And as Mrs. Tree descended the stairs she was met by Mrs. Weight, who broke out saying:
"I've waited most an hour to see that tramp come out. Deacon's away, and I was scairt to death, but I'm a mother and I had to come. How I had the courage I don't know, when I thought you and Mis' Tree might meet my eyes both layin' dead in this entry. Where is he? Don't you help or harbor him now, Direxia Hawkes! I saw his evil eye as he stood on the doorstep, and I knew by the way he peeked and peered that he was after no good. Where is he? I know he didn't go out. Hush! Don't say a word! I'll slip out and round and get Hiram Sawyer. My boys is to singing-school, and it was a special ordering that I happened to look out at the window just that moment of time. Where did you say he—"
"Why, good evening, Malviny, what was it you were saying?"
"I'm sure, Mis' Tree, it's not on my own account I come. I'm the last to intrude, as any one in this village can tell you. But you are an ancient woman, and your neighbors are bound to protect you when need is. I see that tramp come in here with my own eyes, and he's here for no good."
"What tramp?"
"Good land, Mis' Tree, didn't you see him? He slipped right in past Direxia. I see him with these eyes."
"When?"
"'Most an hour ago. I've been watching ever since. Don't tell me you didn't know about him bein' here, Mis' Tree, now don't."
"I won't."
"He's hid away somewheres! Direxia Hawkes has hid him; he is an accomplish of hers. You've always trusted that woman, Mis' Tree, but I tell you I've had my eye on her theseten years, and now I have found her out. She's hid him away somewheres, I tell you. There's cupboards and closets enough in this house to hide a whole gang of cutthroats in—and when you're abed and asleep they'll have your life, them two, and run off with your worldly goods that you thought so much of. Would have, that is, if I hadn't have had a special ordering to look out of the winder. Oh, how thankful should I be that I kept the use of my limbs, though I was scairt 'most to death, and am now."
"Yes, they might be useful to you, to get home with, for instance. There, that will do, Malvina Weight. There is no tramp here. Your eyesight is failing; there were always weak eyes in your family. There's no tramp here, and there has been none."
"Mis' Tree! I tell you I see him with these—"
"Bah! don't talk to me! There is no tramp here and there has been none—what you took for a tramp is a gentleman that's come to stay over night with me—he's upstairs now—did you lock your door, Malvina—There are tramps about and if Ephraim's away—well, good-night, Malvina, if you must go. [She goes out.] Now, Direxia, you shut that door and if that woman calls again to-night you set the parrot on her."
The next morning found Mrs. Tree an early riser and it was with eagerness she greeted her visitor.
"You are better this morning, Willie, yes, you are—now go on and tell me—after all your bad luck you took to drink. That wasn't very sensible, was it?"
"I didn't care," said William Jaquith. "It helped me to forget a bit at a time. I thought I could give it up any day, but I didn't. Then—I lost my place, of course, and started to come East, and had my pocket picked in Denver, of every cent I had. I tried for work there, but between sickness and drink I wasn't good for much. I started tramping. I thought I would tramp—it was last spring, and warm weather comingon—till I'd got my health back, and then I'd steady down and get some work, and come back to mother when I was fit to look her in the face. Then—in some place, I forget—I came upon a King's County paper with mother's death in it."
"What!"
"O! I know I wasn't fit to see her—but I lost all hope then."
"Why don't you give up drink?"
"Where's the use? I would if there were any use, but mother is dead."
"Cat's foot—fiddlestick—folderol—fudge! She's no more dead than I am. Don't talk to me! Hold on to yourself now, Willie Jaquith, and don't make a scene; it is a thing I cannot abide. It was Maria Jaquith that died, over at East Corners. Small loss she was, too. None of that family was ever worth their salt. The fool who writes for the papers put her in 'Mary,' and gave out that she died here in Elmerton just because they brought her here to bury. They've always buried here in the family lot, as if they were of some account. I was afraid you might hear of it, Willie, and wrote to the last place I heard of you in, but of course it was of no use. Mary Jaquith is alive, I tell you. Now where are you going?"
"To mother!"
"Yes, I would! Sit down, Willie Jaquith; do as I tell you! There! feel pretty well, hey? Your mother is blind."
"Oh, mother! mother! I have left her alone all this time."
"Exactly! Now don't go into a caniption, because it won't do any good. Here comes Direxia with your breakfast—you eat it and then we'll go and see your mother."
Out of doors the morning was bright and clear. Mrs. Malvina Weight, sweeping her front chamber, with an anxious eye on the house opposite, saw the door open and Mrs. Tree come out, followed by a tall young man. The old lady wore the huge black velvet bonnet, surmounted by a bird of paradise, whichshe had brought from Paris forty years before, and an India shawl which had pointed a moral to the pious of Elmerton for more than that length of time. Mrs. Weight's curiosity knew no bounds when she saw them turn into the old Jaquith place. She would have been more astounded if she could have heard Mrs. Tree begin at once with:
"Well, Mary Jaquith, here you sit!"
"Mrs. Tree! Is this you?" asked Mrs. Jaquith; "my dear soul, what brings you out so early in the morning? Come in! come in! who is with you?"
"I didn't say any one was with me! Don't you go to setting double-action ears like mine, Mary, because you are not old enough to. How are you? Obstinate as ever?"
"Take this chair, it's the one you always like. How am I obstinate, dear Mrs. Tree?"
"If I've asked you once to come and live with me, I've asked you fifty times," grumbled the old lady, sitting down with a good deal of flutter and rustle. "There I must stay, left alone at my age, with nobody but that old goose of a Direxia Hawkes to look after me. And all because you like to be independent. Set you up! Well, I shan't ask you again, and so I've come to tell you, Mary Jaquith."
"Dear old friend, you forgive me, I know. You never can have thought for a moment, seriously, that I could be a burden on your kind hands. There surely is some one with you, Mrs. Tree! Is it Direxia? Please be seated, whoever it is."
There was a slight sound, as of a sob checked in the outbreak. Mrs. Tree shook her head fiercely. The blind woman rose from her seat, very pale.
