Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Enter CATHERINE, breathless.

  Cath. I — I — I’ve overtaken him at last. Sir — Mr. Serjeant, one word! What news from Finland?

  Serj. The best — the war’s over. Peace is proclaimed.

  Cath. (clasping her hands joyfully.) Peace! happy sound! — Peace! The war’s over! — Peace! — And the regiment of Helmaar — (The Serjeant appears impatient to get away) — Only one word, good serjeant: when will the regiment of Helmaar be back?

  Serj. All that remain of it will be home next week.

  Cath. Next week? — But, all that remain, did you say? — Then many have been killed?

  Serj. Many, many — too many. Some honest peasants are bringing home the knapsacks of those who have fallen in battle. ’Tis fair that what little they had should come home to their families. Now, I pray you, let me pass on.

  Cath. One word more: tell me, do you know, in the regiment of Helmaar, one Christiern Aleftson?

  Serj, (with eagerness.) Christiern Aleftson! as brave a fellow, and as good as ever lived, if it be the same that I knew.

  Cath. As brave a fellow, and as good as ever lived! Oh, that’s he! he is my husband — where is he? where is he?

  Serj, (aside.) She wrings my heart! — (Aloud) — He was —

  Cath. Was!

  Serj. He is, I hope, safe.

  Cath. You hope! — don’t look away — I must see your face: tell me all you know.

  Serj. I know nothing for certain. When the peasants come with the knapsacks, you will hear all from them. Pray you, let me follow my men; they are already at a great distance.

  {Exit Serj. followed by Catherine.}

  Cath. I will not detain you an instant — only one word more —

  {Exit.}

  SCENE. — An apartment in Count Helmaar’s Castle. — A train of dancers. — After they have danced for some time,

  Enter a Page.

  Page. Ladies! I have waited, according to your commands, till Count Helmaar appeared in the ante-chamber — he is there now, along with the ladies Christina and Eleonora.

  1st Dancer. Now is our time — Count Helmaar shall hear our song to welcome him home.

  2nd Dancer. None was ever more welcome.

  3rd Dancer. But stay till I have breath to sing.

  SONG.

  I.

  Welcome, Helmaar, welcome home; In crowds your happy neighbours come, To hail with joy the cheerful morn, That sees their Helmaar’s safe return.

  II.

  No hollow heart, no borrow’d face. Shall ever Helmaar’s hall disgrace: Slaves alone on tyrants wait; Friends surround the good and great.

  Welcome Helmaar, &c.

  Enter ELEONORA, CHRISTINA, and COUNT HELMAAR.

  Helmaar. Thanks, my friends, for this kind welcome.

  1st Dancer (looking at a black fillet on Helmaar’s head). He has been wounded.

  Christina. Yes — severely wounded.

  Helmaar. And had it not been for the fidelity of the soldier who carried me from the field of battle, I should never have seen you more, my friends, nor you, my charming Eleonora. (A noise of one singing behind the scenes.) — What disturbance is that without?

  Christina. Tis only Aleftson, the fool: — in your absence, brother, he has been the cause of great diversion in the castle: — I love to play upon him, it keeps him in tune; — you can’t think how much good it does him.

  Helmaar. And how much good it does you, sister: — from your childhood you had always a lively wit, and loved to exercise it; but do you waste it upon fools?

  Christina. I’m sometimes inclined to think this Aleftson is more knave than fool.

  Eleon. By your leave, Lady Christina, he is no knave, or I am much mistaken. To my knowledge, he has carried his whole salary, and all the little presents he has received from us, to his brother’s wife and children. I have seen him chuck his money, thus, at those poor children, when they have been at their plays, and then run away, lest their mother should make them give it back.

  Enter ALEFTSON, the fool, in a fool’s coat, fool’s cap and bells, singing.

  I.

  There’s the courtier, who watches the nod of the great; Who thinks much of his pension, and nought of the state: When for ribands and titles his honour he sells — What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells?

