Chapter III: Act III: Scene I

The Aulic Counsellor REISSMAN's House.

Enter REISSMAN, with hat and cane.

_Reiss._ Not here neither? (Rings the bell.) Where then can she be,--my young lady, my daughter?

Enter SERVANT.

_Reiss._ Where is my daughter?

_Serv._ In the garden.

_Reiss._ Run and tell her to come directly.

_Serv._ (exit.) Now it is done, (walking up and down pleased.) Now it is right, and--(stops suddenly,) but that perverse old-fashioned fellow, with his pious lamentations--Pshaw! my intended son-in-law must manage him, and that quickly too, or he shall not have the girl. He is in love with her and the money,--a twofold inducement! He is in my hand, because his conscience is not altogether free,--a triple security!

SCENE II.

Enter SOPHIA.

_Soph._ You have ordered--

_Reiss._ I congratulate you, my dear daughter, on your approaching nuptials with the Privy Counsellor. The suit is won; the bequest is confirmed; the money is mine; _Victoria_!

_Soph._ (coldly.) So?

_Reiss._ Yes, truly! Well, what does my dear child say?

_Soph._ You have carried off the prize.

_Reiss._ Yes! that is what I have just said.

_Soph._ Then you have attained your wish.

_Reiss._ Attained your wish! Is that a reply, when 10,000 pounds have fallen to my lot? Is that the behaviour of a daughter to her father on so happy an occasion.

_Soph._ Dear father, will not you permit me to reflect a little on those that have lost that immense sum.

_Reiss._ They are entire strangers to us both, no way related to us.

_Soph._ The legacy was left by a stranger too.

_Reiss._ And now it is mine; and if thou wilt not rejoice with me--

_Soph._ Excuse me, I cannot.

_Reiss._ Then I will call in persons from the street, that they may share my pleasure. (Pauses.) Speak, unnatural child, and rejoice!

_Soph._ I am silent, I do not wish to offend you, I love you with all the tenderness of a dutiful child.

_Reiss._ Would I had a son that knew how to place a due value on this, to enjoy it, to double it, then it would be worth while! But now, when I wish to enjoy the result of all my plans, and the successes I have met with in all my life, I have your sentimental feelings to encounter; and then I would rather relate my happiness to one of the ever-green pyramids in the garden than to you.

_Soph._ O heaven!

_Reiss._ And who is to reap the benefit but you, and you only? When I am gone, you may settle annuities upon all the beggars of the country, travel through the rugged mountains, waste my dear wealth in cottages, and scatter hard dollars like pebbles.

_Soph._ Give me but a sufficient allowance, restore the remainder to Brunnig's children, and I will thank you on my knees.

_Reiss._ Indeed! Aye, if I were to give you the money and the bond, to divide among those brats, it would make a nice anecdote in the newspapers. Zounds! I am apt to think, that, when you come to the possession of all my property, you will scarce do so much as to erect a small monument to the memory of your father.

_Soph._ Alas! Brunnig's children would form the fittest groupe of weeping orphans around such a monument.

_Reiss._ Ungrateful wretch! is this the return for my parental affection? Was it not through the view of gaining this legacy that I raised a deputy to the rank of a privy counsellor? Who is my wealth to devolve to but you and him?

SCENE III.

Enter Privy Counsellor CLARENBACH.

_Reiss._ There he is! Thanks, my hearty thanks for the dispatch! That is what I call business. That is what I call a specimen of a useful son-in-law.--Now Miss may fix the happy day. She will tell us more about it at dinner, I will step down to the cellar, and take care that we shall have the best it can afford. We will pour liquid gold down our throats to solemnize the acquisition of solid gold. [Exit.

SCENE IV.

SOPHIA, Privy Counsellor CLARENBACH.

Sophia wipes her eyes.

_P. Coun._ (after a pause.) Why does my dear Sophia weep?

_Soph._ My father is pleased with you.

_P. Coun._ I see I am the cause of your grief.

