LIBRARY OF CONGRESS,!] 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
DESPITE THE WORJJ3: 
 
 & tufa Itfmmtfix flag, 
 
 I3ST TWO PARTS A3ST3D FOUR TABLEAUX. 
 
 BY 
 
 THE HON. LEWIS WINGFIELD 
 
 AND 
 
 GENEVIEVE DE GUERBEL. 
 
 PAET I. BERLIN AND SANS SOUCI, 1746. 
 PART II. VERSAILLES AND PARIS, 1751 
 
 For certain Portions of the Plot the Author is indebted to an Italian Work. 
 
 LONDON : 
 PRINTED BY E. J. FRANCIS, TOOK'S COURT, E.C. 
 
1 |X ° -n* 
 
 .MH 
 
 
Dramatis ^mom. 
 
 Thecla, Countess von Thurenau. 
 
 Olivia, Princess of Novgorod (her Sister). 
 
 Duchess of Valence. 
 
 Madame de Pierrefitte. 
 
 Frederick the Second of Prussia. 
 
 Monsieur de Voltaire. 
 
 Count Julian of Toledo. 
 
 Prince of Novgorod. 
 
 Baron Erfurt. 
 
 Laroque. 
 
 De, Martin. 
 
DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Tableau I. — Drawing-room in Thecla's castle. Doors R. and L. 
 In c. in flat an arch, with a thin curtain doivn, opening down 
 the centre. 
 
 Thecla and Laroque. She seated by a table, he standing over 
 her, a paper in his hand. 
 
 Thecla. Thank you, good Laroque. Your ode is graceful, 
 and, as it should be, eminently flattering. You are a born poet. 
 
 Laroque. And you, Countess, a born queen, fit sovereign for 
 His Gracious Majesty King Frederick's intellectual Court. As 
 for the poor ode, madam, you were ever too indulgent to my 
 humble worth. 
 
 Thec. Take care ! that is another of the thousand falsehoods 
 which you propound daily for my benefit. I am not indulgent ; 
 never was ; and never intend to be. My love of frankness, my 
 worship of Truth at any price, -reaches possibly the verge of mad- 
 ness. It is a folly which in this lying world whereon we feebly 
 strive will doubtless meet with proper punishment, for, after all, 
 society has a right to be deceived. Yet I am bold enough to 
 cling to the opinions formed on my own theories. Do I ever 
 blame the world for the slime which now and then it seeks to 
 cast at me 1 No, my heart is brave ; I meet its slanders with 
 contempt. 
 
 Lar. Slander to you, the beautiful widow 1 So witty, rich, 
 adored? Chosen to sit on an ideal throne; ruling a kingdom 
 whose chief wealth is intellect. 
 
 Thec. All the more cause for slander, friend Laroque, where 
 coins of wit are the chief currency. The world accepts idols on 
 the sole condition of breaking them at will, and I for one see no 
 cause for blame. The world and I are excellent friends, jogging 
 quietly side by side together, wreathing one another's locks with 
 drooping blossoms day by day, and waving the vase of incense 
 in the air, the more effectually to blind each other. By the way, 
 that epigram you turned on me last night was really vastly 
 clever, for it sent a smile round all the lips at Court. 
 
2 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 Lar. I turn an epigram at your expense. Oh, Countess, 
 believe me ! 
 
 Thec. Come, come, Laroque. Down on your knees and con- 
 fess at once. Admit that the very paper in your hand in which 
 I am likened to Juno and Venus and Minerva, all in one, will, 
 ere yonder sun be set, have been applied to every swan-like neck 
 and marble brow in town ! 
 
 Lar. I will admit no such thing. I solemnly protest that in 
 your presence I could not flatter even if I would. 
 