"Who is it? Be kind, please, and tell me."
"I'm going to tell you," said Mrs. Tree, "if you will have patience for two minutes, and not drive every idea out of my head with your talk. I had a visitor last night, Mary—some one came to see me—an old acquaintance—some one whohad seen Willie lately. Now Mary Jaquith, if you don't sit down,—well, of all the unreasonable women I ever saw!"
The blind woman had stretched out her arms with a heavenly gesture of appeal,—of welcome, of love unutterable,—and in a moment more her son's arms were about her and he was crying over and over again, "Mother, mother, mother!" as if he could not have enough of that word.
FOOTNOTE:[79]An adaptation by Grace Arlington Owen.
[79]An adaptation by Grace Arlington Owen.
[79]An adaptation by Grace Arlington Owen.
Midnight past! Not a sound of aughtThrough the silent house, but the wind at his prayers.I sat by the dying fire, and thoughtOf the dear dead woman upstairs.A night of tears! for the gusty rainHad ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet;And the moon looked forth, as though in pain,With her face all white and wet:Nobody with me, my watch to keep,But the friend of my bosom, the man I love:And grief had sent him fast to sleepIn the chamber up above.Nobody else, in the country placeAll round, that knew of my loss beside,But the good young priest with the Raphael-face,Who confessed her when she died.The good young priest is of gentle nerve,And my grief had moved him beyond control;For his lips grew white, as I could observe,When he speeded her parting soul.I sat by the dreary hearth alone;I thought of the pleasant days of yore.I said, "The staff of my life is gone;The woman I loved is no more."On her cold, dead bosom my portrait liesWhich next to her heart she used to wear,—Haunting it o'er with her tender eyesWhen my own face was not there."It is set all round with rubies red,And pearls which a Peri might have kept;For each ruby there my heart hath bled;For each pearl my eyes have wept."And I said, "The thing is precious to me,They will bury her soon in the church-yard clay;It lies on her heart, and lost must be,If I do not take it away."I lighted my lamp at the dying flame,And crept up the stairs that creaked from fright,Till into the chamber of death I came,Where she lay all in white.The moon shone over her winding-sheet.There, stark she lay on her carven bed;Seven burning tapers about her feet,And seven about her head.As I stretched my hand, I held my breath;I turned as I drew the curtains apart;I dared not look on the face of death,I knew where to find her heart.I thought, at first, as my touch fell there,It had warmed that heart to life, with love;For the thing I touched was warm, I swear,And I could feel it move.'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slowO'er the heart of the dead,—from the other side;And at once the sweat broke over my brow,"Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried.Opposite me, by the tapers' light,The friend of my bosom, the man I loved,Stood over the corpse, and all as white,And neither of us moved."What do you here, my friend?" ... The manLooked first at me, and then at the dead."There is a portrait here," he began;"There is. It is mine," I said.Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt,The portrait was, till a month ago,When this suffering angel took that out,And placed mine there, I know.""This woman, she loved me well," said I."A month ago," said my friend to me;"And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!"He answered ... "Let us see.""Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide:And whosesoever the portrait prove,His shall it be, when the cause is tried,Where Death is arraigned by Love."We found the portrait there in its place;We opened it, by the tapers' shine;The gems were all unchanged; the faceWas—neither his nor mine."One nail drives out another, at least!The face of the portrait there," I cried,"Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young priest,Who confessed her when she died."The setting is all of rubies red,And pearls which a Peri might have kept;For each ruby there my heart hath bled;For each pearl my eyes have wept.
Midnight past! Not a sound of aughtThrough the silent house, but the wind at his prayers.I sat by the dying fire, and thoughtOf the dear dead woman upstairs.
Midnight past! Not a sound of aught
Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers.
I sat by the dying fire, and thought
Of the dear dead woman upstairs.
A night of tears! for the gusty rainHad ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet;And the moon looked forth, as though in pain,With her face all white and wet:
A night of tears! for the gusty rain
Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet;
And the moon looked forth, as though in pain,
With her face all white and wet:
Nobody with me, my watch to keep,But the friend of my bosom, the man I love:And grief had sent him fast to sleepIn the chamber up above.
Nobody with me, my watch to keep,
But the friend of my bosom, the man I love:
And grief had sent him fast to sleep
In the chamber up above.
Nobody else, in the country placeAll round, that knew of my loss beside,But the good young priest with the Raphael-face,Who confessed her when she died.
Nobody else, in the country place
All round, that knew of my loss beside,
But the good young priest with the Raphael-face,
Who confessed her when she died.
The good young priest is of gentle nerve,And my grief had moved him beyond control;For his lips grew white, as I could observe,When he speeded her parting soul.
The good young priest is of gentle nerve,
And my grief had moved him beyond control;
For his lips grew white, as I could observe,
When he speeded her parting soul.
I sat by the dreary hearth alone;I thought of the pleasant days of yore.I said, "The staff of my life is gone;The woman I loved is no more.
I sat by the dreary hearth alone;
I thought of the pleasant days of yore.
I said, "The staff of my life is gone;
The woman I loved is no more.
"On her cold, dead bosom my portrait liesWhich next to her heart she used to wear,—Haunting it o'er with her tender eyesWhen my own face was not there.
"On her cold, dead bosom my portrait lies
Which next to her heart she used to wear,—
Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes
When my own face was not there.
"It is set all round with rubies red,And pearls which a Peri might have kept;For each ruby there my heart hath bled;For each pearl my eyes have wept."
"It is set all round with rubies red,
And pearls which a Peri might have kept;
For each ruby there my heart hath bled;
For each pearl my eyes have wept."
And I said, "The thing is precious to me,They will bury her soon in the church-yard clay;It lies on her heart, and lost must be,If I do not take it away."
And I said, "The thing is precious to me,
They will bury her soon in the church-yard clay;
It lies on her heart, and lost must be,
If I do not take it away."
I lighted my lamp at the dying flame,And crept up the stairs that creaked from fright,Till into the chamber of death I came,Where she lay all in white.
I lighted my lamp at the dying flame,
And crept up the stairs that creaked from fright,
Till into the chamber of death I came,
Where she lay all in white.
