I had been often told by my literary friends, that the sentimental Comedies, so popular at
the Gymnase Theatre in Paris, were unsuited to the taste of a London Public. In spite
of this opinion, I wrote
At last I induced Mr, Kean to allow me to read it to him; he accepted it at once, and pronounced his faith in its success: (although I must do him the justice to say I read him to sleep).
The question, then, is settled, and the London Public will accept this class of Drama; and what is more, we have artists who can render it with spirit and finesse-
Some six months ago, I went to the Soho Theatre to witness some Amateur Theatricals. I saw there a young lady, in whose performance I detected so much excellence, that I told her so. I gave the same opinion to Mr. Kean, who having satisfied himself that I was right, instantly engaged her; and any reader who may wish to share this opinion may do so, as this lady, Miss Heath, made her debut in
On the character of Margaret in this piece, I had lavished all my care: there was at once my only hope and only fear, the character was dangerous and difficult. It was realized by Miss Robertson, with so deep a sense of its tenderness, with so much elegance and poetry, that I congratulated myself that every manager in London had refused the Comedy, since to that fact I owe the admiration bestowed on her performance.
First performed at the Royal Princess's Theatre, on Saturday, September 18th, 1852.
The scene is laid in Switzerland during the First Act. And in Milan during the Second.
Time in Representation—1 hour and 15 minutes.
Mr Rouble you compel me to tell you that you pass all endurance.
I am prepared for all you can say.
When I quitted Milan so suddenly, under an assumed name, delicacy might have suggested to you that I desired to travel alone.
Ah signora ! the idea of your travelling alone—you who are besieged by lovers.
Sir!
Oh in the most honourable sense of the word, reproach has never looked upon you — no — amongst the roses that have strewn your path there has been no thorn.
Pardon me I feel one now.
Spies!
I have kept a dozen myself in constant pay.
And you have the assurance to confess it ?
Could I otherwise have discovered your intention to quit Milan?
And you followed me ?
No, I preceded you—I ordered your relays of horses and stimulated the heels of the postillions.
Then it was to you I owed my fright and that fearful speed in spite of my entreaties when at every instant I expected my carriage would have been dashed to pieces.
Oh I wish it had!
How?
Then you must have accepted mine.
I beg sir that this folly may end and that you will inform me what insane project animates
your pursuit—what brings you here?
To see you—since your footmen and your principles deny me your door ; but I solace my love with the knowledge that you distribute misery alike to all your adorers. In my quality of Court Jeweller, I know the amount of diamonds purchased for and refused by you and in my capacity of banker, I calculated the settlements you have disdained —my admiration mounted with the sum total, until—
Mr. Rouble, one word—I can guess your errand. I am an actress—as such I know I am
defenceless, and the offer you would blush to make another you deem an honour to me; but I
appeal to your generosity—this is my father's house— my home.
Your wife!
I offer you my fortune and my hand.
Mr Rouble,
Or would I offer it to you?
And it is in the right place.
Being in your possession.
If compelled to decline the offer, you deserve that I should afford you my reason.
Having deprived me of mine, it is but restitution.
I am an orphan—a foundling without a name.
Accept of mine.
I never knew my relations. I have none.
Relations! Is that all ? When you marry my fortune, you will find your relations forthwith.
My earliest recollections picture a poor, famished, ragged child, begging her bread from house to house; singing our Swiss melodies to gain a breakfast. It was on my journey from a neighbouring mountain village to this town that I was overtaken by a snowstorm, in which I had perished, but for timely assistance. I was carried to this house—a fever ensued and ere I recovered, I was the adopted child of my preserver—the companion of his only daughter.
Heaven will bless the house that sheltered you.
You are now in that house; here I have lived my life— loved—caressed—
Here,
My benefactor was a physician; but the income he derived from his patients he spent in medicines for the poor—he was verging on ruin, when a means of escape from that calamity suggested itself—my voice, hitherto valued only as a solace to my father, I reflected that it might save us. In a word, I quitted this house as I entered it— on foot. I walked to Milan where under the name of Stella, I appeared at the Scala, you know the rest.
But this does not account for your mysterious elopement ?
I hastened hither to beg the consent of my only relatives to—to—my marriage.
