Books: Lover\'s Vows

M >> Mrs. Inchbald >> Lover\'s Vows

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

This etext was provided by Kelly Hurt .

Lovers Vows
A Play in Five Acts
by Mrs. Inchbald
from the German of Kotzebue

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:

This e-text is taken from the 5th edition published in 1798.

As the PREFACE. makes clear, "Lovers Vows." is not a direct translation
of Kotzebue's play "Child of Love" (sometimes known as "Natural Son").

In the printed text, when a character enters or exits, the name is
often in all CAPS. I retained this.

In the original, some of the spoken words are emphasised by italics.
In the plaintext version I've created, I have used underscores (_) in
front of and behind the word/s that are italicized in the print copy.
An example: The _underscores_ indicate italicized text.

The stage directions, actors in the DRAMATIS PERSONAE., and the
speakers' names were all italicized. I ignored that in the plaintext
version.

In the HTML version I've created, I have used italics, centering, etc.
as they are used in the printed copy. For ease of reading, I have
placed the speakers' names in bold and skipped a line between speeches.

I typed in the text and did the initial proofing and the HTML coding.
Further proofing done by family members Marlett Hurt and Kerry Siniard.

Kelly Hurt
KLHurt@yahoo.com

PREFACE.

IT would appear like affectation to offer an apology for any scenes or
passages omitted or added, in this play, different from the original:
its reception has given me confidence to suppose what I have done is
right; for Kotzebue's "Child of Love" in Germany, was never more
attractive than "Lovers' Vows" has been in England.

I could trouble my reader with many pages to disclose the motives which
induced me to alter, with the exception of a few common-place sentences
only, the characters of Count Cassel, Amelia, and Verdun the Butler--I
could explain why the part of the Count, as in the original, would
inevitably have condemned the whole Play,--I could inform my reader why
I have pourtrayed the Baron in many particulars different from the
German author, and carefully prepared the audience for the grand effect
of the last scene in the fourth act, by totally changing his conduct
towards his son as a robber--why I gave sentences of a humourous kind
to the parts of the two Cottagers--why I was compelled, on many
occasions, to compress the matter of a speech of three or four pages
into one of three or four lines--and why, in no one instance, I would
suffer my respect for Kotzebue to interfere with my profound respect
for the judgment of a British audience. But I flatter myself such a
vindication is not requisite to the enlightened reader, who, I trust,
on comparing this drama with the original, will at once see all my
motives--and the dull admirer of mere verbal translation, it would be
vain to endeavour to inspire with taste by instruction.

Wholly unacquainted with the German language, a literal translation of
the "Child of Love" was given to me by the manager of Covent Garden
Theatre to be fitted, as my opinion should direct, for his stage. This
translation, tedious and vapid as most literal translations are, had
the peculiar disadvantage of having been put into our language by a
German--of course it came to me in broken English. It was no slight
misfortune to have an example of bad grammar, false metaphors and
similes, with all the usual errors of feminine diction, placed before a
female writer. But if, disdaining the construction of sentences,--the
precise decorum of the cold grammarian,--she has caught the spirit of
her author,--if, in every altered scene,--still adhering to the nice
propriety of his meaning, and still keeping in view his great
catastrophe,--she has agitated her audience with all the various
passions he depicted, the rigid criticism of the closet will be but a
slender abatement of the pleasure resulting from the sanction of an
applauding theatre.

It has not been one of the least gratifications I have received from
the success of this play, that the original German, from which it is
taken, was printed in the year 1791; and yet, that during all the
period which has intervened, no person of talents or literary knowledge
(though there are in this country many of that description, who profess
to search for German dramas) has thought it worth employment to make a
translation of the work. I can only account for such an apparent
neglect of Kotzebue's "Child of Love," by the consideration of its
original unfitness for an English stage, and the difficulty of making
it otherwise--a difficulty which once appeared so formidable, that I
seriously thought I must have declined it even after I had proceeded
some length in the undertaking.

Independently of objections to the character of the Count, the
dangerous insignificance of the Butler, in the original, embarrassed me
much. I found, if he was retained in the _Dramatis Personae_,
something more must be supplied than the author had assigned him: I
suggested the verses I have introduced; but not being blessed with the
Butler's happy art of rhyming, I am indebted for them, except the
seventh and eleventh stanzas in the first of his poetic stories, to the
author of the prologue.