The moon shone over her winding-sheet.There, stark she lay on her carven bed;Seven burning tapers about her feet,And seven about her head.
The moon shone over her winding-sheet.
There, stark she lay on her carven bed;
Seven burning tapers about her feet,
And seven about her head.
As I stretched my hand, I held my breath;I turned as I drew the curtains apart;I dared not look on the face of death,I knew where to find her heart.
As I stretched my hand, I held my breath;
I turned as I drew the curtains apart;
I dared not look on the face of death,
I knew where to find her heart.
I thought, at first, as my touch fell there,It had warmed that heart to life, with love;For the thing I touched was warm, I swear,And I could feel it move.
I thought, at first, as my touch fell there,
It had warmed that heart to life, with love;
For the thing I touched was warm, I swear,
And I could feel it move.
'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slowO'er the heart of the dead,—from the other side;And at once the sweat broke over my brow,"Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried.
'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow
O'er the heart of the dead,—from the other side;
And at once the sweat broke over my brow,
"Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried.
Opposite me, by the tapers' light,The friend of my bosom, the man I loved,Stood over the corpse, and all as white,And neither of us moved.
Opposite me, by the tapers' light,
The friend of my bosom, the man I loved,
Stood over the corpse, and all as white,
And neither of us moved.
"What do you here, my friend?" ... The manLooked first at me, and then at the dead."There is a portrait here," he began;"There is. It is mine," I said.
"What do you here, my friend?" ... The man
Looked first at me, and then at the dead.
"There is a portrait here," he began;
"There is. It is mine," I said.
Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt,The portrait was, till a month ago,When this suffering angel took that out,And placed mine there, I know."
Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt,
The portrait was, till a month ago,
When this suffering angel took that out,
And placed mine there, I know."
"This woman, she loved me well," said I."A month ago," said my friend to me;"And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!"He answered ... "Let us see."
"This woman, she loved me well," said I.
"A month ago," said my friend to me;
"And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!"
He answered ... "Let us see."
"Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide:And whosesoever the portrait prove,His shall it be, when the cause is tried,Where Death is arraigned by Love."
"Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide:
And whosesoever the portrait prove,
His shall it be, when the cause is tried,
Where Death is arraigned by Love."
We found the portrait there in its place;We opened it, by the tapers' shine;The gems were all unchanged; the faceWas—neither his nor mine.
We found the portrait there in its place;
We opened it, by the tapers' shine;
The gems were all unchanged; the face
Was—neither his nor mine.
"One nail drives out another, at least!The face of the portrait there," I cried,"Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young priest,Who confessed her when she died."
"One nail drives out another, at least!
The face of the portrait there," I cried,
"Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young priest,
Who confessed her when she died."
The setting is all of rubies red,And pearls which a Peri might have kept;For each ruby there my heart hath bled;For each pearl my eyes have wept.
The setting is all of rubies red,
And pearls which a Peri might have kept;
For each ruby there my heart hath bled;
For each pearl my eyes have wept.
True!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object, there was none. Passion, there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture—a pale-blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees—very gradually—Imade up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid my life of him forever.
Now, this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it—oh, so gently! and then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly—very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon the bed. Ha!—would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously—oh, so cautiously—cautiously (for the hinges creaked) I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights—every night just at midnight—but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his evil eye.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back—but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.
I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in the bed crying out—"Who's there?"
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down.
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief—oh, no!—it was the low, stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not.
When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little—a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it—you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily—until at length a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye.
It was open—wide, wide open—and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness—all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person; for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the spot.
Now, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed; I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo ofthe heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous; so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst.
And now a new anxiety seized me—the sound could be heard by a neighbor! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once—once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gayly to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.
If you still think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse.
I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye—not even his—could have detected anything wrong.
When I had made an end of these labors it was four o'clock—still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart—for what had I now to fear? Then entered three men who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, asofficers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and the officers had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled—for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search—search well. I led them at length to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.
The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. But ere long I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct; it continued and gained definitiveness—until at length I found that the noise was not within my ears.
No doubt I grew very pale; but I talked more fluently and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath—and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men—but the noise steadily increased. O God! what could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder—louder—louder. And still the men chatted pleasantly and smiled. Was it possible they heard not?
They heard!—they suspected!—they knew!—they were making a mockery of my horror! this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die!—and now—again!—hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!
"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed—tear up the planks! here! here! it is the beating of his hideous heart!"
