Miss Sara Sampson — Act 4
MELLEFONT.
Yes, dearest Sara, yes!
That I will do!
That I must do.
SARA.
How happy you make me!
MELLEFONT.
It is I who must take the whole crime upon myself.
I alone am guilty; I alone must ask for forgiveness.
SARA.
No, Mellefont, do not take from me the greater share which I have in our error!
It is dear to me, however wrong it is, for it must have convinced you that I love my Mellefont above everything in this world.
But is it, then, really true, that I may henceforth combine this love with the love of my father?
Or am I in a pleasant dream?
How I fear it will pass and I shall awaken in my old misery!
But no!
I am not merely dreaming, I am really happier than I ever dared hope to become; happier than this short life may perhaps allow.
But perhaps this beam of happiness appears in the distance, and delusively seems to approach only in order to melt away again into thick darkness, and to leave me suddenly in a night whose whole terror has only become perceptible to me through this short illumination.
What forebodings torment me!
Are they really forebodings, Mellefont, or are they common feelings, which are inseparable from the expectation of an undeserved happiness, and the fear of losing it?
How fast my heart beats, and how wildly it beats.
How loud now, how quick!
And now how weak, how anxious, how quivering!
Now it hurries again, as if these were its last throbbings, which it would fain beat out rapidly.
Poor heart!
MELLEFONT.
The tumult of your blood, which a sudden surprise cannot fail to cause, will abate, Sara, and your heart will continue its work more calmly.
None of its throbs point to aught that is in the future, and we are to blame--forgive me, dearest Sara!
--if we make the mechanic pressure of our blood into a prophet of evil.
But I will not leave anything undone which you yourself think good to appease this little storm within your breast.
I will write at once, and I hope that Sir William will be satisfied with the assurances of my repentance, with the expressions of my stricken heart, and my vows of affectionate obedience.
SARA.
Sir William?
Ah, Mellefont, you must begin now to accustom yourself to a far more tender name.
My father, your father, Mellefont---- MELLEFONT.
Very well, Sara, our kind, our dear father!
I was very young when I last used this sweet name; very young, when I had to unlearn the equally sweet name of mother.
SARA.
You had to unlearn it, and I--I was never so happy, as to be able to pronounce it at all.
My life was her death!
O God, I was a guiltless matricide!
And how much was wanting--how little, how almost nothing was wanting to my becoming a parricide too!
Not a guiltless, but a voluntary parricide.
And who knows, whether I am not so already?
The years, the days, the moments by which he is nearer to his end than he would have been without the grief I have caused him--of those I have robbed him.
However old and weary he may be when Fate shall permit him to depart, my conscience will yet be unable to escape the reproach that but for me he might have lived yet longer.
A sad reproach with which I doubtless should not need to charge myself, if a loving mother had guided me in my youth.
Through her teaching and her example my heart would--you look tenderly on me, Mellefont?
You are right; a mother would perhaps have been a tyrant for very love, and I should not now belong to Mellefont.
Why do I wish then for that, which a wiser Fate denied me out of kindness?
Its dispensations are always best.
Let us only make proper use of that which it gives us; a father who never yet let me sigh for a mother; a father who will also teach you to forget the parents you lost so soon.
What a flattering thought.
I fall in love with it, and forget almost, that in my innermost heart there is still something which refuses to put faith in it.
What is this rebellious something?
MELLEFONT.
This something, dearest Sara, as you have already said yourself, is the natural, timid incapability to realize a great happiness.
Ah, your heart hesitated less to believe itself unhappy than now, to its own torment, it hesitates to believe in its own happiness!
But as to one who has become dizzy with quick movement, the external objects still appear to move round when again he is sitting still, so the heart which has been violently agitated cannot suddenly become calm again; there remains often for a long time, a quivering palpitation which we must suffer to exhaust itself.
SARA.
I believe it, Mellefont, I believe it, because you say it, because I wish it.
But do not let us detain each other any longer!
I will go and finish my letter.
And you will let me read yours, will you not, after I have shown you mine?
MELLEFONT.
Each word shall be submitted to your judgment; except what I must say in your defence, for I know you do not think yourself so innocent as you are.
(_Accompanies Sara to the back of the stage_.
) Scene II.
MELLEFONT (_after walking up and down several times in thought_).
What a riddle I am to myself!
What shall I think myself?
A fool?
Or a knave?
Heart, what a villain thou art!
I love the angel, however much of a devil I may be.
I love her!
Yes, certainly!
certainly I love her.