The part of Amelia has been a very particular object of my solicitude
and alteration: the same situations which the author gave her remain,
but almost all the dialogue of the character I have changed: the
forward and unequivocal manner in which she announces her affection to
her lover, in the original, would have been revolting to an English
audience: the passion of love, represented on the stage, is certain to
be insipid or disgusting, unless it creates smiles or tears: Amelia's
love, by Kotzebue, is indelicately blunt, and yet void of mirth or
sadness: I have endeavoured to attach the attention and sympathy of
the audience by whimsical insinuations, rather than coarse
abruptness--the same woman, I conceive, whom the author drew, with the
self-same sentiments, but with manners adapted to the English rather
than the German taste; and if the favour in which this character is
held by the audience, together with every sentence and incident which I
have presumed to introduce in the play, may be offered as the criterion
of my skill, I am sufficiently rewarded for the task I have performed.

In stating the foregoing circumstances relating to this production, I
hope not to be suspected of arrogating to my own exertions only, the
popularity which has attended "The Child of Love," under the title of
"Lovers' Vows,"--the exertions of every performer engaged in the play
deservedly claim a share in its success; and I must sincerely thank
them for the high importance of their aid.

PROLOGUE.

WRITTEN BY JOHN TAYLOR, ESQ.

SPOKEN BY Mr. MURRAY.

POETS have oft' declared, in doleful strain,
That o'er dramatic tracks they beat in vain,
Hopeless that novelty will spring to sight;
For life and nature are exhausted quite.
Though plaints like these have rung from age to age,
Too kind are writers to desert the stage;
And if they, fruitless, search for unknown prey,
At least they dress _old game a novel way_;
But such lamentings should be heard no more,
For modern taste turns Nature out of door;
Who ne'er again her former sway will boast,
Till, to complete her works, _she starts a ghost_.
If such the mode, what can we hope to-night,
Who rashly dare approach without a sprite?
No dreadful cavern, no midnight scream,
No rosin flames, nor e'en one flitting gleam.
Nought of the charms so potent to invite
The monstrous charms of terrible delight.
Our present theme the German Muse supplies,
But rather aims to soften than surprise.
Yet, with her woes she strives some smiles to blend,
Intent as well to cheer as to amend:
On her own native soil she knows the art
To charm the fancy, and to touch the heart.
If, then, she mirth and pathos can express,
Though less engaging in an English dress,
Let her from British hearts no peril fear,
But, as a STRANGER*, find a welcome here.

* Hamlet.
=========
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

MEN.

BARON WILDENHAIM. . . . . Mr. Murray.
COUNT CASSEL. . . . . . . Mr. Knight.
ANHALT. . . . . . . . . . Mr. H. Johnston.
FREDERICK . . . . . . . . Mr. Pope.
VERDUN the BUTLER . . . . Mr. Munden.
LANDLORD. . . . . . . . . Mr. Thompson.
COTTAGER. . . . . . . . . Mr. Davenport.
FARMER. . . . . . . . . . Mr. Rees.
COUNTRYMAN. . . . . . . . Mr. Dyke.
Huntsmen, Servants, &c.

WOMEN.

AGATHA FRIBURG. . . . . . Mrs. Johnson.
AMELIA WILDENHAIM . . . . Mrs. H. Johnston.
COTTAGER'S WIFE . . . . . Mrs. Davenport.
COUNTRY GIRL. . . . . . . Miss Leserve.

SCENE, Germany--Time of representation one day.

=========
LOVERS' VOWS

ACT I.

SCENE I. A high road, a town at a
distance--A small inn on one side of
the road--A cottage on the other.

The LANDLORD of the inn leads
AGATHA by the hand out of his house.

LANDLORD. No, no! no room for you any longer--It is the fair to-day
in the next village; as great a fair as any in the German dominions.
The country people with their wives and children take up every corner
we have.

AGATHA. You will turn a poor sick woman out of doors who has spent her
last farthing in your house.

LANDLORD. For that very reason; because she _has_ spent her last
farthing.

AGATHA. I can work.

LANDLORD. You can hardly move your hands.

AGATHA. My strength will come again.

LANDLORD. Then _you_ may come again.

AGATHA. What am I to do? Where shall I go?

LANDLORD. It is fine weather--you may go any where.

AGATHA. Who will give me a morsel of bread to satisfy my hunger?

LANDLORD. Sick people eat but little.

AGATHA. Hard, unfeeling man, have pity.

LANDLORD. When times are hard, pity is too expensive for a poor man.
Ask alms of the different people that go by.

AGATHA. Beg! I would rather starve.