_Soph._ Does your conscience tell you so?

_P. Coun._ Your tears do.

_Soph._ (after a pause.) Well, then, answer my tears.

P, Coun. (shrugs up his shoulders.) The dead letter has decided in this business, as it does in many more, where our feelings would decide in a different manner, but dare not.

_Soph._ And dare not!--Further--

_P. Coun._ Further it fills me with the deepest distress to see my Sophia thus distressed. I am not to blame. I would give any thing to alter the circumstance.

_Soph._ Any thing?--do not be offended at this question. It conveys no doubt. It contains my firmest confidence in the heart of the man to whom I am going to tender mine,--to whom I have tendered it already. Yes, Clarenbach, I do not conceal it from you; I could not leave you without giving myself up to those tears.

_P. Coun._ Sophia, my angel! the promised companion of my life, my guardian angel, the most precious gift of providence! How dare I presume to merit your partiality? No! I shall never be able to merit you. Such purity and goodness of mind! how can I convince you of the sincerity of my esteem?

_Soph._ Clarenbach!

_P. Coun._ (takes her by the hand.) Sophia!

_Soph._ A wife has many duties to discharge. And I must tell you before hand, I shall never content myself merely to be your wife, unless I am able to influence you and your actions.

_P. Coun._ To bless those for whom I am to act.

_Soph._ But what will be my powers over you? I know the first generous impulse of your heart is always good; but then ambition,--let me speak truth to you,--avarice, the offspring of ambition, leads you astray, and contaminates the source of your first feelings.

_P. Coun._ (looks aside?) It is so! (after a pause?) Love will buoy me up.

_Soph._ I shall crave little for myself; but in a just cause I shall at all times insist upon having every thing entire. I shall not relent; the man of my heart must act in full; his actions and motives must appear as clear before the eye of the world as they do in the eye of heaven.--Now the question is, will you, on these conditions, give me your hand? Answer me?

_P. Coun._ (drops at his feet.) Sophia!

_Soph._ Rise! I expect no answer from love, but from your conviction. Try your own self. The answer, which you are to give me now, is more than that which you are to give at the foot of the altar; there we are to exchange vows, and all will be settled; but here,--by ourselves,--no witnesses but ourselves,--here, where nothing influences us but the sentiment of future happiness or sorrow, which we create to ourselves, and our eternal responsibility, which, at every motion of the pulse, admonishes us with increased force:--to speak truth,--here we are to unite our hearts for ever,--or separate. Once more then I repeat, on different conditions I will not accept your hand; am I your choice on these conditions!

_P. Coun._ Yes, yes, yes! Do not you read in my eyes that I understand you, that I look up to you as the source of future bliss; that I repent the past; that with candour and faith, from the bottom of my heart, in this delightful solemn moment, I crave your hand, and feel myself quite happy.

_Soph._ Well my friend, my dear, my beloved friend! I give credit to all you say, and feel unspeakably happy; even your failings lie on the road to rare perfections, and I vow to heaven that I hope those failings will soon vanish.

_P. Coun._ You open to me the prospect of paridisic futurity. I shall be active in the promoting the benefit of my country, and rise superior to dirty, narrow, selfish views! recompensed by your approbation, your joys, and sometimes by your tears. Your gentle hand shall reach me the petitions of the wretched, the widow, and the orphan,--and my abilities shall be called forth in their behalf. O Sophia! our wedding day shall long be remembered by the cottagers; every face shall beam with smiles.

_Soph._ May it be so! may we, hand in hand, conduct our vows pure to the altar, that we may become securities to each other for our future happiness. In virtue of your solemn promise, and as your bride, I lay down two conditions previous to our union; if you assent, I will be your wife, not otherwise.

_P. Coun._ Speak, that I may have an opportunity to thank you; to promise and perform.