  II.

  There’s the gamester, who stakes on the turn of a die His house and his acres, the devil knows why: His acres he loses, his forests he sells — What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells?

  III.

  There’s the student so crabbed and wonderful wise, With his plus and his minus, his x’s and y’s: Pale at midnight he pores o’er his magical spells — What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells?

  IV.

  The lover, who’s ogling, and rhyming, and sighing, Who’s musing, and pining, and whining, and dying: When a thousand of lies ev’ry minute he tells — What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells?

  V.

  There’s the lady so fine, with her airs and her graces, With a face like an angel’s — if angels have faces: She marries, and Hymen the vision dispels — What’s her husband, my friends, but a fool without bells?

  Christina, Eleonora, Helmaar, &c. — Bravo! bravissimo! — excellent fool! — Encore.

  {The fool folds his arms, and begins to cry bitterly.}

  Christina. What now, Aleftson? I never saw you sad before — What’s the matter? — Speak.

  {Fool sobs, but gives no answer.}

  Helm. Why do you weep so bitterly?

  Aleft. Because I am a fool.

  Helm. Many should weep, if that were cause sufficient.

  Eleon. But, Aleftson, you have all your life, till now, been a merry fool.

  Fool. Because always, till now, I was a fool, but now I am grown wise: and ’tis difficult, to all but you, lady, to be merry and wise.

  Christina. A pretty compliment; ’tis a pity it was paid by a fool.

  Fool. Who else should pay compliments, lady, or who else believe them?

  Christina. Nay, I thought it was the privilege of a fool to speak the truth without offence.

  Fool. Fool as you take me to be, I’m not fool enough yet to speak truth to a lady, and think to do it without offence.

  Eleon. Why, you have said a hundred severe things to me within this week, and have I ever been angry with you?

  Fool. Never; for, out of the whole hundred, not one was true. But have a care, lady — fool as I am, you’d be glad to stop a fool’s mouth with your white hand this instant, rather than let him tell the truth of you.

  Christina (laughing, and all the other ladies, except Eleonora, exclaim) — Speak on, good fool; speak on —

  Helm. I am much mistaken, or the lady Eleonora fears not to hear the truth from either wise men or fools — Speak on.

  Fool. One day, not long ago, when there came news that our count there was killed in Finland — I, being a fool, was lying laughing, and thinking of nothing at all, on the floor, in the west drawing-room, looking at the count’s picture — In comes the Lady Eleonora, all in tears.

  Eleon. (stopping his mouth.) Oh! tell any thing but that, good fool.

  Helmaar (kneels and kisses her hand). Speak on, excellent fool.

  Christina and ladies. Speak on, excellent fool — In came the Lady Eleonora, all in tears.

  Fool. In comes the Lady Eleonora, all in tears — (pauses and looks round). Why now, what makes you all so curious about these tears? — Tears are but salt water, let them come from what eyes they will — my tears are as good as hers — in came John Aleftson, all in tears, just now, and nobody kneels to me — nobody kisses my hands — nobody cares half a straw for my tears — (folds his arms and looks melancholy). I am not one of those — I know the cause of my tears too well.

  Helm. Perhaps they were caused by my unexpected return — hey?

  Fool (scornfully). No — I am not such a fool as that comes to. Don’t I know that, when you are at home,
the poor may hold up their heads, and no journeyman-gentleman of an agent dares then to go about plaguing those who live in cottages? No, no, — I am not such a fool as to cry because Count Helmaar is come back; but the truth is, I cried because I am tired and ashamed of wearing this thing — (throwing down his fool’s cap upon the floor, changes his tone entirely) — I! — who am brother to the man who saved Count Helmaar’s life — I to wear a fool’s cap and bells — Oh shame! shame!

  {The ladies look at one another with signs of astonishment.}

  Christina (aside). A lucid interval — poor fool! — I will torment him no more — he has feeling—’twere better he had none.