 Thec (ivith a sigh of satisfaction). Thank you. A new kind 
 of compliment, and most refreshing. While I think of it, you 
 have never told me the price of that delectable composition. 
 One must pay for admittance to Olympus. What does it cost 
 to stand in Juno's car ? What does Venus ask 1 {declaiming, 
 pompously). "To veil her eyes with tawny hair in shame?" Ha ! 
 Ha ! I have it. The place is vacant, and you would fain shade 
 your noble brow under the Poet Laureate's crown. Is it not so 1 
 
 Lab. Countess, you are all goodness ! 
 
 Thec. Well. His Majesty will be here to-day — or rather 
 Count Hecksen — for our monarch is not above masquerade, and 
 wishes his incognito to be respected. I will speak a word for 
 you — no thanks. And now — Presto ! change. Drop the poet 
 and resume the secretary, the more useful if not the less orna- 
 mental of the two. What letters have we here to-day 1 
 
 Lar. Here is one from the great philosopher, the Abbe" des 
 Fontaines. 
 
 Thec. Read. 
 
 Lar. " Divine Glicera. The gout and my creditors combined 
 keep me to my room. Being very miserable, I would banish 
 care, and therefore write to you " 
 
 Thec. No more nonsense. Sends he no news 1 
 
 Lar. A long postscript. 
 
 Thec. Read it. 
 
 Lar. "You are fond of oddities. Seek out and study 
 one but recently arrived at Frederick's Court. A gentleman, 
 half poet, half philosopher, attached to the Spanish Embassy ; 
 a woman-hater, who denies the existence of the butterfly god, 
 believes in all that we deny, and disbelieves our common articles 
 of faith, such, for example, my queen, as your irresistible powers 
 to charm. The bear is named Count Julian of Toledo. Muzzle 
 him. Read his grand tragedy called ' Sappho.' I have seen 
 worse. I can bear my gout no more. Adieu." 
 
 Thec. Invite him here at once (ivrites). Nay, take this note 
 with your own hand. What else 1 
 
 Lar. A letter from Garrick. 
 
 Thec. (snatching it). From Garrick ! Give it to me quickly 
 
DESPITE THE WOULD. 3 
 
 (reads). " You ask news of me. I can but repeat what I said 
 in London, when we stood together on the dismantled stage, 
 amid the ruins of Hamlet's cardboard palace. Each night as 
 I remove the paint from my face I scrutinize the lines which 
 death s finger is slowly but surely weaving there, and muse upon 
 my fate. There is yet time. If I so willed it, I could yet 
 erase those awful prints. But 'twixt life and art I have made 
 my choice, and shall, like Moliere, die an actor on the boards." 
 (She remains buried in thought.) Poor Garrick ! His life of 
 shadows is perhaps the true life after all ! Any more letters ] 
 
 Lar. One from the Duke of Liera. 
 
 Thec. To the flames. 
 
 Lar. Without reading it ? 
 
 Thec. I know what it contains. 
 
 Lar. From Count Heilbach. 
 
 Thec. To the flames. That makes his twenty-third. 
 
 Lar. Verses — verses — verses. Enough to paper a room. 
 
 Thec. To the flames. 
 
 Lar. A petition from a poor family. That to the flames, too 1 
 
 Thec. No. Hold ! Give it to me. Write, — tl Good for 
 700 florins, payable annually, on presentation of this order." 
 
 Lar. Another note — a strange one this. Only one word — a 
 name — Voltaire. 
 
 Thec. (rising suddenly). Voltaire at Berlin ! So suddenly, 
 without so much as a message ! 
 
 [Page announces at door, " M. de Voltaire." 
 
 Thec. Admit him at once. Don't go, Laroque. 
 
 [Laroqtje sits at table. 
 Enter Voltaire. 
 (Talcing both Voltaire's hands in hers). Now this is kind ! 
 When did you arrive, and why ? * 
 
 Vol. Thecla, my child, I arrived but yesterday. Mahomet 
 turned me out of France. 
 
 Thec. How? 
 
