ACT I. SCENE I.
Reading edition
Scene represents a room at an inn, at Weimar—On one side of the stage the bar-room, with jellies, lemons in nets, syllabubs, 209and part of a cold roast fowl, &c.—On the opposite side, a window looking into the street, through which persons (inhabitants of Weimar) are seen passing to and fro in apparent agitation—Matilda appears in a great coat and riding-habit, seated at the corner of the dinner-table, which is covered with a clean huckaback cloth; plates and napkins, with buck’s-horn-handled knives and forks, are laid as if for four persons.
Mat. Is it impossible for me to have dinner sooner?
Land. Madam, the Brunswick post-waggon is not yet come in, and the ordinary is never before two o’clock.
Mat. [With a look expressive of disappointment, but immediately recomposing herself.] Well, then, I must have patience. [Exit Landlady.] Oh Casimere!—How often have the thoughts of thee served to amuse these moments of expectation!—What a difference, alas!—Dinner—it is taken away as soon as over, and we regret it not!—It returns again with the return of appetite.—The beef of to-morrow will succeed to the mutton of to-day, as the mutton of to-day succeeded to the veal of yesterday. But when once the heart has been occupied by a beloved object, in vain would we attempt to supply the chasm by another. How easily are our desires transferred from dish to dish!—Love only, dear, delusive, delightful love, restrains our wandering appetites, and confines them to a particular gratification!...
Post-horn blows; re-enter Landlady.
Land. Madam, the post-waggon is just come in with only a single gentlewoman.
Mat. Then show her up—and let us have dinner instantly; [Landlady going] and remember—[after a moment’s recollection, and with great earnestness]—remember the toasted cheese.
[Exit Landlady.
210Cecilia enters, in a brown cloth riding-dress, as if just alighted from the post-waggon.
Mat. Madam, you seem to have had an unpleasant journey, if I may judge from the dust on your riding-habit.
Cec. The way was dusty, madam, but the weather was delightful. It recalled to me those blissful moments when the rays of desire first vibrated through my soul.
Mat. [Aside.] Thank Heaven! I have at last found a heart which is in unison with my own. [To Cecilia]—Yes, I understand you—the first pulsation of sentiment—the silver tones upon the yet unsounded harp....
Cec. The dawn of life—when this blossom [putting her hand upon her heart] first expanded its petals to the penetrating dart of love!
Mat. Yes—the time—the golden time, when the first beams of the morning meet and embrace one another!—The blooming blue upon the yet unplucked plum!...
Cec. Your countenance grows animated, my dear madam.
Mat. And yours too is glowing with illumination.
Cec. I had long been looking out for a congenial spirit!—my heart was withered—but the beams of yours have rekindled it.
Mat. A sudden thought strikes me—Let us swear an eternal friendship.
Cec. Let us agree to live together!
Mat. Willingly.
[With rapidity and earnestness.
Cec. Let us embrace.
[They embrace.
Mat. Yes; I too have loved!—you, too, like me, have been forsaken.
[Doubtingly, and as if with a desire to be informed.
211Cec. Too true!
Both. Ah these men! these men!
Landlady enters, and places a leg of mutton on the table, with sour krout and prune sauce; then a small dish of black puddings—Cecilia and Matilda appear to take no notice of her.
Mat. Oh, Casimere!
Cec. [Aside.] Casimere! that name!—Oh, my heart, how it is distracted with anxiety.
Mat. Heavens! Madam, you turn pale.
Cec. Nothing—a slight megrim—with your leave, I will retire—
Mat. I will attend you.
[Exeunt Matilda and Cecilia; Manent Landlady and Waiter, with the dinner on the table.
Land. Have you carried the dinner to the prisoner in the vaults of the abbey?
Waiter. Yes—Pease soup, as usual—with the scrag end of a neck of mutton. The emissary of the Count was here again this morning, and offered me a large sum of money if I would consent to poison him.
Land. Which you refused?
[With hesitation and anxiety.
Waiter. Can you doubt it?
[With indignation.
Land. [Recovering herself, and drawing up with an expression of dignity.] The conscience of a poor man is as valuable to him as that of a prince....
Waiter. It ought to be still more so, in proportion as it is generally more pure.
Land. Thou say’st truly, Job.
Waiter. [With enthusiasm.] He who can spurn at wealth when proffered as the price of crime, is greater than a prince.
212Post-horn blows.—Enter Casimere (in a travelling dress, a light blue great coat with large metal buttons, his hair in a long queue, but twisted at the end; a large Kevenhuller hat; a cane in his hand).