_Soph._ The first is, that my father, convinced by you, shall instantly? resign the legacy into the hands that ought to receive it.--O Clarenbach! here the daughter must remain silent, and your conviction must finish what would rend my heart! (Privy Counsellor claps his hand together.--Sophia continues after a pause.) The second condition is, that, as I feel I demand much, though convinced I could demand no less,--you shall shorten that state of uncertainty, and by three o'clock this afternoon bring me an answer on that subject. You are not to bring it here; but to the place which this paper (taking out of her pocket a sealed paper) points out. You must not open it till five minutes before three. Pledge me your hand.

_P. Coun._ (pressing her hand.) My word of honour!

_Soph._ (after a pause, during which she has been gazing on him with tenderness, utters in a steady tone,) Adieu, (going,) my friend!

_P. Coun._ (without parting with her hand.) O Sophia, Sophia! what have you demanded!

_Soph._ (having gently disengaged her hand.) The Chief Judge of my country cannot wish to give me the hand which signed the deed that robs orphans of their right! And, if he thinks he has performed his duty as a judge, let him blush as a man, if he means to conduct me and the spoil at one and the same time to his house. If the man, whom I and the people honour, cannot feel so, the sentiment of my own worth will teach me how to forget him. [Exit.

_P. Coun._ Sophia,--girl,--soul, to which I know no equal! thou hast raised and again precipitated me to the deepest abyss. You shewed me a glimpse of heaven, and then veiled the bright view from my enraptured sight. Noble, kind, cruel girl! Oh, I could weep as I did in the first impression of love! (throws himself in a chair.) I could weep virtuous tears! Oh! what now am I, what do I now feel! O the power of pure love!--without thee I cannot exist. (Starts up.) Sophia! better being! forget the past, build thy requests upon the future; they commit murder on thy father and me! (Going, meets Counsellor Wellenberg at the door.)

SCENE V.

Privy Counsellor CLARENBACH, Counsellor WELLENBERG.

_Well._ Most honoured Sir.

_P. Coun._ What is your pleasure, Sir?

_Well._ I am forced, by necessity, to go in quest of you, Sir; the suit of the poor orphans--

_P. Coun._ Is determined; the will is confirmed.

_Well._ I know. (Pulls out a paper.) This is the decree. The oftener I peruse it, and the longer I consider it, the more it resembles a poor chest forced open, beat to pieces, and in the end carried off.

_P. Coun._ You grow impertinent, Sir.

_Well._ No, most honoured Sir! but I am filled with spirit and courage, like an old trusty servant, armed with perseverance and justice in the cause of the orphan, which calls aloud to heaven for redress. That I am, and that you will find me.

_P. Coun._ Do you intend to appeal?

_Well._ Yes, I do, indeed.

_P. Coun._ Well, do so, and leave me.

_Well._ No, no; I will not leave you. I appeal to you, most honoured Sir, not _qua judex_, but _qua homo_, _qua homo_, who believes in the day of judgment, and, at the sound of the last trump, would wish to be called to the right; not to be left among the damned, where many an Aulic Counsellor will be found, I am afraid.

_P. Coun._ I honour the feelings that animate you, Sir; but they are foreign to the affair. Appeal in form, at--

_Well._ To avoid all _replicas_, _duplicas_, _et fatalia_, that may delay and put off the cause, I will put you an _argumentum_, that, _eo ipso_, shall invalidate your sentence, and re-instate the poor children in their right, assigned to them by God and justice.

_P. Coun._ (pauses.) Are you possessed of such an argument? (With surprise.) It will be welcome.

_Well._ Indeed! what you should call truly welcome?--

_P. Coun._ By heaven, very welcome!

_Well._ Then give me the embrace of a good man, (Privy Counsellor goes to embrace him,) without touching my hands, which at this present time labour under the _chiragra_. (Embraces him.) So our town has doubted your humanity, and been of opinion that it is detained as a prisoner in a gold purse.--You blush;--well, that for a Privy Counsellor is a good sign; I will circulate it among the multitude. Now my _argumentum_ is, that--

SCENE VI.

Enter Aulic Counsellor REISSMAN.