  Eleon. Hush! — hear him!

  Aleft. (throwing himself at the counts feet). Noble count, I have submitted to be thought a fool; I have worn this fool’s cap in your absence, that I might indulge my humour, and enjoy the liberty of speaking my mind freely to the people of all conditions. Now that you are returned, I have no need of such a disguise — I may now speak the truth without fear, and without a cap and bells. — I resign my salary, and give back the ensign of my office — (presents the fool’s cap).

  {Exit.}

  Christina. He might well say, that none but fools should pay compliments — this is the best compliment that has been paid you, brother.

  Eleon. And observe, he has resigned his salary.

  Helm. From this moment let it be doubled: — he made an excellent use of money when he was a fool — may he make half as good a use of it now he is a wise man.

  Christina. Amen — and now I hope we are to have some more dancing.

  {Exeunt.}

  ACT II.

  SCENE — By moonlight — a forest — a castle illuminated at a distance. — A group of peasants seated on the ground, each with a knapsack beside him. — One peasant lies stretched on the ground.

  1st Peasant. Why, what I say is, that the wheel of the cart being broken, and the horse dead lame, and Charles there in that plight — (points to the sleeping peasant) — it is a folly to think of getting on further this evening.

  2nd Peasant. And what I say is, it’s folly to sleep here, seeing I know the country, and am certain sure we have not above one mile at furthest to go, before we get to the end of our journey.

  1st Peasant (pointing to the sleeper). He can’t walk a mile — he’s done for — dog tired —

  3rd Peasant. Are you certain sure we have only one mile further to go?

  2nd Peasant. Certain sure —

  All, except the sleeper and the 1st Peasant. Oh, let us go on, then, and we can carry the knapsacks on our backs for this one mile.

  1st Peasant. You must carry him, then, knapsack and all.

  All together. So we will.

  2nd Peasant. But first, do you see, let’s waken him; for a sleeping man’s twice as heavy as one that’s awake — Hollo, friend! waken! waken! — (he shakes the sleeper, who snores loudly) — Good Lord, he snores loud enough to waken all the birds in the wood.

  {All the peasants shout in the sleeper’s ear, and he starts up, shaking himself.}

  Charles. Am I awake? — (stretching.)

  2nd Peasant. No, not yet, man — Why, don’t you know where you are? Ay; here’s the moon — and these be trees; and — I be a man, and what do you call this? (holding up a knapsack.)

  Charles. A knapsack, I say, to be sure: — I’m as broad awake as the best of you.

  2nd Peasant. Come on, then; we’ve a great way further to go before you sleep again.

  Charles. A great way further! further to-night! — No, no.

  2nd Peasant. Yes, yes; we settled it all while you were fast asleep — You are to be carried, you and your knapsack.

  {They prepare to carry him.}

  Charles (starting up, and struggling with them). I’ve legs to walk — I won’t be carried! — I, a Swede, and be carried! — No! No! —

  All together. Yes! Yes!

  Charles. No! No! — (he struggles for his knapsack, which comes untied in the struggle, and all the things fall out.) — There, this comes of playing the fool.

  {They help him to pick up the things, and exclaim,}

  All. There’s no harm done — (throwing the knapsack over his shoulder).

  Charles. I’m the first to march, after all.

  Peasants. Ay, in your sleep!

  {Exeunt, laughing.}

  Enter CATHERINE’S two little Children.

  Little Girl. I am sure I heard some voices this way — suppose it was the fairies!

  Little Boy. It was only the rustling of the leaves. There are no such things as fairies; but if there were any such, we have no need to fear them.

  Little Boy sings.

  I.

  Nor elves, nor fays, nor magic charm,

  Have pow’r, or will, to work us harm;

  For those who dare the truth to tell,

  Fays, elves, and fairies, wish them well.

  II.

  For us they spread their dainty fare,

  For us they scent the midnight air;

  For us their glow-worm lamps they light,

  For us their music cheers the night.