 Vol. Not the man, the work penned by your humble servant. 
 It is quite surprising what a hubbub was raised by those few 
 poor halting lines. I laughed awhile, and then I withdrew 
 Mahomet. He and I, Atheist and Mussulman, travelled 
 trgether in a royal coach. A mustachioed grenadier galloped 
 at either door. On the road, I converted one gentleman to my 
 peculiar code of thought, and filled the other's skin with wine — 
 ruined them both for life, poor men. No matter. Here I am, 
 safe and sound, and so is Mahomet. Once a poet, always a phi- 
 losopher, I have come to try my hand at a new trade. Behold 
 in me an ambassador, clad in the panoply of a mysterious mission. 
 * The two must stand all through this scene. 
 
4 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 Thec. You! 
 
 Vol. Yes. Everybody is an ambassador now-a-days. 
 
 Thec. From whom 1 
 
 Vol. I play, you see, a double part ; one burlesque, the other 
 sentimental — ambassador and outlaw. I have come from myself, 
 to induce Frederick to take up arms in my behalf. I began by 
 imploring him to do nothing of the kind — the best way of gain- 
 ing my point, although he 's not a woman. 
 
 Thec. And what said the king ? 
 
 Vol. As usual,' a multitude of sonorous words, very excellent 
 in themselves, but meaningless as strung by him. Heigho ! I 
 am already weary of the many-sided character I am called upon 
 to play. As a literary man, I have been pelted with eulogistic 
 verses by every fool in Prussia who can read and write, all of 
 whom unite to wave in 'my face the many-coloured rag which 
 men call glory. I assured them earnestly that I am a great man, 
 and they believed it. As a philosopher, I had gravely to receive 
 a stupendous deputation of elderly orang outangs, who appear 
 to consider philosophy incompatible with common-sense. As an 
 outlaw, I 'm pursued by all the ragamuffins in the town, who vie 
 with one another which shall first dip into my purse. And so, 
 like a worried animal, I come, harassed and panting, to you, 
 imploring only rest, and for a brief space to be forgotten. May 
 I crave that, as you are an angel — happily minus the fiery sword 
 — you will open to me the gates of your earthly paradise ? 
 
 Thec. A poor paradise, Voltaire; for in it is but a weak sem- 
 blance of the Tree of Life, without its twin sister, the Tree of 
 Happiness. ' A paltry Eden, wherein all glitters with the tinsel 
 of the stage. 
 
 Vol. My enthusiastic Thecla ! You were not wont to speak 
 thus. A change seems 
 
 Thec. Dear friend, are we not all for ever changing, and does 
 not each revolving year whisper its own counsel ere it vanishes ? 
 I cannot but feel that it is a terrible fate to stand over the 
 abyss of one's illusions, seeking to trace something tangible in 
 its uncertain depths. 
 
 Vol. Do its chasms yawn less awfully than the bitter gulf of 
 doubt over which it is my lot to hover ? Depend upon it, grand- 
 father Adam was wrong, whose chief legacy was a feverish desire 
 for search into hidden things. Ignorance is true happiness ; one 
 little dose of opium, and a long sound sleep, without a waking. 
 
 Thec. If you choose opium, I have my philtre, too. I have 
 distilled into a golden draught every sparkling pleasure which 
 our frivolous, feeble, sceptical age affords, and quaff it daily, till 
 rendered sick and dizzy by satiety. 
 
 Vol. Double the dose. 
 
DESPITE THE WOELD. 
 
 Thec. A lingering death. 
 
 Vol. Then fall in love. 
 
 Thec. No ; anything but that. 
 
 Vol. Like medicine, it may be unpleasant to the taste, but is 
 very suitable as a tonic in certain cases. I said so, only yester- 
 day, to that eccentric person, Count Julian of Toledo. Do you 
 know him 1 
 
 Thec. No. 
 
 Vol. A thousand pities ! Quite a delightful young man, 
 pleasantly different from most, who are measured by the yard, 
 and cut from a common piece. 
 
 Thec. I admire his poetry, especially his ' Sappho,' and have 
 heard much of him. 
 