LANDLORD. You may beg and starve too. What a fine lady you are! Many
an honest woman has been obliged to beg. Why should not you? [Agatha
sits down upon a large stone under a tree.] For instance, here comes
somebody; and I will teach you how to begin. [A Countryman, with
working tools, crosses the road.] Good day, neighbour Nicholas.

COUNTRYMAN. Good day. [Stops.]

LANDLORD. Won't you give a trifle to this poor woman? [Countryman
takes no notice, but walks off.] That would not do--the poor man has
nothing himself but what he gets by hard labour. Here comes a rich
farmer; perhaps he will give you something.

Enter FARMER.

LANDLORD. Good morning to you, Sir. Under yon tree sits a poor woman
in distress, who is in need of your charity.

FARMER. Is she not ashamed of herself? Why don't she work?

LANDLORD. She has had a fever.--If you would but pay for one dinner--

FARMER. The harvest has been indifferent, and my cattle and sheep have
suffered distemper. [Exit.

LANDLORD. My fat, smiling face was not made for begging: you'll have
more luck with your thin, sour one--so, I'll leave you to yourself.
[Exit.

[Agatha rises and comes forward.]

AGATHA. Oh Providence! thou hast till this hour protected me, and
hast given me fortitude not to despair. Receive my humble thanks, and
restore me to health, for the sake of my poor son, the innocent cause
of my sufferings, and yet my only comfort. [kneeling] Oh, grant that
I may see him once more! See him improved in strength of mind and
body; and that by thy gracious mercy he may never be visited with
afflictions great as mine. [After a pause] Protect his father too,
merciful Providence, and pardon his crime of perjury to me! Here, in
the face of heaven (supposing my end approaching, and that I can but a
few days longer struggle with want and sorrow), here, I solemnly
forgive my seducer for all the ills, the accumulated evils which his
allurements, his deceit, and cruelty, have for twenty years past drawn
upon me.

Enter a COUNTRY GIRL with a basket.

AGATHA [near fainting]. My dear child, if you could spare me a trifle--

GIRL. I have not a farthing in the world--But I am going to market to
sell my eggs, and as I come back I'll give you three-pence--And I'll be
back as soon as ever I can. [Exit.

AGATHA. There was a time when I was as happy as this country girl, and
as willing to assist the poor in distress. [Retires to the tree and
sits down.]

Enter FREDERICK--He is dressed in a German
soldier's uniform, has a knapsack on
his shoulders, appears in high spirits,
and stops at the door of the inn.

FREDERICK. Halt! Stand at ease! It is a very hot day--A draught of
good wine will not be amiss. But first let me consult my purse.
[Takes out a couple of pieces of money, which he turns about in his
hand.] This will do for a breakfast--the other remains for my dinner;
and in the evening I shall be home. [Calls out] Ha! Halloo!
Landlord! [Takes notice of Agatha, who is leaning against the tree.]
Who is that? A poor sick woman! She don't beg; but her appearance
makes me think she is in want. Must one always wait to give till one
is asked? Shall I go without my breakfast now, or lose my dinner? The
first I think is best. Ay, I don't want a breakfast, for dinner time
will soon be here. To do good satisfies both hunger and thirst.
[Going towards her with the money in his hand.] Take this, good woman.

[She stretches her hand for the gift,
looks steadfastly at him,
and cries out with astonishment and joy.]

AGATHA. Frederick!

FREDERICK. Mother! [With astonishment and grief.] Mother! For God's
sake what is this! How is this! And why do I find my mother thus?
Speak!

AGATHA. I cannot speak, dear son! [Rising and embracing him.] My
dear Frederick! The joy is too great--I was not prepared--

FREDERICK. Dear mother, compose yourself: [leans her against his
breast] now, then, be comforted. How she trembles! She is fainting.

AGATHA. I am so weak, and my head so giddy--I had nothing to eat all
yesterday.

FREDERICK. Good heavens! Here is my little money, take it all! Oh
mother! mother! [Runs to the inn]. Landlord! Landlord! [knocking
violently at the door.]

LANDLORD. What is the matter?

FREDERICK. A bottle of wine--quick, quick!

LANDLORD [surprised]. A bottle of wine! For who?

FREDERICK. For me. Why do you ask? Why don't you make haste?

LANDLORD. Well, well, Mr. soldier: but can you pay for it?

FREDERICK. Here is money--make haste, or I'll break every window in
your house.

LANDLORD. Patience! Patience! [goes off.

FREDERICK [to Agatha]. You were hungry yesterday when I sat down to a
comfortable dinner. You were hungry when I partook of a good supper.
Oh! Why is so much bitter mixed with the joy of my return?