I feel I would sacrifice a thousand lives for her, for her who sacrificed her virtue for me; I would do so,--this very moment without hesitation would I do so.
And yet, yet--I am afraid to say it to myself--and yet--how shall I explain it?
And yet I fear the moment which will make her mine for ever before the world.
It cannot be avoided now, for her father is reconciled.
Nor shall I be able to put it off for long.
The delay has already drawn down painful reproaches enough upon me.
But painful as they were, they were still more supportable to me than the melancholy thought of being fettered for life.
But am I not so already?
Certainly,--and with pleasure!
Certainly I am already her prisoner.
What is it I want, then?
At present I am a prisoner, who is allowed to go about on parole; that is flattering!
Why cannot the matter rest there?
Why must I be put in chains and thus lack even the pitiable shadow of freedom?
In chains?
Quite so!
Sara Sampson, my beloved!
What bliss lies in these words!
Sara Sampson, my wife!
The half of the bliss is gone!
and the other half--will go!
Monster that I am!
And with such thoughts shall I write to her father?
Yet these are not my real thoughts, they are fancies!
Cursed fancies, which have become natural to me through my dissolute life!
I will free myself from them, or live no more.
Scene III.
Norton, Mellefont.
MELLEFONT.
You disturb me, Norton!
NORTON.
I beg your pardon, Sir (_withdrawing again_).
MELLEFONT.
No, no!
Stay!
It is just as well that you should disturb me.
What do you want?
NORTON.
I have heard some very good news from Betty, and have come to wish you happiness.
MELLEFONT.
On the reconciliation with her father, I suppose you mean?
I thank you.
NORTON.
So Heaven still means to make you happy.
MELLEFONT.
If it means to do so,--you see, Norton, I am just towards myself--it certainly does not mean it for my sake.
NORTON.
No, no; if you feel that, then it will be for your sake also.
MELLEFONT.
For my Sara's sake alone.
If its vengeance, already armed, could spare the whole of a sinful city for the sake of a few just men, surely it can also bear with a sinner, when a soul in which it finds delight, is the sharer of his fate.
NORTON.
You speak with earnestness and feeling.
But does not joy express itself differently from this?
MELLEFONT.
Joy, Norton?
(_Looking sharply at him_.
) For me it is gone now for ever.
NORTON.
May I speak candidly?
MELLEFONT.
You may.
NORTON.
The reproach which I had to hear this morning of having made myself a participator in your crimes, because I had been silent about them, may excuse me, if I am less silent henceforth.
MELLEFONT.
Only do not forget who you are!
NORTON.
I will not forget that I am a servant, and a servant, alas, who might be something better, if he had lived for it.
I am your servant, it is true, but not so far as to wish to be damned along with you.
MELLEFONT.
With me?
And why do you say that now?
NORTON.
Because I am not a little astonished to find you different from what I expected.
MELLEFONT.
Will you not inform me what you expected?
NORTON.
To find you all delight.
MELLEFONT.
It is only the common herd who are beside themselves immediately when luck smiles on them for once.
NORTON.
Perhaps, because the common herd still have the feelings which among greater people are corrupted and weakened by a thousand unnatural notions.
But there is something besides moderation to be read in your face--coldness, irresolution, disinclination.
MELLEFONT.
And if so?
Have you forgotten who is here besides Sara?
The presence of Marwood---- NORTON.
Could make you anxious, I daresay, but not despondent.
Something else troubles you.
And I shall be glad to be mistaken in thinking you would rather that the father were not yet reconciled.
The prospect of a position which so little suits your way of thinking---- MELLEFONT.
Norton, Norton!
Either you must have been, or still must be, a dreadful villain, that you can thus guess my thoughts.
Since you have hit the nail upon the head, I will not deny it.
It is true--so certain as it is that I shall love my Sara for ever so little does it please me, that I _must_--_must_ love her for ever!
But do not fear; I shall conquer this foolish fancy.
Or do you think that it is no fancy?
Who bids me look at marriage as compulsion?
I certainly do not wish to be freer than she will permit me to be.
NORTON.
These reflections are all very well.
But Marwood will come to the aid of your old prejudices, and I fear, I fear---- MELLEFONT.
That which will never happen!
You shall see her go back this very evening to London.
And as I have confessed my most secret--folly we will call it for the present--I must not conceal from you either, that I have put Marwood into such a fright that she will obey the slightest hint from me.
NORTON.
That sounds incredible to me.
MELLEFONT.
Look!
