture to judge the ways of the Highest?--Console your master, Waitwell! But you too stand there in grief and despair, you who lose in me neither a lover nor a daughter?

SIR WILLIAM.

We ought to be giving you courage, and your dying eyes are giving it to us. No more, my earthly daughter--half angel already; of what avail can the blessing of a mourning father be to a spirit upon whom all the blessings of heaven flow? Leave me a ray of the light which raises you so far above everything human. Or pray to God, who hears no prayer so surely as that of a pious and departing soul--pray to Him that this day may be the last of my life also!

SARA.

God must let the virtue which has been tested remain long in this world as an example; only the weak virtue which would perhaps succumb to too many temptations is quickly raised above the dangerous confines of the earth. For whom do these tears flow, my father? They fall like fiery drops upon my heart; and yet--yet they are less terrible to me than mute despair. Conquer it, Mellefont!--My eyes grow dim.--That sigh was the last! But where is Betty?--Now I understand the wringing of her hands.--Poor girl!--Let no one reproach her with carelessness, it is excused by a heart without falsehood, and without suspicion of it.--The moment is come! Mellefont--my father--(_dies_).

MELLEFONT.

She dies! Ah, let me kiss this cold hand once more (_throwing himself at her feet_). No! I will not venture to touch her. The old saying that the body of the slain bleeds at the touch of the murderer, frightens me. And who is her murderer? Am I not he, more than Marwood? (_rises_) She is dead now, Sir; she does not hear us any more. Curse me now. Vent your grief in well-deserved curses. May none of them miss their mark, and may the most terrible be fulfilled twofold! Why do you remain silent? She is dead! She is certainly dead. Now, again, I am nothing but Mellefont! I am no more the lover of a tender daughter, whom you would have reason to spare in him. What is that? I do not want your compassionate looks! This is your daughter! I am her seducer. Bethink yourself, Sir! In what way can I rouse your anger? This budding beauty, who was yours alone, became my prey! For my sake her innocent virtue was abandoned! For my sake she tore herself from the arms of a beloved father! For my sake she had to die! You make me impatient with your forbearance, Sir! Let me see that you are a father!

SIR WILLIAM.

I am a father, Mellefont, and am too much a father not to respect the last wish of my daughter. Let me embrace you, my son, for whom I could not have paid a higher price!

MELLEFONT.

Not so, Sir! This angel enjoined more than human nature is capable of! You cannot be my father. Behold, Sir (_drawing the dagger from his bosom_), this is the dagger which Marwood drew upon me to-day. To my misfortune, I disarmed her. Had I fallen a guilty victim of her jealousy, Sara would still be living. You would have your daughter still, and have her without Mellefont. It is not for me to undo what is done--but to punish myself for it is still in my power! (_he stabs himself and sinks down at_ Sara's _side_.)

SIR WILLIAM.

Hold him, Waitwell! What new blow upon my stricken head! Oh, would that my own might make the third dying heart here.

MELLEFONT (_dying_).

I feel it. I have not struck false. If now you will call me your son and press my hand as such, I shall die in peace. (Sir William _embraces him_.) You have heard of an Arabella, for whom Sara pleaded; I should also plead for her; but she is Marwood's child as well as mine. What strange feeling seizes me? Mercy--O Creator, mercy!

SIR WILLIAM.

If the prayers of others are now of any avail, Waitwell, let us help him to pray for this mercy! He dies! Alas! He was more to pity than to blame.

Scene XI.

Norton, The Others.

NORTON.

Doctors, Sir!----

SIR WILLIAM.

If they can work miracles, they may come in! Let me no longer remain at this deadly spectacle! One grave shall enclose both. Come and make immediate preparations, and then let us think of Arabella. Be she who she may, she is a legacy of my daughter! (_Exeunt_.)

PHILOTAS.

A TRAGEDY IN ONE ACT.

Philotos was written at Berlin in the year 1759. It was never represented, and was probably not intended for the stage. It is here translated for the first time into English.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Aridaeus, _the King_.
Strato, _a General of_ Aridaeus.
Philotas, _a prisoner_.
Parmenio, _a soldier_.