I had an uncle once—a manOf threescore years and three,And when my reason's dawn began,He'd take me on his knee,And often talk, whole winter nights,Things that seemed strange to me.He was a man of gloomy mood,And few his converse sought;But, it was said, in solitudeHis conscience with him wrought;And then, before his mental eye,Some hideous vision brought.There was not one in all the houseWho did not fear his frown,Save I, a little, careless child,Who gamboled up and down,And often peeped into his room,And plucked him by his gown.I was an orphan and alone—My father was his brother,And all their lives I knew that theyHad fondly loved each other;And in my uncle's room there hungThe picture of my mother.There was a curtain over it—'Twas in a darkened place,And few or none had ever lookedUpon my mother's face;Or seen her pale, expressive smileOf melancholy grace.One night—I do remember well,The wind was howling high,And through the ancient corridorsIt sounded drearily;I sat and read in that old hall;My uncle sat close by.I read—but little understoodThe words upon the book,For with a sidelong glance I markedMy uncle's fearful look,And saw how all his quivering frameIn strong convulsions shook.A silent terror o'er me stole,A strange, unusual dread;His lips were white as bone—his eyesSunk far down in his head;He gazed on me, but 'twas the gazeOf the unconscious dead.Then suddenly he turned him round,And drew aside the veilThat hung before my mother's face;Perchance my eyes might fail,But ne'er before that face to meHad seemed so ghastly pale."Come hither, boy!" my uncle said—I started at the sound;'Twas choked and stifled, in his throat,And hardly utterance found;"Come hither, boy!" then fearfullyHe cast his eyes around."That lady was thy mother once—Thou wert her only child;O God! I've seen her when she heldThee in her arms and smiled—She smiled upon thy father, boy,'Twas that which drove me wild!"He was my brother, but his formWas fairer far than mine;I grudged not that;—he was the propOf our ancestral line,And manly beauty was of himA token and a sign."Boy! I had loved her too—nay, more,'Twas I who loved her first;For months—for years—the golden thoughtWithin my soul was nursed;He came—he conquered—they were wed—My air-blown bubble burst!"Then on my mind a shadow fell,And evil hopes grew rife;The damning thought stuck in my heart,And cut me like a knife,That she, whom all my days I loved,Should be another's wife!"I left my home—I left the land—I crossed the raging sea;In vain—in vain—where'er I turned,My memory went with me;My whole existence, night and day,In memory seemed to be."I came again, I found them here—Thou'rt like thy father, boy—He doted on that pale face there,I've seen them kiss and toy—I've seen him locked in her fond arms,Wrapped in delirious joy!"By Heaven! it was a fearful thing,To see my brother now,And mark the placid calm that satForever on his brow,That seemed in bitter scorn to say,I am more loved than thou!"He disappeared—draw nearer, child!—He died—no one knew how;The murdered body ne'er was found,The tale is hushed up now;But there was one who rightly guessedThe hand that struck the blow."It drove her mad—yet not his death—No—not his death alone;For she had clung to hope, when allKnew well that there was none;No, boy! it was a sight she sawThat froze her into stone!"I am thy uncle, child—why stareSo frightfully aghast?—The arras waves, but know'st thou not'Tis nothing but the blast?I, too, have had my fears like these,But such vain fears are past."I'll show thee what thy mother saw—I feel 'twill ease my breast,And this wild tempest-laden nightSuits with the purpose best.Come hither—thou hast often soughtTo open this old chest."It has a secret spring; the touchIs known to me alone;Slowly I raise the lid, and now—What see you, that you groanSo heavily? That thing is butA bare-ribbed skeleton."A sudden crash—the lid fell down—Three strides he backward gave,"Oh, God! it is my brother's selfReturning from the grave!His grasp of lead is on my throat—Will no one help or save?"That night they laid him on his bed,In raving madness tossed;He gnashed his teeth, and with wild oathsBlasphemed the Holy Ghost;And, ere the light of morning broke,A sinner's soul was lost.
I had an uncle once—a manOf threescore years and three,And when my reason's dawn began,He'd take me on his knee,And often talk, whole winter nights,Things that seemed strange to me.
I had an uncle once—a man
Of threescore years and three,
And when my reason's dawn began,
He'd take me on his knee,
And often talk, whole winter nights,
Things that seemed strange to me.
He was a man of gloomy mood,And few his converse sought;But, it was said, in solitudeHis conscience with him wrought;And then, before his mental eye,Some hideous vision brought.
He was a man of gloomy mood,
And few his converse sought;
But, it was said, in solitude
His conscience with him wrought;
And then, before his mental eye,
Some hideous vision brought.
There was not one in all the houseWho did not fear his frown,Save I, a little, careless child,Who gamboled up and down,And often peeped into his room,And plucked him by his gown.
There was not one in all the house
Who did not fear his frown,
Save I, a little, careless child,
Who gamboled up and down,
And often peeped into his room,
And plucked him by his gown.
I was an orphan and alone—My father was his brother,And all their lives I knew that theyHad fondly loved each other;And in my uncle's room there hungThe picture of my mother.
I was an orphan and alone—
My father was his brother,
And all their lives I knew that they
Had fondly loved each other;
And in my uncle's room there hung
The picture of my mother.
There was a curtain over it—'Twas in a darkened place,And few or none had ever lookedUpon my mother's face;Or seen her pale, expressive smileOf melancholy grace.
There was a curtain over it—
'Twas in a darkened place,
And few or none had ever looked
Upon my mother's face;
Or seen her pale, expressive smile
Of melancholy grace.
One night—I do remember well,The wind was howling high,And through the ancient corridorsIt sounded drearily;I sat and read in that old hall;My uncle sat close by.
One night—I do remember well,
The wind was howling high,
And through the ancient corridors
It sounded drearily;
I sat and read in that old hall;
My uncle sat close by.
I read—but little understoodThe words upon the book,For with a sidelong glance I markedMy uncle's fearful look,And saw how all his quivering frameIn strong convulsions shook.
I read—but little understood
The words upon the book,
For with a sidelong glance I marked
My uncle's fearful look,
And saw how all his quivering frame
In strong convulsions shook.
A silent terror o'er me stole,A strange, unusual dread;His lips were white as bone—his eyesSunk far down in his head;He gazed on me, but 'twas the gazeOf the unconscious dead.
A silent terror o'er me stole,
A strange, unusual dread;
His lips were white as bone—his eyes
Sunk far down in his head;
He gazed on me, but 'twas the gaze
Of the unconscious dead.
Then suddenly he turned him round,And drew aside the veilThat hung before my mother's face;Perchance my eyes might fail,But ne'er before that face to meHad seemed so ghastly pale.
Then suddenly he turned him round,
And drew aside the veil
That hung before my mother's face;
Perchance my eyes might fail,
But ne'er before that face to me
Had seemed so ghastly pale.
"Come hither, boy!" my uncle said—I started at the sound;'Twas choked and stifled, in his throat,And hardly utterance found;"Come hither, boy!" then fearfullyHe cast his eyes around.
"Come hither, boy!" my uncle said—
I started at the sound;
'Twas choked and stifled, in his throat,
And hardly utterance found;
"Come hither, boy!" then fearfully
He cast his eyes around.
"That lady was thy mother once—Thou wert her only child;O God! I've seen her when she heldThee in her arms and smiled—She smiled upon thy father, boy,'Twas that which drove me wild!
"That lady was thy mother once—
Thou wert her only child;
O God! I've seen her when she held
Thee in her arms and smiled—
She smiled upon thy father, boy,
'Twas that which drove me wild!
"He was my brother, but his formWas fairer far than mine;I grudged not that;—he was the propOf our ancestral line,And manly beauty was of himA token and a sign.