I snatched this murderous steel from her hand (_showing the dagger which he had taken from_ Marwood) when in a fearful rage she was on the point of stabbing me to the heart with it.
Will you believe now, that I offered her a stout resistance?
At first she well nigh succeeded in throwing her noose around my neck again.
The traitoress!
--She has Arabella with her.
NORTON.
Arabella?
MELLEFONT.
I have not yet been able to fathom by what cunning she got the child back into her hands again.
Enough, the result did not fall out as she no doubt had expected.
NORTON.
Allow me to rejoice at your firmness, and to consider your reformation half assured.
Yet,--as you wish me to know all--what business had she here under the name of Lady Solmes?
MELLEFONT.
She wanted of all things to see her rival.
I granted her wish partly from kindness, partly from rashness, partly from the desire to humiliate her by the sight of the best of her sex.
You shake your head, Norton?
NORTON.
I should not have risked that.
MELLEFONT.
Risked?
I did not risk anything more, after all, than what I should have had to risk if I had refused her.
She would have tried to obtain admittance as Marwood; and the worst that can be expected from her incognito visit is not worse than that.
NORTON.
Thank Heaven that it went off so quietly.
MELLEFONT.
It is not quite over yet, Norton.
A slight indisposition came over her and compelled her to go away without taking leave.
She wants to come again.
Let her do so!
The wasp which has lost its sting (_pointing to the dagger_) can do nothing worse than buzz.
But buzzing too shall cost her dear, if she grows too troublesome with it.
Do I not hear somebody coming?
Leave me if it should be she.
It is she.
Go!
(_Exit_ Norton.
) Scene IV.
Mellefont, Marwood.
MARWOOD.
No doubt you are little pleased to see me again.
MELLEFONT.
I am very pleased, Marwood, to see that your indisposition has had no further consequences.
You are better, I hope?
MARWOOD.
So, so.
MELLEFONT.
You have not done well, then, to trouble to come here again.
MARWOOD.
I thank you, Mellefont, if you say this out of kindness to me; and I do not take it amiss, if you have another meaning in it.
MELLEFONT.
I am pleased to see you so calm.
MARWOOD.
The storm is over.
Forget it, I beg you once more.
MELLEFONT.
Only remember your promise, Marwood, and I will forget everything with pleasure.
But if I knew that you would not consider it an offence, I should like to ask---- MARWOOD.
Ask on, Mellefont!
You cannot offend me any more.
What were you going to ask?
MELLEFONT.
How you liked my Sara?
MARWOOD.
The question is natural.
My answer will not seem so natural, but it is none the less true for that.
I liked her very much.
MELLEFONT.
Such impartiality delights me.
But would it be possible for him who knew how to appreciate the charms of a Marwood to make a bad choice?
MARWOOD.
You ought to have spared me this flattery, Mellefont, if it is flattery.
It is not in accordance with our intention to forget each other.
MELLEFONT.
You surely do not wish me to facilitate this intention by rudeness?
Do not let our separation be of an ordinary nature.
Let us break with each other as people of reason who yield to necessity; without bitterness, without anger, and with the preservation of a certain degree of respect, as behoves our former intimacy.
MARWOOD.
Former intimacy!
I do not wish to be reminded of it.
No more of it.
What must be, must, and it matters little how.
But one word more about Arabella.
You will not let me have her?
MELLEFONT.
No, Marwood!
MARWOOD.
It is cruel, since you can no longer be her father, to take her mother also from her.
MELLEFONT.
I can still be her father, and will be so.
MARWOOD.
Prove it, then, now!
MELLEFONT.
How?
MARWOOD.
Permit Arabella to have the riches which I have in keeping for you, as her father's inheritance.
As to her mother's inheritance I wish I could leave her a better one than the shame of having been borne by me.
MELLEFONT.
Do not speak so!
I shall provide for Arabella without embarrassing her mother's property.
If she wishes to forget me, she must begin by forgetting that she possesses anything from me.
I have obligations towards her, and I shall never forget that really--though against her will--she has promoted my happiness.
Yes, Marwood, in all seriousness I thank you for betraying our retreat to a father whose ignorance of it alone prevented him from receiving us again.
MARWOOD.
Do not torture me with gratitude which I never wished to deserve.
Sir William is too good an old fool; he must think differently from what I should have thought in his place.
I should have forgiven my daughter, but as to her seducer I should have---- MELLEFONT.
Marwood!
MARWOOD.
True; you yourself are the seducer!
I am silent.
Shall I be presently allowed to pay my farewell visit to Miss Sampson?
MELLEFONT.