With me? Oh!
With another whom I love
You love another? Impossible! Where is he?
He is here.
Here and might I ask his name ?
If you did I should decline to give it.
I thought so , but I have his description.
Indeed!
Young, elegant, handsome, these lucky lovers are all the same—stereotyped
You are agitated—have I wounded you?
No Signora! that pleasure is reserved perhaps for another. I have the honour---
Mr Rouble!
Signora you have already made me a fool ; if I remain you will very probably make me a
coward. I have the honour---
What a strange creature it is; and if I can return his sincere love with nothing but pity,
'tis your fault, dear Eric, yours alone.
Alone - And how pale!
Your letters ? For three months I have received none !
and I have written many—many.
Ah I see—they were intercepted by order of the Grand Duke.
My letters intercepted! Wherefore?
No matter—I will explain: but speak, where is my sister Margaret?
Margaret—
You tremble : why do you gaze on me, my father?
Be—because— soon—very soon—none will call me by that name but you.
Grief and watching have unnerved you, father; but I am here to share with you. She will live—oh she must: youth clings hard to life, father—your skill will revive her.
Trust, then, to my love. But tell me what malady has seized her?
I cannot tell ; but about three months ago, a rich English patient of mine, Mrs. Dacre, who remained here under my care, took a great liking to Margaret, and on leaving us invited her to accompany their party to Como: the idea pleased my child, and she left me. After a months absence she returned—
In good health?
Yes—but changed ; and from that hour I saw my poor child yielding slowly to some fearful invisible malady—without pain, with a smile always on her livid lip. You appeal to my skill—well ! I flew to it—and—do you know its value ? It endowed me with the anguish of watching my beautiful, my adored, my only one, wither under my very eyes! It enabled me to calculate the hours of her fleeting life with terrible exactitude.
And there is no hope ?
None. When she awakes from the stupor in which my art has plunged her, she will exhibit every sign of health, except strength ; she will thank heaven for her happiness—and then—she will leave us !
Lead me to her.
Stay! I will watch until her eyes unclose, and then she shall know of your arrival.
My sister dying, and Eric who was to have met me here-
'Tis his voice.
Eric!
Stella! dearest Stella! have I not faithfully obeyed you ?
Hush! Do not speak of our marriage—at least, not now!
Stella, reflect that delay is ruin! I have just escaped from the prison to which my father consigned me when he heard of my intention to wed you; my father—an Austrian minister—can pursue me even here into Switzerland, and demand of the Canton to give me up.
Were my life at stake, I could not leave this house at such a moment. My sister is dying.
Dying!
To speak of love—while she breathes her last ! Oh ! leave me—leave me, Eric!
I will not whisper a word of love—I will not intrude a look upon your sorrows, Oh ! I prize every gentle impulse of that heart too much. See—I go—but one word. I have learned that my father, in consequence of my escape from prison, has disinherited me, and petitioned the Emperor to deprive me of my rank and my commission. I will write to him, saying that I expect—I wish for nothing at his hands—not even his consent
Write nothing of the kind. Say, that in spite of his injustice we await in hope and
submission the moment when he will forgive. But go.
May I see you again to-day?
Yes, bring me the letter !
Farewell !
They come ! 'tis she !
Gently, gently!
Stella! shall I reproach you with your cruel absence ?
Do—but gently—you promised to be calm.
You hear how he goes on—always thus—the least emotion on my part terrifies him. One would imagine that I was in some mortal peril.
Oh—the—the idea!
Do I look ill, Stella?
More beautiful than ever.
And I feel strong—very,
I said you would wake refreshed.
Thank heaven I am so—and so happy!
You must be fatigued now?
Fatigued!
Stella! at last we are alone—oh! Stella, how I have longed—longed for this moment !
Margaret—you are not happy ?
I do not know—but you shall tell me—what I am. Three months ago I visited Como.
With Mrs. Dacre— I heard so.