PHILOTAS.

Scene I.

_The scene is laid in a tent in the camp of_ Aridaeus.

PHILOTAS.

Am I really a prisoner? A prisoner? A worthy commencement this of my apprenticeship in war. O ye gods! O my father! How gladly would I persuade myself that all was but a dream! My earliest years have never dreamt of anything but arms and camps, battles and assaults. Could not the youth too be dreaming now of loss and defeat? Do not delude thyself thus, Philotas!--If I did not see, did not feel the wound through which the sword dropped from my palsied hand.--They have dressed it for me against my will! O cruel mercy of a cunning foe! "It is not mortal," said the surgeon, and thought to console me. Wretch, it should be mortal! And one wound only, only one! Did I know that I should make it mortal by tearing it open and dressing it and tearing it open again.--I rave, unhappy wretch. And with what a scornful face--I now recall it--that aged warrior looked at me--who snatched me from my horse! He called me--child! His king, too, must take me for a child, a pampered child. To what a tent he has had me brought! Adorned and provided with comforts of every sort! It must belong to one of his mistresses! A disgusting place for a soldier! And instead of being guarded, I am served. O mocking civility!

Scene II.

Strato. Philotas.

STRATO.

Prince--

PHILOTAS.

Another visitor already? Old man, I like to be alone!

STRATO.

Prince! I come by order of the king.

PHILOTAS.

I understand you! It is true, I am the king's prisoner, and it rests with him how he will have me treated. But listen: if you are the man whose features you bear,--if you are an old and honest warrior, have pity on me, and beg the king to have me treated as a soldier, not as a woman.

STRATO.

He will be with you directly; I come to announce his approach.

PHILOTAS.

The king with me? And you come to announce him? I do not wish that he should spare me one of the humiliations to which a prisoner must submit. Come, lead me to him! After the disgrace of having been disarmed, nothing is disgraceful to me now.

STRATO.

Prince! Your countenance, so full of youthful graces, bespeaks a softer heart!

PHILOTAS.

Mock not my countenance! Your visage, full of scars, is assuredly a more handsome face.

STRATO.

By the gods! A grand answer! I must admire and love you.

PHILOTAS.

I would not object if only you had feared me first.

STRATO.

More and more heroic! We have the most terrible of enemies before us, if there are many like Philotas amongst his youths.

PHILOTAS.

Do not flatter me! To become terrible to you, they must combine greater deeds with my thoughts. May I know your name?

STRATO.

Strato.

PHILOTAS.

Strato? The brave Strato, who defeated my father on the Lycus?

STRATO.

Do not recall that doubtful victory! And how bloodily did your father revenge himself in the plain of Methymna! Such a father must needs have such a son.

PHILOTAS.

To you, the worthiest of my father's enemies, I may bewail my fate! You only can fully understand me; you too, you too have been consumed in your youth by the ambition of the glory--the glory of bleeding for your native land. Would you otherwise be what you are? How have I not begged, implored, conjured him--my father these seven days--for only seven days has the manly toga covered me--conjured him seven times on each of these seven days upon my knees to grant me that I should not in vain have outgrown my childhood,--to let me go with his warriors who had long cost me many a tear of jealousy. Yesterday I prevailed on him, the best of fathers, for Aristodem assisted my entreaties. You know Aristodem; he is my father's Strato.--"Give me this youth, my king, to go with me to-morrow," spoke Aristodem, "I am going to scour the mountains, in order to keep open the way to Caesena." "Would I could accompany you!" sighed my father. He still lies sick from his wounds. "But be it so!" and with these words he embraced me. Ah, what did his happy son feel in that embrace! And the night which followed! I did not close my eyes; and yet dreams of glory and victory kept me on my couch until the second watch. Then I sprang up, threw on my new armour, pushed the uncurled hair beneath the helmet, chose from amongst my father's swords the one which matched my strength, mounted my horse and had tired out one already before the silver trumpet awakened the chosen band. They came, and I spoke with each of my companions, and many a brave warrior there pressed me to his scarred breast. Only with my father I did not speak; for I feared he might retract his word, if he should see me again. Then we marched. By the side of the immortal gods one cannot feel happier than did I by the side of Aristodem. At every encouraging glance from him I would have attacked a host alone, and thrown myself on the certain death of the enemy's swords. In quiet determination I rejoiced at every hill, from which I hoped to discern the enemy in the plain below, at every bend of the valley behind which I flattered myself that we should come upon them. And when at last I saw them rushing down upon us from the woody height,--showed them to my companions with the point of my sword,--flew up the mountain towards them, recall, O renowned warrior, the happiest of your youthful ecstasies, you could never have been happier. But now, now behold me, Strato; behold me ignominiously fallen from the summit of my lofty expectations! O how I shudder to repeat this fall again in thought! I had rushed too far in advance; I was wounded, and--imprisoned! Poor youth, thou hadst prepared thyself only for wounds, only for death,--and thou art made a prisoner! Thus always do the gods, in their severity, send only unforeseen evils to stultify our self-complacency. I weep--I must weep, although I fear to be despised for it by you. But despise me not! You turn away?