_Reiss._ Ay, see there our old honest friend Wellenberg. (Shakes him by the hand.)

_Well._ Oh!--oh dear, oh dear! that God--

_Reiss._ What is the matter?

_Well._ (puts one hand in his bosom.) _Quoad_, old and honest? Yes, _Quoad_, friend?--The _status amicitiæ_ case cannot exist; for, if that were the case, you ought to have known that I am afflicted with the _chiragra_, and not to have squeezed my hands so as to make me cry out in such harsh tones, for which I ought to crave, and do crave, pardon of my most honoured Sir.

_P. Coun._ A particular circumstance has taken place. The gentleman thinks he has found an argument that will invalidate the sentence pronounced in the cause of the disputed legatees, and re-instate the heirs of Brunnig in that property.

_Reiss._ What?

_Well._ Yes, it is so. Doctor Kannenfeld, namely, has been visited by heaven with a severe fit of illness, and brought near the gates of death. Moved by the exhortations of his spiritual director, he sent for me to attend, and, amidst tears and groans, confessed that he has deprived the children of their lawful property--

_P. Coun._ What is that?

_Reiss._ (frightened.) How?

_Well._ Being, by a certain _quidam_, whom the finger of heaven, whilst we are here speaking about the matter, has severely touched, persuaded, and bribed, partly to conceal, and even partly to deny the insanity of the testatrix, at the time when the will was made, which robs the true heirs of their due.

_P. Coun._ (in a low voice.) My God! (Pauses.)

_Well._ It is so.

_Reiss._ (embarrassed) Is Doctor Kannenfeld ill? Ay, ay?

_Well._ He is very ill. He has stated and deposed all the particulars concerning the certain _quidam_.

_Reiss._ Well,--and,--

_Well._ Ay, if I were in your stead, I would say to myself, "True, I have won the cause, but I will not keep what is not mine;" your conscience then would applaud you, and your fellow-citizens would esteem you; you would find consolation under every affliction, and when the cold hand of death had arrested almost every faculty, and benumbed almost every sense, your soul would look up with trembling confidence to heaven. The poor orphans would gather round your dying bed, and weep for their second father. Thus speaks old Wallenberg, gentlemen, whose life has been spent in settling the disputes of this world according to the mild precepts of christianity, a religion that at once consults our happiness here and hereafter. [Exit.

_P. Coun._ (to Reissman.) For heaven's sake!

_Reiss._ Poh! no matter, (Calls after Wellenberg.) Mr. Wellenberg!

_Well._ (turns round, without however coming back.) Well? _P[oe]nitet me?_

_Reiss._ What ails Dr. Kannenfeld?

_Well._ A burning fever.

_Reiss._ So? Ho ho! A burning fever!--ha, ha, ha! old gentleman!--and his intellects? When a man lies in a raging fever, and denounces honest people, what credit ought to be attached to it?

_Well._ _In lucidis intervallis?_

_Reiss._ Burning fever is only another word for madness; the denunciations of a madman is valid only with madmen.

_Well._ Shall I take them in the presence of witnesses? Shall the faculty make an affidavit of the state of his mind?

_Reiss._ Do as you please.

_Well._ And should he die and leave such a deposition?

_Reiss._ Then it is the deposition of a madman.

_Well._ Hem! (musing.) And if, aided by all the courts, I were to put you to an oath concerning the foul means you employed to get that will made in your favour--

_Reiss._ What then?

_Well._ Then you will--

_P. Coun._ It is a disagreeable affair I see; and Mr. Reissman has already declared that at all events he was disposed, through mere benevolence, to give up part of the legacy.

_Reiss._ What?

_Well._ What he means to do, let him do in full, and not by halves.

_Reiss._ Nothing; not a single penny! as you want to compel me, not a single penny! Your sick madman is a calumniator, and so--

_Well._ _Vera laus est laudari a viro laudato._

_Reiss._ Now, do not rouze my passion, but get you gone. In writing, do as you think proper; I shall know what to do on my side.