AGATHA. Be patient, my dear Frederick. Since I see you, I am well.
But I _have been_ ill: so ill, that I despaired of ever beholding you
again.

FREDERICK. Ill, and I was not with you? I will, now, never leave you
more. Look, mother, how tall and strong I am grown. There arms can
now afford you support. They can, and shall, procure you subsistence.

[Landlord coming out of the house
with a small pitcher.]

LANDLORD. Here is wine--a most delicious nectar. [Aside.] It is only
Rhenish; but it will pass for the best old Hock.

FREDERICK [impatiently snatching the pitcher]. Give it me.

LANDLORD. No, no--the money first. One shilling and two-pence, if you
please.

[Frederick gives him money.]

FREDERICK. This is all I have.--Here, here, mother.

[While she drinks Landlord counts the money.]

LANDLORD. Three halfpence too short! However, one must be charitable.
[Exit Landlord.

AGATHA. I thank you, my dear Frederick--Wine revives me--Wine from the
hand of my son gives me almost a new life.

FREDERICK. Don't speak too much, mother.--Take your time.

AGATHA. Tell me, dear child, how you have passed the five years since
you left me.

FREDERICK. Both good and bad, mother. To day plenty--to-morrow not so
much--And sometimes nothing at all.

AGATHA. You have not written to me this long while.

FREDERICK. Dear mother, consider the great distance I was from
you!--And then, in the time of war, how often letters
miscarry.--Besides ----

AGATHA. No matter now I see you. But have you obtained your discharge?

FREDERICK. Oh, no, mother--I have leave of absence only for two
months; and that for a particular reason. But I will not quit you so
soon, now I find you are in want of my assistance.

AGATHA. No, no, Frederick; your visit will make me so well, that I
shall in a very short time recover strength to work again; and you must
return to your regiment when your furlough is expired. But you told me
leave of absence was granted you for a particular reason.--What reason?

FREDERICK. When I left you five years ago, you gave me every thing you
could afford, and all you thought would be necessary for me. But one
trifle you forgot, which was, the certificate of my birth from the
church-book.--You know in this country there is nothing to be done
without it. At the time of parting from you, I little thought it could
be of that consequence to me which I have since found it would have
been. Once I became tired of a soldier's life, and in the hope I
should obtain my discharge, offered myself to a master to learn a
profession; but his question was, "Where is your certificate from the
church-book of the parish in which you were born?" It vexed me that I
had not it to produce, for my comrades laughed at my disappointment.
My captain behaved kinder, for he gave me leave to come home to fetch
it--and you see, mother, here I am.

[During this speech Agatha
is confused and agitated.

AGATHA. So, you are come for the purpose of fetching your certificate
from the church-book.

FREDERICK. Yes, mother.

AGATHA. Oh! oh!

FREDERICK. What is the matter? [She bursts into tears.] For heaven's
sake, mother, tell me what's the matter?

AGATHA. You have no certificate.

FREDERICK. No!

AGATHA. No.--The laws of Germany excluded you from being registered at
your birth--for--you are a natural son!

FREDERICK [starts--after a pause]. So!--And who is my father?

AGATHA. Oh Frederick, your wild looks are daggers to my heart.
Another time.

FREDERICK [endeavouring to conceal his emotion]. No, no--I am still
your son--and you are still my mother. Only tell me, who is my father?

AGATHA. When we parted five years ago, you were too young to be
intrusted with a secret of so much importance.--But the time is come
when I can, in confidence, open my heart, and unload that burthen with
which it has been long oppressed. And yet, to reveal my errors to my
child, and sue for his mild judgment on my conduct ----

FREDERICK. You have nothing to sue for; only explain this mystery.

AGATHA. I will, I will. But--my tongue is locked with remorse and
shame. You must not look at me.

FREDERICK. Not look at you! Cursed be that son who could find his
mother guilty, although the world should call her so.

AGATHA. Then listen to me, and take notice of that village, [pointing]
of that castle, and of that church. In that village I was born--in
that church I was baptized. My parents were poor, but reputable
farmers.--The lady of that castle and estate requested them to let me
live with her, and she would provide for me through life. They
resigned me; and at the age of fourteen I went to my patroness. She
took pleasure to instruct me in all kinds of female literature and
accomplishments, and three happy years had passed under protection,
when her only son, who was an officer in the Saxon service, obtained
permission to come home. I had never seen him before--he was a
handsome young man--in my eyes a prodigy; for he talked of love, and
promised me marriage. He was the first man who ever spoken to me on
such a subject.--His flattery made me vain, and his repeated
vows--Don't look at me, dear Frederick!--I can say no more. [Frederick
with his eyes cast down, takes her hand, and puts it to his heart.]
Oh! oh! my son! I was intoxicated by the fervent caresses of a young,
inexperienced, capricious man, and did not recover from the delirium
till it was too late.