STRATO.

I am vexed: you should not move me thus. I become a child with you.

PHILOTAS.

No; hear why I weep! It is no childish weeping which you deign to accompany with your manly tears. What I thought my greatest happiness, the tender love with which my father loves me, will now become my greatest misery. I fear, I fear he loves me more than he loves his empire! What will he not sacrifice, what will not your king exact from him, to rescue me from prison! Through me, wretched youth, will he lose in one day more than he has gained in three long toilsome years with the blood of his noble warriors, with his own blood. With what face shall I appear again before him? I, his worst enemy! And my father's subjects--mine at some future day, if I had made myself worthy to rule them. How will they be able to endure the ransomed prince amongst them without contemptuous scorn. And when I die for shame, and creep unmourned to the shades below, how gloomy and proud will pass by the souls of those heroes who for their king had to purchase with their lives those gains, which, as a father, he renounces for an unworthy son! Oh, that is more than a feeling heart can endure!

STRATO.

Be comforted, dear prince! It is the fault of youth always to think itself more happy or less than it really is. Your fate is not so cruel yet;--the king approaches, you will hear more consolation from his lips.

Scene III.

King Aridaeus, Philotas, Strato.

ARIDAeUS.

The wars which kings are forced to wage together are no personal quarrels. Let me embrace you, prince! Ah what happy days your blooming youth recalls to me! Thus bloomed your father's youth! This was his open, speaking eye; these his earnest, honest features; this his noble bearing! Let me embrace you again; in you I embrace your younger father. Have you never heard from him, prince, what good friends we were at your age? That was the blessed age, when we could still abandon ourselves to our feelings without restraint. But soon we were both called to the throne, and the anxious king, the jealous neighbour, stifled, alas, the willing friend.

PHILOTAS.

Pardon me, O king, if you find me too cold in my reply to such sweet words. My youth has been taught to think, but not to speak. What can it now aid me, that you and my father once were friends? Were! so you say yourself. The hatred which one grafts on an extinguished friendship bears the most deadly fruit of all; or I still know the human heart too little. Do not, therefore, O king, do not prolong my despair. You have spoken as the polished statesman: speak now as the monarch, who has the rival of his greatness completely in: his power.

STRATO.

O king, do not let him be tormented longer by the uncertainty of his fate!

PHILOTAS.

I thank you, Strato! Yes, let me hear at once, I beg you, how despicable you will render an unfortunate son in his father's eyes. With what disgraceful peace, with how many lands shall he redeem him? How small and contemptible shall he become, in order to regain his child? O my father!

ARIDAeUS.

This early, manly language too, prince, was your father's! I like to hear you speak thus. And would that my son, no less worthy of me, spoke thus before your father now.

PHILOTAS.

What mean you by that?

ARIDAeUS.

