MRS MILLER. Scold as long as you will. I know what I know, and what the major said he said.
MILLER (s.n.a.t.c.hes up his fiddle in anger). Will you hold your tongue?
Shall I throw my fiddle at your head? What can you know? What can he have said? Take no notice of her clack, kinsman! Away with you to your kitchen! You"ll not think me first cousin of a fool, and that I"m looking out so high for the girl? You"ll not think that of me, Mr.
Secretary?
WORM. Nor have I deserved it of you, Mr. Miller! You have always shown yourself a man of your word, and my contract to your daughter was as good as signed. I hold an office that will maintain a thrifty manager; the president befriends me; the door to advancement is open to me whenever I may choose to take advantage of it. You see that my intentions towards Miss Louisa are serious; if you have been won over by a fop of rank----
MRS MILLER. Mr. Seckertary! more respect, I beg----
MILLER. Hold your tongue, I say. Never mind her, kinsman. Things remain as they were. The answer I gave you last harvest, I repeat to-day. I"ll not force my daughter. If you suit her, well and good; then it"s for her to see that she can be happy with you. If she shakes her head--still better--be it so, I should say--then you must be content to pocket the refusal, and part in good fellowship over a bottle with her father. "Tis the girl who is to live with you--not I. Why should I, out of sheer caprice, fasten a husband upon the girl for whom she has no inclination? That the evil one may haunt me down like a wild beast in my old age--that in every drop I drink--in every bit of bread I bite, I might swallow the bitter reproach: Thou art the villain who destroyed his child"s happiness!
MRS MILLER. The short and the long of it is--I refuse my consent downright; my daughter"s intended for a lofty station, and I"ll go to law if my husband is going to be talked over.
MILLER. Shall I break every bone in your body, you millclack?
WORM (to MILLER). Paternal advice goes a great way with the daughter, and I hope you know me, Mr. Miller?
MILLER. Plague take you! "Tis the girl must know you. What an old crabstick like me can see in you is just the very last thing that a dainty young girl wants. I"ll tell you to a hair if you"re the man for an orchestra--but a woman"s heart is far too deep for a music-master.
And then, to be frank with you--you know that I"m a blunt, straightforward fellow--you"ll not give thank"ye for my advice. I"ll persuade my daughter to no one--but from you Mr. Sec--I would dissuade her! A lover who calls upon the father for help--with permission--is not worth a pinch of snuff. If he has anything in him, he"ll be ashamed to take that old-fashioned way of making his deserts known to his sweetheart. If he hasn"t the courage, why he"s a milksop, and no Louisas were born for the like of him. No! he must carry on his commerce with the daughter behind the father"s back. He must manage so to win her heart, that she would rather wish both father and mother at Old Harry than give him up--or that she come herself, fall at her father"s feet, and implore either for death on the rack, or the only one of her heart.
That"s the fellow for me! that I call love! and he who can"t bring matters to that pitch with a petticoat may--stick the goose feather in his cap.
WORM (seizes hat and stick and hurries out of the room). Much obliged, Mr. Miller!
MILLER (going after him slowly). For what? for what? You haven"t taken anything, Mr. Secretary! (Comes back.) He won"t hear, and off he"s gone. The very sight of that quill-driver is like poison and brimstone to me. An ugly, contraband knave, smuggled into the world by some lewd prank of the devil--with his malicious little pig"s eyes, foxy hair, and nut-cracker chin, just as if Nature, enraged at such a bungled piece of goods, had seized the ugly monster by it, and flung him aside. No!
rather than throw away my daughter on a vagabond like him, she may--G.o.d forgive me!
MRS MILLER. The wretch!--but you"ll be made to keep a clean tongue in your head!
MILLER. Ay, and you too, with your pestilential baron--you, too, must put my bristles up. You"re never more stupid than when you have the most occasion to show a little sense. What"s the meaning of all that trash about your daughter being a great lady? If it"s to be cried out about the town to-morrow, you need only let that fellow get scent of it. He is one of your worthies who go sniffing about into people"s houses, dispute upon everything, and, if a slip of the tongue happen to you, skurry with it straight to the prince, mistress, and minister, and then there"s the devil to pay.
SCENE III.
Enter LOUISA with a book in her hand.
LOUISA. Good morning, dear father!
MILLER (affectionately). Bless thee, my Louisa! I rejoice to see thy thoughts are turned so diligently to thy Creator. Continue so, and his arm will support thee.
LOUISA. Oh! I am a great sinner, father! Was he not here, mother?
MRS MILLER. Who, my child?
LOUISA. Ah! I forgot that there are others in the world besides him--my head wanders so. Was he not here? Ferdinand?
MILLER (with melancholy, serious voice). I thought my Louisa had forgotten that name in her devotions?
LOUISA (after looking at him steadfastly for some time). I understand you, father. I feel the knife which stabs my conscience; but it comes too late. I can no longer pray, father. Heaven and Ferdinand divide my bleeding soul, and I fear--I fear--(after a pause). Yet no, no, good father. The painter is best praised when we forget him in the contemplation of his picture. When in the contemplation of his masterpiece, my delight makes me forget the Creator,--is not that, father, the true praise of G.o.d?