FREDERICK [after a pause]. Go on.--Let me know more of my father.

AGATHA. When the time drew near that I could no longer conceal my
guilt and shame, my seducer prevailed upon me not to expose him to the
resentment of his mother. He renewed his former promises of marriage
at her death;--on which relying, I gave him my word to be secret--and I
have to this hour buried his name deep in my heart.

FREDERICK. Proceed, proceed! give me full information--I will have
courage to hear it all. [Greatly agitated.]

AGATHA. His leave of absence expired, he returned to his regiment,
depending on my promise, and well assured of my esteem. As soon as my
situation became known, I was questioned, and received many severe
reproaches: But I refused to confess who was my undoer; and for that
obstinacy was turned from the castle.--I went to my parents; but their
door was shut against me. My mother, indeed, wept as she bade me quit
her sight for ever; but my father wished increased affliction might
befall me.

FREDERICK [weeping]. Be quick with your narrative, or you'll break my
heart.

AGATHA. I now sought protection from the old clergyman of the parish.
He received me with compassion. On my knees I begged forgiveness for
the scandal I had caused to his parishioners; promised amendment; and
he said he did not doubt me. Through his recommendation I went to
town; and hid in humble lodgings, procured the means of subsistence by
teaching to the neighbouring children what I had learnt under the
tuition of my benefactress.---To instruct you, my Frederick, was my
care and delight; and in return for your filial love I would not thwart
your wishes when they led to a soldier's life: but my health declined,
I was compelled to give up my employment, and, by degrees, became the
object you now see me. But, let me add, before I close my calamitous
story, that--when I left the good old clergyman, taking along with me
his kind advice and his blessing, I left him with a firm determination
to fulfil the vow I had made of repentance and amendment. I _have_
fulfilled it--and now, Frederick, you may look at me again. [He
embraces her.]

FREDERICK. But my father all this time? [mournfully] I apprehend he
died.

AGATHA. No--he married.

FREDERICK. Married!

AGATHA. A woman of virtue--of noble birth and immense fortune. Yet,
[weeps] I had written to him many times; had described your infant
innocence and wants; had glanced obliquely at former promises--

FREDERICK [rapidly]. No answer to these letters?

AGATHA. Not a word.--But in time of war, you know, letters miscarry.

FREDERICK. Nor did he ever return to this estate?

AGATHA. No--since the death of his mother this castle has only been
inhabited by servants--for he settled as far off as Alsace, upon the
estate of his wife.

FREDERICK. I will carry you in my arms to Alsace. No--why should I
ever know my father, if he is a villain! My heart is satisfied with a
mother.--No--I will not go to him. I will not disturb his peace--O
leave that task to his conscience. What say you, mother, can't we do
without him? [Struggling between tears and his pride.] We don't want
him. I will write directly to my captain. Let the consequence be what
it will, leave you again I cannot. Should I be able to get my
discharge, I will work all day at the plough, and all the night with my
pen. It will do, mother, it will do! Heaven's goodness will assist
me--it will prosper the endeavours of a dutiful son for the sake of a
helpless mother.

AGATHA [presses him to her breast]. Where could be found such another
son?

FREDERICK. But tell me my father's name, that I may know how to shun
him.

AGATHA. Baron Wildenhaim.

FREDERICK. Baron Wildenhaim! I shall never forget it.--Oh! you are
near fainting. Your eyes are cast down. What's the matter? Speak,
mother!

AGATHA. Nothing particular.--Only fatigued with talking. I wish to
take a little rest.

FREDERICK. I did not consider that we have been all this time in the
open road. [Goes to the Inn, and knocks at the door.] Here, Landlord!

LANDLORD re-enters.

LANDLORD. Well, what is the matter now?

FREDERICK. Make haste, and get a bed ready for this good woman.

LANDLORD [with a sneer]. A bed for this good woman! ha, ha ha! She
slept last night in that pent-house; so she may to-night. [Exit,
shutting door.

FREDERICK. You are an infamous--[goes back to his mother] Oh! my
poor mother--[runs to the Cottage at a little distance, and knocks].
Ha! hallo! Who is there?

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5