The gods--I am convinced of it--watch over our virtue, as they watch over our lives. To preserve both as long as possible is their secret and eternal work. Where is the mortal who knows how wicked he is at heart,--how viciously he would act, if they allowed free scope to each treacherous inducement to disgrace himself by little deeds! Yes, prince! Perhaps I might be he, whom you think me; perhaps I might not have sufficient nobleness of thought to use with modesty the strange fortune of war, which delivered you into my hands; perhaps I might have tried through you to exact that for which I would no longer venture to contend by arms; perhaps--but fear nothing; a higher power has forestalled this. Perhaps. I cannot let your father redeem his son more dearly than by--mine.

PHILOTAS.

I am astounded! You give me to understand that----

ARIDAeUS.

That my son is your father's prisoner, as you are mine.

PHILOTAS.

Your son my father's prisoner? Your Polytimet? Since when? How? Where?

ARIDAeUS.

Fate willed it thus! From equal scales it took equal weights at the same time, and the scales are balanced still.

STRATO.

You wish to know more details. Polytimet led the very squadron, towards which you rushed too rashly; and when your soldiers saw that you were lost, rage and despair gave them superhuman strength. They broke through the lines and all assailed the one in whom they saw the compensation for their loss. The end you know! Now accept a word of advice from an old soldier: The assault is not a race; not he who first, but he who most surely meets the enemy, approaches victory. Note this, too ardent prince! otherwise the future hero may be stifled in his earliest bud.

ARIDAeUS.

Strato, you vex the prince with your warning, though it be friendly. How gloomily he stands there!

PHILOTAS.

Not so. But do not mind me. In deep adoration of Providence--

ARIDAeUS.

The best adoration, prince, is grateful joy! Cheer up! We fathers will not long withhold our sons from one another. My herald is now ready; he shall go and hasten the exchange. But you know that joyful tidings, heard from the enemy alone, have the appearance of snares. They might suspect that you, perchance, had died from your wound. It will be necessary, therefore, for you to send a trustworthy messenger to your father with the herald. Come with me! Choose among the prisoners one whom you hold worthy of your confidence.

PHILOTAS.

You wish, then, that I shall detest myself a hundredfold? In each of the prisoners I shall behold myself! Spare me this embarrassment!

ARIDAeUS.

But----

PHILOTAS.

Parmenio must be among the prisoners. Send him to me! I will despatch him.

ARIDAeUS.

Well, be it so! Come, Strato! Prince, we shall see each other soon again!

Scene IV.

PHILOTAS.

O God! the lightning could not have struck nearer without destroying me entirely. Wondrous gods! The flash returns! The vapour passes off, and I was only stunned. My whole misery then was seeing how miserable I might have become--how miserable my father through me!--Now I may appear again before you, my father! But still with eyes cast down; though shame alone will cast them down, and not the burning consciousness of having drawn you down with me to destruction. Now I need fear nothing from you but a smiling reprimand; no silent grief; no curses stifled by the stronger power of paternal love----

But--yes, by Heavens! I am too indulgent towards myself. May I forgive myself all the errors which Providence seems to pardon me? Shall I not judge myself more severely than Providence and my father judge me? All too indulgent judges! All other sad results of my imprisonment the gods could annihilate; one only they could not--the disgrace! It is true they could wipe out that fleeting shame, which falls from the lips of the vulgar crowd: but not the true and lasting disgrace, which the inner judge, my impartial self, pronounces over me!

And how easily I delude myself! Does my father then lose nothing through me?

The weight which the capture of Polytimet must throw into the scale if I were not a prisoner--is that nothing? Only through me does it become nothing! Fortune would have declared for him for whom it should declare;--the right of my father would triumph, if Polytimet was prisoner and not Philotas and Polytimet!

And now--but what was that which I thought just now? Nay, which a god thought within me--I must follow it up! Let me chain thee, fleeting thought! Now I have it again! How it spreads, farther and farther; and now it beams throughout my soul!