  Little Girl sings.

  I.

  Ye fays and fairies, hasten here,

  Robed in glittering gossamere;

  With tapers bright, and music sweet,

  And frolic dance, and twinkling feet.

  II.

  And, little Mable, let us view

  Your acorn goblets fill’d with dew;

  Nor warn us hence till we have seen

  The nut-shell chariot of your queen:

  III.

  In which on nights of yore she sat,

  Driven by her gray-coated gnat;

  With spider spokes and cobweb traces,

  And horses fit for fairy races.

  IV.

  And bid us join your revel ring,

  And see you dance, and hear you sing:

  Your fairy dainties let us taste,

  And speed us home with fairy haste.

  Little Boy. If there were really fairies, and if they would give me my wish, I know what I should ask.

  Little Girl. And so do I — I would ask them to send father home before I could count ten.

  Little Boy. And I would ask to hear his general say to him, in the face of the whole army, “This is a brave man!” And father should hold up his head as I do now, and march thus by the side of his general.

  {As the little Boy marches, he stumbles.}

  Little Girl. Oh! take care! — come, let us march home: — but stay, I have not found my faggot.

  Little Boy. Never mind your faggot; it was not here you left it.

  Little Girl. Yes, it was somewhere here, I’m sure, and I must find it, to carry it home to mother, to make a blaze for her before she goes to bed.

  Little Boy. But she will wonder what keeps us up so late.

  Little Girl. But we shall tell her what kept us. Look under those trees, will you, whilst I look here, for my faggot. — When we get home, I shall say, “Mother, do you know there is great news? — there’s a great many, many candles in the windows of the great house, and dancing and music in the great house, because the master’s come home, and the housekeeper had not time to pay us, and we waited and waited with our faggots; at last the butler—”

  Little Boy. Heyday! — What have we here? — a purse, a purse, a heavy purse.

  Little Girl. Whose can it be? let us carry it home to mother.

  Little Boy. No, no; it can’t be mother’s: mother has no purse full of money. It must belong to somebody at the great house.

  Little Girl. Ay, very likely to dame Ulrica, the housekeeper, for she has more purses and money than any body else in the world.

  Little Boy. Come, let us run back with it to her, — mother would tell us to do so, I’m sure, if she was here.

  Little Girl. But I’m afraid the housekeeper won’t see us to-night.

  Little Boy. Oh, yes; but I’ll beg, and pray, and push, t
ill I get into her room.

  Little Girl. Yes; but don’t push me, or I shall knock my head against the trees. Give me your hand, brother. — Oh, my faggot! I shall never find you.

  {Exeunt.}

  SCENE — Catherine’s Cottage.

  CATHERINE, spinning, sings.

  I.

  Turn swift, my wheel, my busy wheel,

  And leave my heart no time to feel;

  Companion of my widow’d hour,

  My only friend, my only dow’r.

  II.

  Thy lengthening thread I love to see,

  Thy whirring sound is dear to me:

  Oh, swiftly turn by night and day,

  And toil for him that’s far away.

  Catherine. Hark! here come the children. No, ’twas only the wind. What can keep these children so late? — but it is a fine moonlight night — they’ll have brave appetites for their supper when they come back — but I wonder they don’t come home. — Heigho! since their father has been gone, I am grown a coward — (a knock at the door heard) — Come in! — Why does every knock at the door startle me in this way?

  Enter CHARLES, with a knapsack on his back

  Charles. Mistress! mayhap you did not expect to see a stranger at this time o’ night, as I guess by the looks of ye — but I’m only a poor fellow, that has been a-foot a great many hours.

  Cath. Then, pray ye, rest yourself, and such fare as we have you’re welcome to.

  {She sets milk, &c., on a table. Charles throws himself into a chair, and flings his knapsack behind him.}

  Charles. ’Tis a choice thing to rest one’s self: — I say, mistress, you must know, I, and some more of us peasants, have come a many, many leagues since break of day.