 Vol. Do you know, Thecla, that, by some strange chance, the 
 last shreds of my faith seem to hang round your glorious 
 presence. I believe you capable of prodigies. Sometimes I 
 almost think that, by a touch, you might restore the sick to 
 health. 
 
 Thec. Then you believe in miracles 1 
 
 Vol. Who shall say 1 Now here 's a miracle I would propose 
 to you. Count Julian 
 
 Thec. That name again ! How many times am I to hear of 
 him this day 1 
 
 Vol. This Galahad— this paragon prince of virtue — this 
 loather of the sex — cause him to fall in love with you, and think 
 of the added laurel to your crown. 
 
 Thec. A strange suggestion. To what end 1 
 
 Vol. Merely as a study in psychology. I design to write a 
 comedy on love, and would sound to the bottom with a surgeon's 
 probe. But I see you shrink. The difficulties are doubtless great. 
 
 Thec. I said not so. 
 
 Vol. Now, I will bet an aigrette of diamonds that you don't 
 succeed. 
 
 Thec. And I accept the challenge. I am to recite to-night 
 before the Court. He will be there. You say that he 's romantic. 
 He shall first see me in my character of muse. I will select the 
 most impassioned verses from his ' Sappho,' and then 
 
 Vol. Well planned. A bargain, mind. An enamelled snuff- 
 box against a diamond aigrette. 
 
 [Page announces at door, " The carriage of Her High- 
 ness the Princess of Novgorod." 
 
 Thec. My sister arrived from Eussia after two years of 
 absence. A surprise indeed ! 
 
 Vol. (sniffing). I might have divined her advent from the 
 sickly odour of virtue which suddenly pervades the room. 
 
 Thec. Voltaire, your ribaldry has been better \ ' 
 
6 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 Vol. Forgive me, but I cannot pardon her propriety. There 
 is something aggressive in her manner of imposing virtue — as 
 your Prussian king imposes peace — by force of arms. 
 
 Thec. Her name, which she values at so high a price, to be 
 bandied thus ! A bitter lesson for thee, proud Olivia. 
 
 Vol. Hark ! The dragon rattles her scales, and juts forth her 
 fierce tongue upon the stairs. Quick, Monsieur Laroque, we 
 are de trop. I'm off. You will have half-a-hundred virtuous 
 secrets to interchange.* Monsieur Laroque, I pray you, let us 
 be discreet. 
 
 Thec. Thanks, thanks, Voltaire. 
 
 Vol. An excellent heart. Provided, of course, that hearts 
 exist. [Exit Voltaire and Laroque. 
 
 Enter Olivia in travelling dress, ushered by page, who exits. 
 
 Thec. Olivia — sister ! 
 
 Oliv. My Thecla. 
 
 Thec. At length we meet after two long years. How beautiful 
 you have become. How bright your face. Then the Prussian 
 grandee has made you really happy 1 
 
 Oliv. Is that so strange? The name of the Prince, my 
 husband, is universally esteemed. Thank Heaven, he stands too 
 high ever to be touched by calumny. Believe the experience of 
 my maturer years ; reverence freely tendered by the world is a 
 great comfort. 
 
 Thec. Comfort ! Have the happy then need of being 
 sustained 1 You prate of esteem, of universal respect. Should 
 there be no nearer tie 1 
 
 Oliv. I am truly proud to bear the honoured name of 
 Novgorod. 
 
 Thec. Icicles set in words. Do you love him — say — do you 
 love your husband 1 
 
 Oliv. I esteem him much. 
 
 Thec. Alas ! no more. 
 
 Oliv. How could I do more 1 You know that my story is the 
 same as yours ; the story of most German ladies of our rank and 
 fortune. The old sad story that is ever new. Married both to 
 men who knew us not nor cared to know us, what more had we 
 a right to ask 1 The love of which the poets sing is but the 
 phantasm of a dream ; a garland for prattling children to drape 
 themselves withal. Our years have whispered wisdom to our 
 hearts, have taught us that the world is the true god to worship 
 — that before that brazen throne 
 
 * It is necessary for Laroque to remain on during the foregoing scene, 
 though mute. His presence will dispel the feeling of Ute-a-tete too promi- 
 nent through the act. 
 