What did the king say? Why did he wish that I myself should send a trustworthy messenger to my father? In order that my father should not suspect--yes, thus ran his own words--that I had already died, perchance, from my wounds. He thinks, then, that the affair would take a different aspect, if I had died already from my wound. Would it do so? A thousand thanks for this intelligence. A thousand thanks! Of course it is so. For my father would then have a prince as his prisoner, for whom he could make any claim; and the king, his enemy, would have the body of a captured prince, for which he could demand nothing; which he must have buried or burned, if it should not become an object of disgust to him.

Good! I see that! Consequently, if I, I the wretched prisoner, will still turn the victory into my father's hands--on what does it depend? on death? On nothing more? O truly--the man is mightier than he thinks, the man who knows how to die!

But I? I, the germ, the bud of a man, do I know how to die? Not the man, the grown man alone, knows how to die; the youth also, the boy also; or he knows nothing at all. He who has lived ten years has had ten years time to learn to die; and what one does not learn in ten years, one neither learns in twenty, in thirty, nor in more. All that which I might have been, I must show by what I already am. And what could I, what would I be? A hero! Who is a hero? O my excellent, my absent father, be now wholly present in my soul! Have you not taught me that a hero is a man who knows higher goods than life? A man who has devoted his life to the welfare of the state; himself, the single one, to the welfare of the many? A hero is a man--a man? Then not a youth, my father? Curious question! It is good that my father did not hear it. He would have to think that I should be pleased, if he answered "No" to it. How old must the pine-tree be which has to serve as a mast? How old?--It must be tall enough, and must be strong enough.

Each thing, said the sage who taught me, is perfect if it can fulfil its end. I can fulfil my end, I can die for the welfare of the state; I am therefore perfect, I am a man. A man! although but a few days ago I was still a boy.

What fire rages in my veins? What inspiration falls on me? The breast becomes too narrow for the heart! Patience, my heart! Soon will I give thee space! Soon will I release thee from thy monotonous and tedious task! Soon shalt thou rest, and rest for long!

Who comes? It is Parmenio! Quick! I must decide! What must I say to him? What message must I send my father through him?--Right! that I must say, that message I must send.

Scene V.

Parmenio. Philotas.

PHILOTAS.

Approach, Parmenio! Well? Why so shy--so full of shame? Of whom are you ashamed? Of yourself or of me?

PARMENIO.

Of both of us, prince!

PHILOTAS.

Speak always as you think! Truly, Parmenio, neither of us can be good for much, since we are here. Have you already heard my story?

PARMENIO.

Alas!

PHILOTAS.

And when you heard it?

PARMENIO.

I pitied you, I admired you, I cursed you; I do not know myself what I did.

PHILOTAS.

Yes, yes! But now that you have also learned, as I suppose, that the misfortune is not so great since Polytimet immediately afterwards was----

PARMENIO.

Yes, now; now I could almost laugh! I find that Fate often stretches its arm to terrible length to deal a trifling blow. One might think it wished to crush us, and it has after all done nothing but killed a fly upon our forehead.

PHILOTAS.

To the point. I am to send you to my father with the king's herald.

PARMENIO.

Good! Your imprisonment will then plead for mine. Without the good news which I shall bring him from you, and which is well worth a friendly look, I should have had to promise myself rather a frosty one from him.

PHILOTAS.

No, honest Parmenio; in earnest now! My father knows that the enemy carried you from the battle-field bleeding and half dead. Let him boast who will. He whom approaching death has already disarmed is easily taken captive. How many wounds have you now, old warrior?

PARMENIO.

O, I could cite a long list of them once. But now I have shortened it a good deal.

PHILOTAS.

How so?

PARMENIO.

Ha! I do not any more count the limbs on which I am wounded; to save time and breath I count those which still are whole. Trifles after all! For what else has one bones, but that the enemy's iron should notch itself upon them?

PHILOTAS.

That is bold! But now--what will you say to my father?

PARMENIO.

What I see: that you are well. For your wound, if I have heard the truth----

PHILOTAS.

Is as good as none.

PARMENIO.

A sweet little keepsake. Such as an ardent maid nips in our cheek. Is it not, prince?

PHILOTAS.