We were staying is a large hotel, built on the very verge of the lovely lake. One night, after we had retired to rest, I was roused from sleep by a dreadful sensation of oppression, the room was filled with a dense smoke—confused cries, mingled with the roar of flame, bewildered my senses. I flew to the window and shrieked for help—I remember the look of the upturned faces of the mob—presently I distinguished an Austrian officer rush from the crowd and plunge into the sea of flame—my senses fled. When I awoke, I found myself in the arms of this stranger—he had saved my life. My first sensation was one of shame—so burning, so bitter, that I almost hated him. The next day he visited Mrs. Dacre; how I received him I cannot tell; he left us —
You have not seen him since ?
No ; but his noble countenance and gentle voice are never absent from my imagination.
Your hate turned into love ?
Love! oh, yes—love! but so dreamy, so wild, and so hopeless—fed by my own fancy, it grew and grew until it filled my whole existence; it seemed as if I had swallowed a sweet poison that gave me power to assemble all the days of my life—their hopes and fears—to mass them into one confusion, and gamble them away!
Be calm!
Oh! Stella—see—to speak of him revives me!
It does—then tell me, have you not even heard of him since then ?
No ; I fear my manner so discouraged him, and yet he might have known—do not laugh at my folly, Stella, when I tell you the mad hope which animates me—Each day I expect him to appear before me—I know not how—and each day sees that hope expire,—but only to be renewed by the visions of the night !
I imagine even now that he has discovered my name—my retreat—
Margaret! my sister !—she faints !
You desired to see this letter.
Not now—not now! Leave it.
Await me there!
My sister—dearest—be calm !
Whom?
My preserver—him!
Heaven!
Did not you see ? He came in at that door—a letter was in his hand.
Where—where is he? Speak! 'Twas not my disordered brain ?—say it was not!
Margaret!
I have it—ha, ha! I have it!
Let me read and then die—let me read!
Let me read!
Do—yes—quick—there
Now, now!
A moment to—to—the writing is—is strange to me.
How tedious you are!
He loves—he loves me !
'Twas that—I said so—did I not ?
" I dared not risk the confession, but unable to endure my misery, I determined to discover
your retreat, and. to learn my
Well, well——
"Eric."
Again you faint—your forces abandon you.
No, Stella, no—they come—they come—flocking round my heart, from which, like the arid rock struck by the prophet's rod, there gushes out a stream of life ! Let me drink deep—-deep; I quench the thirst of death.
You are happy, then?
Very—very happy ! Not as before—but calm—
My poor Margaret!
My father!
What do you do?
The fatigue—
And besides
Him-whom?
Ah ! I must not say—It is a secret yet—is it not Stella?
A secret?
Yes, father; the secret of my life.
Oh, what fatal—fatal chance has thus entangled my love and hers. Oh, had I not deceived
her—had I read the letter, the real one, it would have killed her. No—I have at least cheered
the last moments of her existence—she will not live to discover the fraud.
You must instantly escape from this house.
Escape!
Margaret, did you not recognize in her the lady you rescued from the flames of Como?
'Twas she!
Love for her preserver—for you—has preyed upon her life —this is her malady.
Stella, it cannot be.
It is—she confessed it to me—her rival; her heart has wasted with this passion; she lives but
from hour to hour. I chose that her last moments should be happy, and so—so I deceived her. I
told her you loved her—she believed me, poor child; and
I cannot.
I have just received a challenge,
Some paltry foe.
Pardon me ! it is a name of some value—commercially speaking—Rouble, the banker, at Milan,
A madman!
By an oversight, or a commercial habit, the letter is signed Rouble & Co., but the
contents surpass the signature in singularity,
No address!
None.
He does not know your name—remain, concealed here— he shall be denied admittance.
You ask me to remain ! remember, should I meet her
Ah! I forgot—no—go—go but for my sake.
Ah ! too late. "Tis she.
I told you the fatigue would be too much.
What means this strange re-animation?
The Count Eric, son of the Duke Von Mansfeldt, Austrian Minister at Milan.
Many thanks, Signora, for these particulars.
Sir! This intrusion !
I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Dr. Holbein.
The same, sir.
That is impossible to say—but it will be on this gentleman if I have any luck—if not, on me.
You mean that you wish me to attend a duel about to take place between yourself and Count Eric.
Your intelligence is equal to your skill
You see, sir, you alarm my child.
Father, it must not be !
Excuse me, madam, he has but one alternative ; and that is, to explain to me the motive of his presence here.