_Well._ _Fiat!_--Then I will set to work, that the judgment of God may be made manifest on the unjust. [Exit.

SCENE VII.

Privy Counsellor CLARENBACH, Aulic Counsellor REISSMAN.

_P. Coun._ (confused.) Sir, you see me go perplexed--

_Reiss._ Do not you talk, you have spoiled all.

_P. Coun._ I will run after him.

_Reiss._ You shall not, Sir.

_P. Coun._ You are undone.

_Reiss._ Who says so?

_P. Coun._ God forbid you should take the oath.

_Reiss._ Instead of standing there by the side of that insect of the law, like a scholar that has received a wrap over his knuckles, you ought to have thundered him down with the voice of a judge, with influence and authority.

_P. Coun._ But I knew nothing of those shocking circumstances before.

_Reiss._ Hem! As if there was any difference between persuading a foolish woman to make a will, or getting a fellow that is half mad to draw it up. The former, however, you have supposed to be the case, and yet your morality sustained no shock.

_P. Coun._ But the oath?--

_Reiss._ Your pretended delicacy of conscience revolts at it; the mere cowardice of a boy. Who are you, that now takes the part of conscience against me? Are you a better man than I?

_P. Coun._ Whose work is it?

_Reiss._ You are a greater coward, but not the better man. Do not presume to raise yourself an inch above me. You have sold both right and bread.

_P. Coun._ Sir, the pupil may yet recede.

_Reiss._ If the master will let him; but the master holds him in his hand. If he recedes, mind that he must shrink into his original insignificance. He must hide from this world, for I--I shall not fall alone. If I fall, the ground around shall tremble! Do you take me?

_P. Coun._ Horrid and abominable!

_Reiss._ Perhaps you imagine, that I have transformed the carpenter's son into a privy counsellor, merely for the sake of having him for a son-in-law? or because you are master of a tolerable good stile? No, you shall serve me, because you are both good enough and bad enough for the purpose.

_P. Coun._ But I will not, I will not! I say, with all the resolution, with all the exertion of every one of those good feelings which you would sear and benumb.

_Reiss._ Too late. You are so entangled, that you can neither advance nor recede. You are fixed where I have placed you.--Thus much for the present. Now leave me in my native good humour. As to the old lawyer, I can soon manage him, never fear--Get the better of your squeamish conscience, and come to dinner.

_P. Coun._ I cannot.

_Reiss._ I desire it,--I insist upon it.

SCENE VIII.

Enter Counsellor SELLING.

_Sell._ Miss has sent me up;--dinner is on the table.

_Reiss._ Come, gentlemen.

_Sell._ You have won the day.

_Reiss._ Undoubtedly.

_Sell._ I wish you joy.

_Reiss._ Now here is the Privy Counsellor, who puzzles his head about some talk concerning the will.

_Sell._ Ah, that should not puzzle me.

_Reiss._ _Beati possidentes!_ Either, or--

_P. Coun._ Or!---there is the rub.

SCENE IV.

Enter MASTER CLARENBACH.

_Clar._ With your permission, gentlemen, I want to speak with my son.

_Reiss._ By yourselves?

_Clar._ Hem!--I should think so!

_Reiss._ Well, then do not let us wait long. (to the Privy Counsellor, half audible.) You have understood, me sufficiently, I think.--Servant, Master Clarenbach. Come along, Counsellor. [Exeunt.

SCENE X.

PRIVY COUNSELLOR, MASTER CLARENBACH.

_Clar._ I must come to you once more;--have you seen old Wellenberg?

_P. Coun._ Yes.

_Clar._ Well, what do you say about it?

_P. Coun._ I am shocked.

_Clar._ Thank God! What do you mean to do?

_P. Coun._ Alas! what can I do?

_Clar._ Jack, your honour is already in great arrears with our town, and your conscience does not altogether keep a fair day-book. I ask you, in the name of God, what do you mean to do?

_P. Coun._ All I can, father!

_Clar._ If you are in earnest, come along with me; let us go from hence.