Cas. Here, Waiter, pull off my boots, and bring me a pair of slippers. [Exit Waiter.] And hark’ye, my lad, a basin of water [rubbing his hands] and a bit of soap. I have not washed since I began my journey.
Waiter. [Answering from behind the door.] Yes, Sir.
Cas. Well, Landlady, what company are we to have?
Land. Only two gentlewomen, Sir.—They are just stept into the next room—they will be back again in a minute.
Cas. Where do they come from?
[All this while the Waiter re-enters with the basin and water; Casimere pulls off his boots, takes a napkin from the table, and washes his face and hands.
Land. There is one of them, I think, comes from Nuremburgh.
Cas. [Aside.] From Nuremburgh! [with eagerness] her name!
Land. Matilda.
Cas. [Aside.] How does this idiot woman torment me!—What else?
Land. I can’t recollect.
Cas. Oh, agony!
[In a paroxysm of agitation.
Waiter. See here, her name upon the travelling trunk—Matilda Pottingen.
Cas. Ecstasy! ecstasy!
[Embracing the Waiter.
Land. You seem to be acquainted with the lady—shall I call her?
213Cas. Instantly—instantly—tell her her loved, her long-lost—tell her——
Land. Shall I tell her dinner is ready?
Cas. Do so—and in the meanwhile I will look after my portmanteau.
[Exeunt severally.
Scene changes to a subterranean vault in the Abbey of Quedlinburgh, with coffins, ’scutcheons, death’s heads and crossbones—toads and other loathsome reptiles are seen traversing the obscurer parts of the stage.—Rogero appears, in chains, in a suit of rusty armour, with his beard grown, and a cap of a grotesque form upon his head—beside him a crock, or pitcher, supposed to contain his daily allowance of sustenance.—A long silence, during which the wind is heard to whistle through the caverns.—Rogero rises, and comes slowly forward, with his arms folded.
Rog. Eleven years! it is now eleven years since I was first immured in this living sepulchre—the cruelty of a Minister—the perfidy of a Monk—yes, Matilda! for thy sake—alive amidst the dead—chained—coffined—confined—cut off from the converse of my fellow-men. Soft!—what have we here! [stumbles over a bundle of sticks.] This cavern is so dark that I can scarcely distinguish the objects under my feet. Oh—the register of my captivity. Let me see; how stands the account? [Takes up the sticks, and turns them over with a melancholy air; then stands silent for a few minutes, as if absorbed in calculation.]—Eleven years and fifteen days!—Hah! the twenty-eighth of August! How does the recollection of it vibrate on my heart! It was on this day that I took my last leave of my Matilda. It was a summer evening; her melting hand seemed to dissolve in mine, as I prest it to my bosom. Some demon whispered me that I should never see her more. I stood gazing on the hated vehicle which 214was conveying her away for ever. The tears were petrified under my eyelids. My heart was crystallized with agony. Anon—I looked along the road. The diligence seemed to diminish every instant; I felt my heart beat against its prison, as if anxious to leap out and overtake it. My soul whirled round as I watched the rotation of the hinder wheels. A long trail of glory followed after her, and mingled with the dust; it was the emanation of Divinity, luminous with love and beauty, like the splendour of the setting sun; but it told me that the sun of my joys was sunk for ever. Yes, here in the depths of an eternal dungeon, in the nursing cradle of hell, the suburbs of perdition, in a nest of demons, where despair in vain sits brooding over the putrid eggs of hope; where agony woos the embrace of death; where patience, beside the bottomless pool of despondency, sits angling for impossibilities. Yet, even here, to behold her, to embrace her! Yes, Matilda, whether in this dark abode, amidst toads and spiders, or in a royal palace, amidst the more loathsome reptiles of a court, would be indifferent to me; angels would shower down their hymns of gratulation upon our heads, while fiends would envy the eternity of suffering love.... Soft, what air was that? it seemed a sound of more than human warblings. Again! [listens attentively for some minutes.] Only the wind; it is well, however; it reminds me of that melancholy air, which has so often solaced the hours of my captivity. Let me see whether the damps of this dungeon have not yet injured my guitar. [Takes his guitar, tunes it, and begins the following air, with a full accompaniment of violins from the orchestra.
215[Air, Lanterna Magica.]
SONG.
BY ROGERO.
I.
Whene’er with haggard eyes I view
This dungeon that I’m rotting in,
I think of those companions true
Who studied with me at the U—
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.
[Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds—
II.
Sweet kerchief, check’d with heavenly blue,
Which once my love sat knotting in!—
Alas! Matilda then was true!
At least I thought so at the U—
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.
[At the repetition of this line Rogero clanks his chains in cadence.
III.
Barbs! Barbs! alas! how swift you flew
Her neat post-waggon trotting in!
Ye bore Matilda from my view;
Forlorn I languish’d at the U—
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.
IV.
This faded form! this pallid hue!
This blood my veins is clotting in,
216My years are many—they were few
When first I entered at the U—
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.
V.
There first for thee my passion grew,
Sweet! sweet Matilda Pottingen!
Thou wast the daughter of my tu—
—tor, law professor at the U—
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.
VI.
Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu,
That kings and priests are plotting in:
Here doomed to starve on water gru—
—el,[273] never shall I see the U—
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.
[During the last stanza Rogero dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and, finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion; he then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops; the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.
[The character of Rogero is a quiz upon Sir Robert Adair, 217who received his education at Göttingen, and fell in love with his tutor’s daughter. His relative, Lord Albemarle, says in his Reminiscences: “Throughout life my kinsman was an enthusiastic admirer of the fair sex, which he generally ‘loved, not wisely, but too well’”. He married, in 1805, Mdlle. Angélique Gabrielle, daughter of the Marquis d’Hazincourt and the Comtesse de Champagne.
Adair was the son of Mr. Robert Adair, sergeant-surgeon to K. George III., by his wife Lady Caroline Keppel, daughter of Wm. Anne, second Earl of Albemarle. He was educated at Westminster School and Göttingen University; called to the Bar, but never practised. He contested Camelford in 1796; and was M.P. for Appleby, 1799–1802, for Camelford, 1802–1812. He was sent by Fox as Minister Plenipotentiary to Vienna in 1806; and by his old adversary Canning to Constantinople in 1808; and also to Berlin. He was Ambassador to Constantinople, 1809–11, and to Belgium, 1831–5. He was a facile writer, and wrote several spirited pamphlets, including defences of his relatives, Francis, Duke of Bedford, and Admiral Keppel, Fox, and other Whigs. He contributed to the Political Eclogues a poem called Margaret Nicholson, in which George III., Pitt, Jenkinson, &c., were ridiculed, and the Song of Scrutina (on the “Westminster Scrutiny”), in the style of Ossian, in the Probationary Odes for the Laureateship. He was the author also of an account of his Mission to the Court of Vienna; and his Negotiations for the Peace of the Dardanelles: 3 vols., 8vo. For his services in the latter business he was made G.C.B. He was born 24th May, 1763, and died 3rd Oct., 1855.
There is a curious circumstance connected with the composition of this song, the first five stanzas of which were written by Canning. Having been accidentally seen, previous to its publication, by Pitt, who was cognisant of the proceedings of the “Anti-Jacobin” writers, he was so amused with it, that he took up a pen and composed the last stanza on the spot.—Ed.]
[This drama was produced at the Haymarket Theatre, July 26, 1811, with alterations and additions, and some introductory matter, which contained smart hits at the Quadrupeds, which then desecrated the stage of Covent Garden Theatre. Liston performed Rogero; Munden, Casimere; Mrs. Glover, Matilda; Mrs. Gibbs, Cecilia. The following Prologue, written by George Colman the younger, in imitation of Pope’s prologue to Cato, was spoken by Elliston:—
To lull the soul by spurious strokes of art,
To warp the genius, and mislead the heart;
218To make mankind revere wives gone astray,[274]
Love pious sons who rob on the highway;[275]
For this the foreign muses trod our stage
Commanding German schools to be the rage.
Hail to such schools! Oh, fine false feeling, hail!
Thou badst non-natural nature to prevail;
Through thee, soft super-sentiment arose,
Musk to the mind like civet to the nose;
Till fainting taste (as invalids do wrong),
Snuff’d the sick perfume, and grew weakly strong.
Dear Johnny Bull! you boast much resolution,
With, thanks to Heaven! a glorious Constitution:
Your taste, recovered half from foreign quacks,
Takes airings, now, on English horses’ backs;
While every modern bard may raise his name,
If not on lasting praise, on stable fame.
Think that to Germans you have given no check,
Think how each actor hors’d has risk’d his neck;
You’ve shewn them favour: Oh, then, once more shew it
To this night’s Anglo-German, Horse-Play Poet!—Ed.]
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