What do I know of that?

PARMENIO.

Well, well, time brings experience! Further I will tell your father what I believe you wish----

PHILOTAS.

And what is that?

PARMENIO.

To be with him again as soon as possible. Your childlike longing, your anxious impatience----

PHILOTAS.

Why not home-sickness at once! Knave! Wait and I will teach you to think differently.

PARMENIO.

By Heavens you must not! My dear youthful hero, let me tell you, you are still a child! Do not let the rough soldier so soon stifle in you the loving child! Or else one might not put the best construction on your heart; one might take your valour for inborn ferocity. I also am a father, father of an only son, who is but a little older than you, who with equal ardour--But you know him!

PHILOTAS.

I know him. He promises everything that his father has accomplished.

PARMENIO.

But if I knew that the young rogue did not long for his father at every moment when service leaves him free, and did not long for him as the lamb longs for its dam, I should wish--you see--that I had not begotten him. At present he must love more than respect me. I shall soon enough have to content myself with the respect, when nature guides the stream of his affection in another channel; when he himself becomes a father. Do not grow angry, prince!

PHILOTAS.

Who can grow angry with you? You are right! Tell my father everything which you think a loving son should say to him at such a time. Excuse my youthful rashness, which has almost brought him and his empire to destruction. Beg him to forgive my fault. Assure him that I shall never again remind him of it by a similar fault; that I will do everything that he too may be able to forget it. Entreat him----

PARMENIO.

Leave it to me! Such things we soldiers can say well. And better than a learned orator, for we say it more sincerely. Leave it to me! I know it all already. Farewell, prince! I hasten----

PHILOTAS.

Stop!

PARMENIO.

Well? What means this serious air which you suddenly assume?

PHILOTAS.

The son has done with you, but not yet the prince. The one had to feel; the other has to think! How willingly would the son be again with his father,--his beloved father--this very moment--sooner than were possible; but the prince, the prince cannot.--Listen!

PARMENIO.

The prince cannot?

PHILOTAS.

And will not!

PARMENIO.

Will not?

PHILOTAS.

Listen!

PARMENIO.

I am surprised!

PHILOTAS.

I say, you shall listen and not be surprised. Listen!

PARMENIO.

I am surprised, because I listen. It has lightened, and I expect the thunderbolt. Speak!--But, young prince, no second rashness!

PHILOTAS.

But, soldier, no subtilising! Listen! I have my reasons for wishing not to be redeemed before to-morrow. Not before to-morrow! Do you hear? Therefore tell our king that he shall not heed the haste of our enemy's herald! Tell him that a certain doubt, a certain plan compelled Philotas to this delay. Have you understood me?

PARMENIO.

No!

PHILOTAS.

Not? Traitor!

PARMENIO.

Softly, prince! A parrot does not understand, but he yet recollects what one says to him. Fear not! I will repeat everything to your father that I hear from you.

PHILOTAS.

Ha! I forbade you to subtilise; and that puts you out of humour. But how is it that you are so spoiled? Do all your generals inform you of their reasons?

PARMENIO.

All, prince!--Except the young ones.

PHILOTAS.

Excellent! Parmenio, if I were so sensitive as you----

PARMENIO.

And yet he only to whom experience has given twofold sight can command my blind obedience.

PHILOTAS.

Then I shall soon have to ask your pardon. Well, I ask your pardon, Parmenio! Do not grumble, old man! Be kind again, old father! You are indeed wiser than I am. But not the wisest only have the best ideas. Good ideas are gifts of fortune, and good fortune, as you well know, often gives to the youth rather than to the old man. For Fortune is blind. Blind, Parmenio! Stone blind to all merit. If it were not so, would you not have been a general long ago?

PARMENIO.

How you know how to flatter, prince! But in confidence, beloved prince, do you not wish to bribe me--to bribe me with flatteries?

PHILOTAS.

I flatter? And bribe you? You are the man indeed whom one could bribe!

PARMENIO.

If you continue thus, I may become so. Already I no longer thoroughly trust myself.

PHILOTAS.