"He was my brother, but his form
Was fairer far than mine;
I grudged not that;—he was the prop
Of our ancestral line,
And manly beauty was of him
A token and a sign.
"Boy! I had loved her too—nay, more,'Twas I who loved her first;For months—for years—the golden thoughtWithin my soul was nursed;He came—he conquered—they were wed—My air-blown bubble burst!
"Boy! I had loved her too—nay, more,
'Twas I who loved her first;
For months—for years—the golden thought
Within my soul was nursed;
He came—he conquered—they were wed—
My air-blown bubble burst!
"Then on my mind a shadow fell,And evil hopes grew rife;The damning thought stuck in my heart,And cut me like a knife,That she, whom all my days I loved,Should be another's wife!
"Then on my mind a shadow fell,
And evil hopes grew rife;
The damning thought stuck in my heart,
And cut me like a knife,
That she, whom all my days I loved,
Should be another's wife!
"I left my home—I left the land—I crossed the raging sea;In vain—in vain—where'er I turned,My memory went with me;My whole existence, night and day,In memory seemed to be.
"I left my home—I left the land—
I crossed the raging sea;
In vain—in vain—where'er I turned,
My memory went with me;
My whole existence, night and day,
In memory seemed to be.
"I came again, I found them here—Thou'rt like thy father, boy—He doted on that pale face there,I've seen them kiss and toy—I've seen him locked in her fond arms,Wrapped in delirious joy!
"I came again, I found them here—
Thou'rt like thy father, boy—
He doted on that pale face there,
I've seen them kiss and toy—
I've seen him locked in her fond arms,
Wrapped in delirious joy!
"By Heaven! it was a fearful thing,To see my brother now,And mark the placid calm that satForever on his brow,That seemed in bitter scorn to say,I am more loved than thou!
"By Heaven! it was a fearful thing,
To see my brother now,
And mark the placid calm that sat
Forever on his brow,
That seemed in bitter scorn to say,
I am more loved than thou!
"He disappeared—draw nearer, child!—He died—no one knew how;The murdered body ne'er was found,The tale is hushed up now;But there was one who rightly guessedThe hand that struck the blow.
"He disappeared—draw nearer, child!—
He died—no one knew how;
The murdered body ne'er was found,
The tale is hushed up now;
But there was one who rightly guessed
The hand that struck the blow.
"It drove her mad—yet not his death—No—not his death alone;For she had clung to hope, when allKnew well that there was none;No, boy! it was a sight she sawThat froze her into stone!
"It drove her mad—yet not his death—
No—not his death alone;
For she had clung to hope, when all
Knew well that there was none;
No, boy! it was a sight she saw
That froze her into stone!
"I am thy uncle, child—why stareSo frightfully aghast?—The arras waves, but know'st thou not'Tis nothing but the blast?I, too, have had my fears like these,But such vain fears are past.
"I am thy uncle, child—why stare
So frightfully aghast?—
The arras waves, but know'st thou not
'Tis nothing but the blast?
I, too, have had my fears like these,
But such vain fears are past.
"I'll show thee what thy mother saw—I feel 'twill ease my breast,And this wild tempest-laden nightSuits with the purpose best.Come hither—thou hast often soughtTo open this old chest.
"I'll show thee what thy mother saw—
I feel 'twill ease my breast,
And this wild tempest-laden night
Suits with the purpose best.
Come hither—thou hast often sought
To open this old chest.
"It has a secret spring; the touchIs known to me alone;Slowly I raise the lid, and now—What see you, that you groanSo heavily? That thing is butA bare-ribbed skeleton."
"It has a secret spring; the touch
Is known to me alone;
Slowly I raise the lid, and now—
What see you, that you groan
So heavily? That thing is but
A bare-ribbed skeleton."
A sudden crash—the lid fell down—Three strides he backward gave,"Oh, God! it is my brother's selfReturning from the grave!His grasp of lead is on my throat—Will no one help or save?"
A sudden crash—the lid fell down—
Three strides he backward gave,
"Oh, God! it is my brother's self
Returning from the grave!
His grasp of lead is on my throat—
Will no one help or save?"
That night they laid him on his bed,In raving madness tossed;He gnashed his teeth, and with wild oathsBlasphemed the Holy Ghost;And, ere the light of morning broke,A sinner's soul was lost.
That night they laid him on his bed,
In raving madness tossed;
He gnashed his teeth, and with wild oaths
Blasphemed the Holy Ghost;
And, ere the light of morning broke,
A sinner's soul was lost.
The selections in this division are cut, condensed, and adapted for practical use as dramas or monologues. In some cases lines of the text as well as explanations are written in to connect the scenes for clearer unity. For scenes from Shakespeare and readings from the Bible, already universally printed and accessible, see the indexes and directions as to the omissions of lines in various cuttings in Fulton and Trueblood's "Choice Readings," published by Messrs. Ginn & Company.
The selections in this division are cut, condensed, and adapted for practical use as dramas or monologues. In some cases lines of the text as well as explanations are written in to connect the scenes for clearer unity. For scenes from Shakespeare and readings from the Bible, already universally printed and accessible, see the indexes and directions as to the omissions of lines in various cuttings in Fulton and Trueblood's "Choice Readings," published by Messrs. Ginn & Company.
CHARACTERS: Hans Matthis, keeper of "the Merry Andrew"; Dr. Frantz, the magnetizer; the Judge.SCENE: Alsatia, in a hamlet at the foot of the mountains; Christmas, 1868; a room in an inn. Matthis, a prosperous burgomaster, recalls with friends the murder of a Polish Jew, fifteen years before. He wonders that the murderer has never been apprehended. The sound of sleigh bells is heard and the apparition of the Jew appears. Matthis is prostrated by the incident and consults a mesmerist, Dr. Frantz, who assures him that he has power to compel a criminal to divulge his secret thought. Matthis isolates himself and sleeps alone to avoid eavesdropping. On the night of his daughter's wedding he makes payment of her dowry, and as the money is laid on the table a sleigh bell falls from among the gold coins. He seeks his own room, falls asleep and dreams that he is before the court and that Dr. Frantz is mesmerizing him.
