Volume 7 / Act 2 — SCENE VIII

PRINCE (alone).

Land! Land in sight! Something, surely, can be done now! With Hotham at my right hand, I need only some female reinforcement at my left. The moment seems favorable. I will try to draw little Sonnsfeld, the Princess' lady-in-waiting, into the plot. She is waiting in the anteroom. I'll knock. [He goes softly to the PRINCESS' door and knocks]. I hear a sound. [He knocks again.] The rustle of a gown—it is she. [He draws back a step and turns.] First one must take these little outposts and then—to the main battle.

[WILHELMINE comes in.]

PRINCE (startled).

Ah, it is you—yourself!

WILHELMINE.

Oh, then it was you, Prince? I have reason to be very angry with you.

PRINCE.

With me, Your Highness? Why with me?

WILHELMINE.

As if you did not know the insult you have offered me.

PRINCE.

Princess, would you drive me mad? I offer you an insult?

WILHELMINE.

Have you not heard what sort of a person this learned Laharpe of yours really is?

PRINCE.

Princess, Laharpe is one of the most intelligent of men and possessed of a pretty wit. One might search long among your scholars here in Berlin before finding his equal in cultivation.

WILHELMINE.

He is a wigmaker from Orleans!

PRINCE.

But I assure you, Princess, he is not a wigmaker. It is true Laharpe does understand the splitting of hairs, but only in scientific controversy; it is true he does use paint and powder, in that he paints his thoughts in words of elegance, and lays on them the powder of ingenious sophistry—an art that is better understood in France than here. It is unfortunate enough, Your Highness, that your royal father's kingdom should be in such bad repute that foreigners of wit, poetry, and cultivation can be admitted only when they come bearing the passport of wigmakers.

WILHELMINE.

But our plan has come to naught; Laharpe has been banished.

PRINCE.

A weak reflection of his brilliancy has remained, Princess. Do not think me quite unworthy of taking his place. Grant me the blessed consciousness of having aided you to escape a situation which passes all bounds of filial obedience.

WILHELMINE.

Prince—this language—

PRINCE.

It is the language of a feeling I can no longer control, of an indignation I can no longer suppress. Princess, do you know that you are destined as a sacrifice to political and commercial intrigue? That you are to be sent to England in exchange for the produce of English factories?

WILHELMINE (in indignation).

Who says that?

PRINCE.

Far be it from me to pass judgment on your desires—far be it from me to inquire if it may not surprise, perhaps even please your ambitions when you hear that you might win even an Imperial crown—but, if you love the Prince of Wales—

WILHELMINE.

The Prince of Wales? Who says that I love him?

PRINCE.

Your mother, who presupposes it—your father, who commands it.

WILHELMINE.

The Prince of Wales? My cousin, whom I have never seen? Who has never betrayed the slightest interest in me? A Prince whose loose living has made me despise him!

PRINCE.

Then you do not love the Prince?

WILHELMINE.

My heart is free. And no power on earth can force me to give it to any man but to him whom I shall choose myself.

PRINCE.

Do I hear aright?

WILHELMINE.

I have been obedient and dutiful from the very first stirring of my personal consciousness. I have never had a will of my own, or dared, if I had that will, to give it expression. But when they would take the one thing from me, the one thing that is still mine after all these years of humiliation, my own inalienable possession, my heart's free choice—then indeed the bottomless depths of my obedience will be found exhausted. I feel that my brother was justified in throwing off such a yoke—and I will show the world that I am indeed his sister.

PRINCE.

Princess! [Aside.] What can I do—it is too much joy—too much bliss! [Aloud.] Princess! the green garlands on the little window down there, the potted flowers offer a secret retreat—the little linnet in his cage is impatient for the return of his beautiful and benign mistress.

WILHELMINE (drawing her hand from his).

You would—

PRINCE.

I would take the place of that misjudged and slandered scholar. And down there, alone with you, not worried by threatening footfalls in the corridors, undisturbed by [noise of drums outside] those cruel guardians of your freedom, I would tell the most charming Princess of Europe that—

WILHELMINE.

You have nothing to tell me—nothing at all.

PRINCE (throws himself at her feet).

I would tell her that there is one Prince who, although he will one day reign over no more than a tiny plot of German earth, still can gather from the spell of her beauty, the kindness of her heart, the courage to say to her—I love you—I worship you.

WILHELMINE.

Prince, what are you doing—please arise—some one is coming!

PRINCE.

Not until you promise me you will meet me there.

WILHELMINE.

Oh—if we should be surprised like this! Please get up!

PRINCE.

You will promise? You will meet me?

WILHELMINE.

Where? [He points to the window.] There? But I am not alone even there.

PRINCE.

Those simple people are overjoyed when their Princess consents to linger an hour with them in their poverty. I have much to say to you, Princess, very much. I will tell you of the plans concerning England or Austria of which you are the central figure. And you must tell me again—in the very best style of Versailles, which I know thoroughly—that you hate me—that you detest me—

WILHELMINE.

Prince, you torture me—I hear voices. Some one is approaching—Please get up.

PRINCE.

Will you promise?

WILHELMINE.

Cruel one! You won't get up—

PRINCE.

Not until you promise—

WILHELMINE.

If you promise to talk only about the plans that concern me—and about French grammar—

PRINCE (springing up).

You promise? You will come? By every star in the firmament I swear I will begin with the verb J'aime—I love—and you shall see how, in comparison with the language of a devoted heart, in comparison with the art which unadorned nature can practise, even Voltaire is only—a wigmaker. [He goes out.]