MILLER (throws himself in displeasure on a chair). There we have it!
Those are the fruits of your unG.o.dly reading.
LOUISA (uneasy, goes to the window). Where can he be now? Ah! the high-born ladies who see him--listen to him----I am a poor forgotten maiden. (Startles at that word, and rushes to her father.) But no, no!
forgive me. I do not repine at my lot. I ask but little--to think on him--that can harm no one. Ah! that I might breathe out this little spark of life in one soft fondling zephyr to cool his check! That this fragile floweret, youth, were a violet, on which he might tread, and I die modestly beneath his feet! I ask no more, father! Can the proud, majestic day-star punish the gnat for basking in its rays?
MILLER (deeply affected, leans on the arm of his chair, and covers his face). My child, my child, with joy would I sacrifice the remnant of my days hadst thou never seen the major.
LOUISA (terrified.) How; how? What did you say? No, no! that could not be your meaning, good father. You know not that Ferdinand is mine! You know not that G.o.d created him for me, and for my delight alone! (After a pause of recollection.) The first moment that I beheld him--and the blood rushed into my glowing cheeks--every pulse beat with joy; every throb told me, every breath whispered, ""Tis he!" And my heart, recognizing the long-desired one, repeated ""Tis he!" And the whole world was as one melodious echo of my delight! Then--oh! then was the first dawning of my soul! A thousand new sentiments arose in my bosom, as flowers arise from the earth when spring approaches. I forgot there was a world, yet never had I felt that world so dear to me! I forgot there was a G.o.d, yet never had I so loved him!
MILLER (runs to her and clasps her to his bosom). Louisa! my beloved, my admirable child! Do what thou wilt. Take all--all--my life--the baron-- G.o.d is my witness--him I can never give thee! [Exit.
LOUISA. Nor would I have him now, father! Time on earth is but a stinted dewdrop in the ocean of eternity. "Twill swiftly glide in one delicious dream of Ferdinand. I renounce him for this life! But then, mother--then when the bounds of separation are removed--when the hated distinctions of rank no longer part us--when men will be only men--I shall bring nothing with me save my innocence! Yet often has my father told me that at the Almighty"s coming riches and t.i.tles will be worthless; and that hearts alone will be beyond all price. Oh! then shall I be rich! There, tears will be reckoned for triumphs, and purity of soul be preferred to an ill.u.s.trious ancestry. Then, then, mother, shall I be n.o.ble! In what will he then be superior to the girl of his heart?
MRS. MILLER (starts from her seat). Louisa! the baron! He is jumping over the fence! Where shall I hide myself?
LOUISA (begins to tremble). Oh! do not leave me, mother!
MRS MILLER. Mercy! What a figure I am. I am quite ashamed! I cannot let his lordship see me in this state!
[Exit.
SCENE IV.
LOUISA--FERDINAND. (He flies towards her--she falls back into her chair, pale and trembling. He remains standing before her--they look at each other for some moments in silence. A pause.)
FERDINAND. So pale, Louisa?
LOUISA (rising, and embracing him). It is nothing--nothing now that you are here--it is over.
FERDINAND (takes her hand and raises it to his lips). And does my Louisa still love me? My heart is yesterday"s; is thine the same? I flew hither to see if thou wert happy, that I might return and be so too. But I find thee whelmed in sorrow!
LOUISA. Not so, my beloved, not so!
FERDINAND. Confess, Louisa! you are not happy. I see through your soul as clearly as through the transparent l.u.s.tre of this brilliant. No spot can harbor here unmarked by me--no thought can cloud your brow that does not reach your lover"s heart. Whence comes this grief? Tell me, I beseech you! Ah! could I feel a.s.sured this mirror still remained unsullied, there"d seem to me no cloud in all the universe! Tell me, dear Louisa, what afflicts you?
LOUISA (looking at him with anxiety for a few moments). Ferdinand!
couldst thou but know how such discourse exalts the tradesman"s daughter----
FERDINAND (surprised). What say"st thou? Tell me, girl! how camest thou by that thought? Thou art my Louisa! who told thee thou couldst be aught else? See, false one, see, for what coldness I must chide thee! Were indeed thy whole soul absorbed by love for me, never hadst thou found time to draw comparisons! When I am with thee, my prudence is lost in one look from thine eyes: when I am absent in a dream of thee! But thou --thou canst harbor prudence in the sane breast with love! Fie on thee!
Every moment bestowed on this sorrow was a robbery from affection and from me!
LOUISA (pressing his hand and shaking her head with a melancholy air).
Ferdinand, you would lull my apprehensions to sleep; you would divert my eyes from the precipice into which I am falling. I can see the future!
The voice of honor--your prospects, your father"s anger--my nothingness.
(Shuddering and suddenly drops his hands.) Ferdinand! a sword hangs over us! They would separate us!