CHARACTERS: Hans Matthis, keeper of "the Merry Andrew"; Dr. Frantz, the magnetizer; the Judge.
SCENE: Alsatia, in a hamlet at the foot of the mountains; Christmas, 1868; a room in an inn. Matthis, a prosperous burgomaster, recalls with friends the murder of a Polish Jew, fifteen years before. He wonders that the murderer has never been apprehended. The sound of sleigh bells is heard and the apparition of the Jew appears. Matthis is prostrated by the incident and consults a mesmerist, Dr. Frantz, who assures him that he has power to compel a criminal to divulge his secret thought. Matthis isolates himself and sleeps alone to avoid eavesdropping. On the night of his daughter's wedding he makes payment of her dowry, and as the money is laid on the table a sleigh bell falls from among the gold coins. He seeks his own room, falls asleep and dreams that he is before the court and that Dr. Frantz is mesmerizing him.
EnterMatthis
Mat.Happy fellow! happy fellows all of them! A man may play against fate if he only prepares his cards—I hold none but good ones in my hand. Ha, ha! They have theirskins full of my best wine, and go home happy as kings. Ha, ha! there'll be some funny flounderings in the snow before they reach home. It's singular what magic is melted into wine—one draught, and all the clouds are sunshine. It's dark! it's very dark—and, though the wind has fallen, the fine snow sweeps down the road like a train of phantoms. All is well! You may shake hands with yourself, Hans Matthis! you have triumphed over both the world and Heaven! I am so sleepy! If I rest here a—a moment? Ah! One is always drowsy in cold weather. No one can hear me if I speak—in a dream—no one—the Jew!—dreams, nonsense! [Sleeps.]
EnterDr. Frantzand theJudge
Dr. F. My lord, it is the will of this tribunal which leads me here, not mine.
Judge. Can you place that man in the mesmeric sleep?
Dr. F. I can. But he is strong-willed, and the task may be hard.
Mat. No, no! I have no fear. [Shudders; aside.] Matthis, if you fall asleep you will be lost!
Dr. F. [toMatthis]. I will that you should sleep! [Makes magnetic passes while looking atMatthis.]
Mat. No, no!
Dr. F. It is my will. He sleeps. What must I ask?
Judge. What he did on Christmas Eve, fifteen years ago.
Dr. F. I command you to be on the night of December the four-and-twentieth, year 1853.
Mat. [softly]. Yes.
Dr. F. What is the hour?
Mat. It is half-past eleven o'clock.
Dr. F. Speak! It is my will!
Mat. The customers have left the inn. Catherine and little Annette have gone to bed. Kaspar comes in and says—thefire in the lime-kiln is drawing well. I answer: "Very good. Go to bed. I'll go have a look at it." He goes up stairs. I am alone with the Polish Jew, who is warming himself at the stove. All are asleep in the village. All I heard was the sleigh-bell jingling on the Polander's horse in the shed. There was two feet of snow on the ground. I thought of my want of money. If I did not have three thousand francs by the end of the month, the inn would be taken from me. I thought—no one is on the road—'tis night, and the Polander will be all alone in the snow. He is well-built, and strong. [As if he saw the man before him.] I warrant he will hold out stoutly if any one touches him. Ah! he looks at me with his little gray eyes. I must do my work! Yes. I shall risk it! I go out. It is black as ink, except for the falling snow. There would be no footsteps in the road. I search his sledge—he might have had pistols! but there are none. I will do it! Hark! no—not a sound, save a child crying—a goat bleating—and the tramp overhead of the Polander in his chamber. I went in. He comes down, and puts six francs on the table. I give him change. He looks a long look at me, and asks how far to Mootzig? Four short leagues, say I—and wish him a merry journey! He answers: "God bless you!" [Pause.] Ho, ho! the belt! the money-belt! He goes—he has gone! [Matthisstooping, goes a few steps as if following a trail.] The axe—where is the axe? Ah! here—behind the door! How cold it is! Still falls the snow, and far above, I see the shooting stars. Haste, Matthis, for the prize—the money-belt! I follow—out of the village—to the open—how cold it is! [Shivers.] Yonder looms up the big bridge—there ripples the rivulet out of sight under the snow. How the dogs bayed, on Daniel's farm! and the blacksmith's forge glowed red on the hill-side like a setting sun. Matthis, slay not the man! You are mad! You will be rich, and your wife and child will want for nothing! The Polander had no business to flaunt his money-belt in yourface, when you owe money! The bridge! I am already at the bridge! And no one! how still it is! how cold! though I am warm—Hark! one o'clock by the village church! and the moon is rising! Oh! the Jew has passed, and I am right glad of it! No! what do I hear? the bell! the sleigh-bell. I shall be rich, I shall be rich, rich, rich! [The bell tinkles.] Down! I have you, dog of a Jew! He has his score settled! Not a finger stirs. All is over! Ah! Away rushes the horse with the sledge! but silently—the bell has been shaken off! Hark, hark—a step! No! only the wind and a fall of snow. Quick, quick, the money-belt! 'tis full! it bursts with my eager clutch! ah! the coins have fallen! here, here and there! And now for home! no, no—the body—it must not tell its story! [Rolls up the mantle and puts it on his shoulder.] Hush! the kiln, the lime-kiln. It is heavy! Into the fire. Jew! fire and flames for the Jew! Oh! what eyes! with what eyes does he regard me! Be a man, Matthis, look! look boldly! not even his bones are left! Now, away with the belt—pocket the gold—that's right! No one will ever know. The proofs are gone forever!
Dr. F.What more shall he be asked?
Judge.No more. Wake him and let him see himself. [Matthissits in the chair as at first.]
Dr. F.Awake! I will it.
Mat.Where am I? Ah, yes—what have I done? Wretch! I have confessed it all! I am a lost man!