The tone you assume, sir, precludes any reply but one.
No, no, I—I will tell you—this gentleman is here in my father's house to claim my sister's
hand in marriage.
Marriage!
Margaret!
The Signora is not visible!
Yes, yes, I will sing at their concert; and stay, on my dressing table you will find a rouleau of gold—send it to them with my best wishes.
Yes, madam.
This concert is for the benefit of the Foundlings; and, in spite of your fatigue, you consent.
Enough, enough—a foundling myself, I feel as if such unfortunates are my only relatives.
The concert begins at twelve, if I could only get there in time.
An affair of—of importance,
I hope so.
Eh ? You hope ?
Now tell me, what good fortune procured me the—the
First, I wished to see you.
And then to give you, news from Switzerland.
Of my sister—of Margaret?
My head clerk was obliged to go to Venice last week on business of the house. I desired him to call on his road at Geneva.
But that is nearly in the opposite direction.
It is exactly; but I knew you would be glad to hear from home. I saw, when you quitted them, how unwillingly you returned to fulfil your engagement at the Scala—I was delighted.
Delighted that I was furious. I remember I felt as if I could have done your radiant face a mischief.
Precisely; it is only when you are out of temper that I engage your attention.
Ah ! you are going to accord me a thought ?
Will you tell me the news of Margaret? You will drive me mad.
Here it is—her health improved from day to day, and at last she became restored so wonderfully, that the good old doctor made a bonfire of his library in commemoration of what he calls his second birthday.
But-but Count Eric ?
My head clerk says the young Count looks pale and low- spirited.
Now that your sister is recovered, they wish to fix -the happy day.
The hap—happy—
Of course; but the young Count's father positively refuses his consent.
Good—good !
So the unhappy young man proposes to return to Milan this week. Now I may be of use, for, in my quality of banker, I take a large portion of the new loan—my interest is above par at Court just now. I will speak for the young couple.
What business is it of yours, I beg to know?
True, and besides—my appointment,
No.
No; for since your return to Milan, no such person has appeared—now, confess, that all this was done to tease me, and that this terrible rival is—
Whom?
Myself.
You !
Rouble & Co.
This is too much! Then let me dispel your doubts, since you will assume that air of stupid fatuity. I tell you that this very night I will become the wife of—.
Twenty minutes past, Signora: I tear myself away—but I see—I leave you occupied with my
image. Ah, Signora—
There !
Stella !
Eric! dear Eric!
What could I do ? She was there—ever speaking—dreaming of you—leaning over my shoulder as I wrote. Could I have escaped—but no—you—you compelled me to remain.
I condemned you, my dear Eric, to a sad and wretched time. And now, tell me—when you left—when danger no longer threatened her, and she was able to hear the intelligence—how did yon manage to convey it to her.
Convey it? I—I—I cannot conceal it—Stella—I had not the courage to make the avowal, and I flew to you for help. When I determined to declare myself, the image of the old man rose up before me—his pale face and trembling up—his agony. And Margaret!—to avow to her that for two months I had made her the dupe of an imposture—unwind her arms from round my neck, and thrust her love aside—Stella, I could not do it !
I have heard of your embarrassment: I alone could understand the painful trial which you endured for my sake.
If absent from you, Stella, I was in the presence of your noble deeds- I know all: that you have been the support of your benefactor and his daughter—
Let us not speak of this, but of yourself. You look pale, dearest!
No, no—I am free—now. In that house I could not breathe freely—oh ! if I could describe what I suffered—
I can conceive it. To see that poor girl, and pursue a feigned passion ?
Yes; a—a—as you say—a feigned—
To fear lest a word, a look might betray you, and condemn her again to death!
And then the confidence— the faith—the simplicity of her love! And her father,—that was almost the worst—his gratitude, his affection, it stifled me. I was his divinity ! his prodigy ! his son! I had saved his child—
Eric ! you exaggerate. To encourage in pity a love you cannot return, is false feeling.
This letter, Signora, was left for you by Monsieur Rouble,
I told him I was on the point of marriage; doubtless it is a tirade of reproaches, and the usual ejaculations of despair.