_P. Coun._ Why so soon,--and whither?

_Clar._ Fly, fly from the brink of destruction. You must not dine here, you must not remain here any longer. You must not marry into this family.

_P. Coun._ The girl is my good genius. I cannot leave her.

_Clar._ Then her father, that bad genius, will not leave you! Do not struggle between the two. Come along with me; do as you ought; be afraid of no man, confide in God, and hope! You will have the girl at last. Come along with me.

_P. Coun._ I wish I could! were I not at once rivetted down here by the demon of evil, and irresistibly bid to stay by the power of virtue!

_Clar._ Jack, dear Jack, my son, do not send me away without you; come along with me.

_P. Coun._ I cannot; you see I cannot.

_Clar._ God have mercy on thee! thou art undone!

_P. Coun._ It may be. I am undone whether I stay or go. And so I will stay and strive, and see what I can yet retrieve of my honour.

_Clar._ How can you save the honour of your situation in life, if the honour of your heart be lost, and that must be lost among these people?--You have removed honest Gernau, because he acts up to his duty.--Your sister weeps bitterly,--the town despises you;--I have not yet frowned on you. and will not do so now, because I pity you. But I will leave this town, and take shelter with honest Gernau, who is to be my son-in-law.

_P. Coun._ You will leave this town?

_Clar._ I do not wish it. I shall, with tears, leave my timber-yard and the work which hitherto I have carried on with pleasure and success. But as there is no remedy to save you from destruction, I must go. I cannot witness it.

_P. Coun._ Is it my fault, if--

_Clar._ Your faults are many and great; your native town knows them, and despises you. I cannot see you lowered thus, Jack. It has not been in my power to make a great man of you, but I have educated you to be an honest man. I have taken care of the tree, while young, and now it is grown up, one branch decays after the other. And if it must be so, that no green sprig shall henceforth flourish, then I will turn my eyes from it, visit it no more, nor live on the spot where the withered stem, that I am so fond of, shall fall.

_P. Coun._ Father!

_Clar._ I cannot weep; but I feel myself very ill on your account.

Enter a Servant.

_Serv._ The company is waiting for the Privy Counsellor.

_P. Coun._ I am coming. [Exit Servant.

_Clar._ Dear son, do not let me go without you. Behold! you may still go with me as half a good man; we will all strive to mend the other bad half.--Have pity on yourself and me; you stand, upon my word, on the spot where the road divides,--the bad people in there, and here your old father. They hold out to you good and high life; I offer you peace and happiness.--For God's sake, Jack, follow me!

_P. Coun._ (embraces him.) I cannot do that; but I vow to you I will yet do much.

_Clar._ That is a good word, and no more. Farewell, I will set off.--I shall not see you again. Once more give me your hand.

_P. Coun._ No, I shall not do that. I will not part with you in this manner.

_Clar._ It is best so;--it shakes my whole frame,--and my daughter has likewise a claim on my life! Come then once more to this heart, that once delighted in you.--(Embraces him.)

_P. Coun._ Father!--

_Clar._ You weep over yourself! God! that it should come to this!--Now farewell; I forgive thee, and so does thy sister. May God take thy wealth from thee, that thou mayest amend, and sometime leave this world in peace!--Farewell! (Attempts to go.)

SCENE XI.

Enter Aulic Counsellor REISSMAN.

_Reiss._ Well, we are waiting.

_Clar._ (pulling his son towards him.) You would take him away from me,--tear him out of my arms,--drag him away!--he is my son, and no father will tamely suffer his son to precipitate himself into perdition. Jack, I will not leave thee, I will not yield thee up!--Thou art mine, nature and thy heart have closely interwoven us together; wilt thou, of thy own accord, leave me?

_P. Coun._ (throws his arms round him.) No, I cannot;--I will follow you hence!

_Clar._ God be praised, my son is saved!

[Exeunt arm in arm.--Reissman follows them a few steps, sets his arms a-kembow, and looks after them.