Judge.You stand self-condemned! Inasmuch as Hans Matthis, on the morning of the 25th of December, 1853, between the hours of midnight and one o'clock, committed the crime of murder and highway robbery upon the person of Baruch Koweski, with malice prepense, we condemn him to be hanged by the neck till death shall ensue. And may Heaven have mercy on his soul! Usher, let the executioner appear and take charge of the condemned.
[Curtain.
Characters: Pauline Deschappelles, the beautiful daughter and heiress of an aspiring merchant of Lyons, France; Claude Melnotte, the gardener's son, madly in love with Pauline.Pauline aspires to an alliance with some prince or nobleman. Melnotte in the hope of winning her uses his small inheritance in educating himself and becomes an accomplished scholar, a skillful musician, a poet, and an artist. He pours forth his worship in a poem, but his suit is rejected and he is subjected to violent insult. Stung to remorse he enters into a plot to personate a prince, woo her in that guise, and take her as a bride to his mother's cottage on their wedding night. And, in the faint hope of winning her as a prince and keeping her love as an untitled man after he has revealed his identity, Melnotte enters into a binding compact.Scene: The garden of M. Deschappelles' house at Lyons.
Characters: Pauline Deschappelles, the beautiful daughter and heiress of an aspiring merchant of Lyons, France; Claude Melnotte, the gardener's son, madly in love with Pauline.
Pauline aspires to an alliance with some prince or nobleman. Melnotte in the hope of winning her uses his small inheritance in educating himself and becomes an accomplished scholar, a skillful musician, a poet, and an artist. He pours forth his worship in a poem, but his suit is rejected and he is subjected to violent insult. Stung to remorse he enters into a plot to personate a prince, woo her in that guise, and take her as a bride to his mother's cottage on their wedding night. And, in the faint hope of winning her as a prince and keeping her love as an untitled man after he has revealed his identity, Melnotte enters into a binding compact.
Scene: The garden of M. Deschappelles' house at Lyons.
EnterMelnotteas the Prince of Como, leadingPauline
Mel.You can be proud of your connection with one who owes his position to merit—not birth.
Pauline.Why, yes; but still—
Mel.Still what, Pauline?
Pauline.There is something glorious in the heritage of command. A man who has ancestors is like a representative of the past.
Mel.True; but, like other representatives, nine times out of ten he is a silent member. Ah, Pauline! not to the past, but to the future, looks true nobility, and finds its blazon in posterity.
Pauline.You say this to please me, who have no ancestors; but you, prince, must be proud of so illustrious a race!
Mel.No, no! I would not, were I fifty times a prince, be a pensioner on the dead! I honor birth and ancestry when they are regarded as the incentives to exertion, not the title-deeds to sloth! I honor the laurels that overshadow the graves of ourfathers—it is our fathers I emulate, when I desire that beneath the evergreen I myself have planted my own ashes may repose! Dearest! couldst thou but see with my eyes!
Pauline.I cannot forego pride when I look on thee, and think that thou lovest me. Sweet Prince, tell me again of thy palace by the lake of Como; it is so pleasant to hear of thy splendors since thou didst swear to me that they would be desolate without Pauline; and when thou describest them, it is with a mocking lip and a noble scorn, as if custom had made thee disdain greatness.
Mel.Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paintThe home to which, could love fulfill its prayers,This hand would lead thee, listen! A deep valeShut out by Alpine hills from the rude world;Near a clear lake, margin'd by fruits of goldAnd whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies,As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows,As I would have thy fate!Pauline.My own dear love!Mel.A palace lifting to eternal summerIts marble walls, from out a glossy bowerOf coolest foliage, musical with birds,Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noonWe'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonderWhy Earth could be unhappy, while the HeavensStill left us youth and love! We'd have no friendsThat were not lovers; no ambition, saveTo excel them all in love; we'd read no booksThat were not tales of love—that we might smileTo think how poorly eloquence of wordsTranslates the poetry of hearts like ours!And when night came, amidst the breathless HeavensWe'd guess what star should be our home when loveBecomes immortal; while the perfumed lightStole through the mist of alabaster lamps,And every air was heavy with the sighsOf orange groves and music from sweet lutes,And murmurs of low fountains that gush forthI' the midst of roses!—Dost thou like the picture?Pauline.Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hangUpon the honey of thy eloquent tongue!Am I not blest? And if I love too wildly,Who would not love thee like Pauline?Mel.Oh, false one!It is the prince thou lovest, not the man;If in the stead of luxury, pomp, and power,I had painted poverty, and toil, and care,Thou hadst found no honey on my tongue; Pauline,That is not love.Pauline.Thou wrong'st me, cruel Prince!At first, in truth, I might not have been won,Save through the weakness of a flatter'd pride;But now—oh! trust me—couldst thou fall from powerAnd sink—Mel.As low as that poor gardener's sonWho dared to lift his eyes to thee?Pauline.Even then,Methinks thou wouldst be only made more dearBy the sweet thought that I could prove how deepIs woman's love! We are like the insects, caughtBy the poor glittering of a garish flame;But, oh, the wings once scorch'd, the brightest starLures us no more; and by the fatal lightWe cling till death!Mel.Angel! [Aside.] O conscience! conscience!It must not be—her love hath grown a tortureWorse than her hate. I will at once to Beauseant,And—ha! he comes. Sweet love, one moment leave me.I have business with these gentlemen—I—IWill forthwith join you.Pauline.I obey, sweet Prince.[Exit separately.
Mel.Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paintThe home to which, could love fulfill its prayers,This hand would lead thee, listen! A deep valeShut out by Alpine hills from the rude world;Near a clear lake, margin'd by fruits of goldAnd whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies,As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows,As I would have thy fate!
Mel.
Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paint
The home to which, could love fulfill its prayers,
This hand would lead thee, listen! A deep vale
Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world;
Near a clear lake, margin'd by fruits of gold
And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies,
As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows,
As I would have thy fate!
Pauline.My own dear love!
Pauline.
My own dear love!