No, not one; he is going to fight with some person who, it appears, insulted you in his
estimation ; and in the event of his death, he has bequeathed you his fortune. What a noble
fellow— how he must love you !
Eric ! you seem to advocate his cause.
No ; but one cannot help sympathizing with a feeling so noble and sincere.
Enough of this folly! My return to Milan, and your continued absence, has appeased the anger of your father. We must take advantage of our temporary security. Every necessary preparation has been made, and our marriage can be privately performed.
And we can quit this town—this country for ever !
You are right, Eric—for her sake.
I dare not think of what we have done, and yet to leave them thus!
How if we write to them?
I would rather write my own death-warrant! But you— you, Stella—dictate to me.
No—not so, I think.
Well, how would you—
Must we say that? Can't we say that—that—
What?
Stay !—let me see.
Wait for me, you impatient!
Stella!
There's a transformation !—a metempsychosis—it is another form. Eh! that dear child exists against every rule of the therapeutic art ! I don't know how she does it; but she has made Galen a fool.
Well!—here we are—here in the room you have so often described to me.
Margaret!
What?
It is not the custom here in town to speak to thus to gentlemen.
But my lover—my husband—
Still—in public—
Very well—in public we will not.
Ah! see—he was writing to you.
To me ? Oh. let me see it!—his first letter!
That's all!
And spared us a farrago of torments, and vows, and promises, which he can afford you at your
leisure.
Even when they walked out, it was always to sit in the grotto—you remember, at the farthest end of the garden.
Rather too far from the house for—for prudence.
Yes, I told her it would fatigue her, but it did not in the least.
Oh, Stella, dear! only think of his father refusing his consent to our marraige-Eric is so
unhappy about it you can't think.
Yes, it is tied in a true lovers knot. He is lost in admiration of your volubility—you talk—talk—talk—it is delightful.
Your carriage waits, Signora,
It is the hour of the concert—had I dreamed of your arrival, I would not have engaged myself—but I must leave you, dear Margaret.
May I not accompany you ?
I forbid it—no—you have scarcely arrived from a long and fatiguing journey. I will go with you, Stella—you, Margaret, will remain.
Come, dear father—come, Eric.
No, thank you—since I am condemned to the house, Eric shall remain with me.
You hear your sentence?
Thank you for taking away papa.
Now, Stella—ah! how proud I feel to walk with you.
I thought they would never be gone. Oh, dear Eric, what a miserable three days I have passed—how have you endured them?
Yes, love—but you need not fatigue your voice with such a distance.
Yes, Eric, I have seen this; while my life was yet in danger, all your thoughts were mine; your eyes met mine, and turned their gaze about my heart—they seemed to lift it up to life. My health returned ; and as it came, I saw a grief creep over you —my heaven faded from me—and I regretted my days of suffering when you were all my own.
Margaret !
Confess to me—all—all—nothing is wanting to my happiness but to share a grief with you.
You don't know what you ask me; and yet—yet you must know it. I have now to put your love to a sad proof.
A proof!—go on!
If your faith, Margaret, were blinder than your love— your hopes in visions—what would you say?
You! were it so, a very little spot of ground would hide me from you, and the rest of the wide world would never bury your despair—
And yet—Oh, heaven, yet—this marriage is impossible!
I—I cannot—
You must.
Yes—yes.
Not only does be refuse his consent to our marriage, but threatens me with every persecution his anger can devise—If I could have shared my fortune with you—
Is that all—I can teach you to bear poverty—want and I are old friends;
you jealous of him ? yet then I
was alone; but now we are two, two? what do I say, three! you, I , and love
Love, yes
Ah!
'Tis no one—only Stella—come, sister, and hear this monster—would you believe it; he wanted to persuade me that our marriage was impossible.
Indeed !
Yes, and he really would have it so; you never saw such a state as he was in; but I
convinced him of his folly
Jealous!
Of—of whom?
Of me !
Yes, as you were quitting us. Two months ago when you bade him farewell, I saw you, and you
looked on him almost—I thought, that is—almost as I look.
You—you thought so !
Yes—and it haunted me so, and then—I said to myself— well, were it so, could I not die, and
leave her to love him without remorse
Dear me, Mr. Rouble, what is the matter with your arm?