Mel.A palace lifting to eternal summerIts marble walls, from out a glossy bowerOf coolest foliage, musical with birds,Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noonWe'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonderWhy Earth could be unhappy, while the HeavensStill left us youth and love! We'd have no friendsThat were not lovers; no ambition, saveTo excel them all in love; we'd read no booksThat were not tales of love—that we might smileTo think how poorly eloquence of wordsTranslates the poetry of hearts like ours!And when night came, amidst the breathless HeavensWe'd guess what star should be our home when loveBecomes immortal; while the perfumed lightStole through the mist of alabaster lamps,And every air was heavy with the sighsOf orange groves and music from sweet lutes,And murmurs of low fountains that gush forthI' the midst of roses!—Dost thou like the picture?
Mel.
A palace lifting to eternal summer
Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower
Of coolest foliage, musical with birds,
Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon
We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder
Why Earth could be unhappy, while the Heavens
Still left us youth and love! We'd have no friends
That were not lovers; no ambition, save
To excel them all in love; we'd read no books
That were not tales of love—that we might smile
To think how poorly eloquence of words
Translates the poetry of hearts like ours!
And when night came, amidst the breathless Heavens
We'd guess what star should be our home when love
Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light
Stole through the mist of alabaster lamps,
And every air was heavy with the sighs
Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes,
And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth
I' the midst of roses!—Dost thou like the picture?
Pauline.Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hangUpon the honey of thy eloquent tongue!Am I not blest? And if I love too wildly,Who would not love thee like Pauline?
Pauline.
Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang
Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue!
Am I not blest? And if I love too wildly,
Who would not love thee like Pauline?
Mel.Oh, false one!It is the prince thou lovest, not the man;If in the stead of luxury, pomp, and power,I had painted poverty, and toil, and care,Thou hadst found no honey on my tongue; Pauline,That is not love.
Mel.
Oh, false one!
It is the prince thou lovest, not the man;
If in the stead of luxury, pomp, and power,
I had painted poverty, and toil, and care,
Thou hadst found no honey on my tongue; Pauline,
That is not love.
Pauline.Thou wrong'st me, cruel Prince!At first, in truth, I might not have been won,Save through the weakness of a flatter'd pride;But now—oh! trust me—couldst thou fall from powerAnd sink—
Pauline.
Thou wrong'st me, cruel Prince!
At first, in truth, I might not have been won,
Save through the weakness of a flatter'd pride;
But now—oh! trust me—couldst thou fall from power
And sink—
Mel.As low as that poor gardener's sonWho dared to lift his eyes to thee?
Mel.
As low as that poor gardener's son
Who dared to lift his eyes to thee?
Pauline.Even then,Methinks thou wouldst be only made more dearBy the sweet thought that I could prove how deepIs woman's love! We are like the insects, caughtBy the poor glittering of a garish flame;But, oh, the wings once scorch'd, the brightest starLures us no more; and by the fatal lightWe cling till death!
Pauline.
Even then,
Methinks thou wouldst be only made more dear
By the sweet thought that I could prove how deep
Is woman's love! We are like the insects, caught
By the poor glittering of a garish flame;
But, oh, the wings once scorch'd, the brightest star
Lures us no more; and by the fatal light
We cling till death!
Mel.Angel! [Aside.] O conscience! conscience!It must not be—her love hath grown a tortureWorse than her hate. I will at once to Beauseant,And—ha! he comes. Sweet love, one moment leave me.I have business with these gentlemen—I—IWill forthwith join you.
Mel.
Angel! [Aside.] O conscience! conscience!
It must not be—her love hath grown a torture
Worse than her hate. I will at once to Beauseant,
And—ha! he comes. Sweet love, one moment leave me.
I have business with these gentlemen—I—I
Will forthwith join you.
Pauline.I obey, sweet Prince.[Exit separately.
Pauline.
I obey, sweet Prince.
[Exit separately.
Characters: Pauline, Claude, and the Widow Melnotte, the mother of Claude.Scene: Melnotte's cottage, widow bustling about, a table spread for supper.
Characters: Pauline, Claude, and the Widow Melnotte, the mother of Claude.
Scene: Melnotte's cottage, widow bustling about, a table spread for supper.
Widow. So, I think that looks very neat. He sent me a line, so blotted that I can scarcely read it, to say he would be here almost immediately. She must have loved him well indeed to have forgotten his birth; for though he was introduced to her in disguise, he is too honorable not to have revealed to her the artifice; which her love only could forgive. Well, I do not wonder at it; for though my son is not a prince, he ought to be one, and that's almost as good. [Knock at door.] Ah! here they are.
EnterMelnotteandPauline
Widow. Oh, my boy—the pride of my heart!—welcome, welcome. I beg pardon, ma'am, but I do love him so!
Pauline. Good woman, I really—why, Prince, what is this?—does the old lady know you? Oh, I guess you have done her some service. Another proof of your kind heart; is it not?
Mel. Of my kind heart, ay!
Pauline. So you know the Prince?
Widow. Know him, madam? Ah, I begin to fear it is you who know him not!
Pauline. Can we stay here, my lord? I think there's something very wild about her.
Mel. Madam, I—no, I cannot tell her; what a coward isa man who has lost his honor! Speak to her—speak to her—[to his mother] tell her that—O Heaven, that I were dead!
Pauline. How confused he looks!—this strange place!—this woman—what can it mean?—I half suspect—who are you, madam?—who are you? can't you speak? are you struck dumb?
Widow. Claude, you have not deceived her? Ah, shame upon you! I thought that, before you went to the altar, she was to have known all.
Pauline. All! what! My blood freezes in my veins!
Widow. Poor lady—dare I tell her, Claude? Know you not, then, madam, that this young man is of poor though honest parents? Know you not that you are wedded to my son, Claude Melnotte?
Pauline. Your son! hold—hold! do not speak to me. [ApproachesMelnotte.] Is this a jest? is it? I know it is, only speak—one word—one look—one smile. I cannot believe—I who loved thee so—I cannot believe that thou art such a—no, I will not wrong thee by a harsh word! Speak.
Mel. Leave us. [ToWidow.] Have pity on her, on me; leave us!
Widow. Oh, Claude, that I should live to see thee bowed by shame! thee of whom I was so proud!
[Exit.
Pauline. Her son—her son!