Nothing, a—mere—a—I fell down, that is all.
Yes; and some unhappy pair of feet would persist in an encore.
There they are.
'Twas you, sir—you—always you!
Yes. I found a difficulty in applauding with one hand, and so —
And I was burning to get back here ?
Yes, I warmed them up—they made you come on four times.
Are you created to be my tormentor ?
Mr. Rouble, have I not begged you to spare me these painful and useless visits?
Repeatedly; but at this moment it is not exactly to you my presence here is due.
Indeed ! to whom then ?
To the Count Eric.
To me?
I have had an interview with his noble father, and another with the prince. Ah, Signora, he is not so proud as you—he is very glad to see me. I have procured from the Minister this letter.
To me.
From your father ?
Ah! can it be
What?—what?
I will tell you—
Oh, my dear sir—many thanks to your stick that seconded my heels.
Can you believe it ? Stella is about to be married.
Married?
This very night.
Sir, I demand satisfaction! No—I forget; 'tis of you Signora, I—no, that is—who—who—says so?
I was at the concert.
I saw you—and your stick, many thanks.
Beside me sat a gentleman of clerical appearance, he joined me in exclamations of delight, and I could not help thanking him for his enthusiasm: with tears of gratitude, I said, pardon me, sir, but it is my child—my Stella. I have just arrived this morning. "Ah!" he replied, in a low whisper, "I see, to be present at the marriage this evening," And as I hesitated to understand, he added, "Fear nothing, I am the Abbé Ambrose."
"'Tis I who perform the ceremony." Stella, I cried— Stella married ! He perceived my looks of astonishment; and seeing he had betrayed himself, he began to applaud violently, and then quitted the room.
Signora!
Well, yes—'tis true—I wished it to be a secret.
From us ?—are we, then, strangers to you ?
Intruding—father—Margaret—I will confess all to you; but - but first, I would ask Eric's advice, ere I reveal a secret which, indeed, is not all my own.
My dear child, I know that which you do will be right —I seek to know nothing.
I ask but for a moment—leave me but for a moment, and do not doubt my love.
Stella, I cannot love and doubt too.
And me—what have you to say to me?
I believe it gives you pleasure to see the wheel of the idol pass over the body of your
wretched adorer—ah!
Eric, before I avow this secret to my sister—which, indeed— I have delayed too long—I wish to know the contents of that letter.
The insult contained in that letter makes my former vows more sacred—more inviolate.
Dearest Eric—I know the sacrifice you would make, but my pride would revolt at entering a
family who scorn and repel me—but, Margaret
You do: or would you have let me say so much, without confounding me with reproaches for the thought ? You do love her, Eric—deny it not.
Stella, hear me. Was it not you who forced me into the arms of that poor girl, whom I would have fled, until I could not? This rebel passion which you have discovered, and I do confess I will abjure—destroy——
Stel
Sir! What means—
But you do not carry it off thus, mark you.
Speak lower, sir!
I shall moderate my voice sir, as I please ?
What noise is this ?
I have found out the Abbé ; he could not resist the sentiments of my esteem
Oh indeed ! and you will venture to deny that this very intended is in this room?
He is in this room.
It is Count Eric.
Eric!
The man is mad—raving mad! Excuse him, dearest, joy has turned his little brains.
Me!
Yes! You—you—you! Is that plain?
Oh, oh! I am paralysed.
If I did not send your names to the Abbé, it was because —because—I did not know them.
John—Peter—Antony—
But I did know the man who had defended my name from insult at the peril of his life, and
who had bequeathed me his fortune .
I knew it—it was a moral certainty—I felt my destiny— oh, oh, your husband— I can scarcely believe it.
But, understand me, I give up nothing—Margaret
Of course—I come somewhere—third or—eh, very well — very well.
I will remain on the stage.
Clearly?
I will devote to it my whole time and passion.
I will study music at once.
I ought to warn you, I have a hundred faults
I appreciate them all, and love them.
But I have a thousand more.
New blisses to surprise me with? Ah Signora—
My fortune will satisfy them all.
She is to be my wife, my wi——Oh!
When is the happy day to be?
Holbein Rouble Stella Eric Margaret
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