DESPITE THE WORLD. 7 
 
 Thec. Sister, drop the mask. The world ! What invisible 
 Juggernaut is this? What right has the world to count the 
 beatings of my pulse 1 I act according to the generous dictates 
 of my heart, and can despise the verdict of the world ! 
 
 Oliv. (in an undertone). And how I fear it, the terrible 
 colossal phantom, with an overwhelming exaggerated fear ! 
 Call it weakness, nightmare, if you will. You are a widow, 
 free, young, beautiful, and may, perhaps, despise, but I 
 dare not follow in your steps. The human soul has need 
 of love, and I feel sometimes as though I might yet love, 
 but then between me and the object of my choice rises the 
 cold ghost, and my blood flows back in frozen torrents on my 
 heart. 
 
 Thec. Poor Olivia ! 
 
 Oliv. As your breath of life is incense and applause, so do I 
 live in calm respect. When I go abroad, I feel that my every 
 glance is weighed, my every impulse sifted, and each whispered 
 word makes me to blanch and tremble. 
 
 Thec. Beware, sister, of the path of self. It is as slippery as 
 your fetish is insatiable. To-day you will toss your inclinations 
 on its altar; to-morrow, if need be, the friendships of your 
 youth. You will do it, for once started you may not recoil. 
 You will cast all upon the blazing pile, at first with terror, then 
 with indifference, at last with a wild joy bred by revenge for all 
 that you have suffered from the seeming sacrifice. And when 
 you shall stand in the solitude "of death both God and altar shall 
 alike melt away, leaving you alone amid your ruins ; and the first 
 voice raised to denounce and to upbraid you will be the voice of 
 the idol fashioned by your hands. 
 
 Oliv. Peace, for pity's sake. You yourself have said it. 
 Once on the incline, I must move onward, come what may. 
 
 Thec. You are right, and I am but a fool. Who am I that 
 I should cloud your coming with boding words 1 Now you are 
 mine, beloved Olivia, and for a long time. Is it not so ? 
 
 Oliv. (embarrassed). No. 
 
 Thec. At least for several weeks. 
 
 Oliv. Indeed no. My husband's occupations 
 
 Thec. (bitterly). Enough. Above all let us honour Truth. 
 You fear what idle tongues clack forth of me. You are ashamed 
 of me. Of me ! 
 
 Oliv. Nay, sister 
 
 Thec. Go your way, Olivia, on your solitary road. I pity 
 you. 
 
 Oliv. Yes, pity me ; for alas, indeed, I need it. I, cold and 
 calculating as I seem to you, am most unhappy. My heart is 
 warped through need of sympathy. 
 
b DESPITE THE WOELD. 
 
 Thec. Where your heart speaks, listen to its words. A true 
 heart is an unerring guide through the tangled maze of life. 
 
 Oliv. {desperately). Would you advise me thus ? On your 
 head be it then. You shall know what no living soul should 
 guess. Calm as I seem, I love, Thecla, with all the wild torrent 
 of passions long pent up; yet reason and judgment bid me 
 suffocate my heart. 
 
 Thec. Wherefore] 
 
 Oliv. Because the man who loved me and offered me his love, 
 though high in rank, was neglected and disgraced, and I dreaded 
 the sarcastic comments of the world. Because he who is now a 
 hero was then a princelet flying from his crown, prisoned by an 
 angry sire. I deemed him doomed to an ignoble fate, and feared 
 to accept his proffered hand. Had I but known that Frederick 
 was to become the " Great ! " 
 
 Thec. Hush ! for Heaven's sake. Palace walls have ears, and 
 Frederick's wrath once roused is not lightly to be lulled to 
 rest. What selfish repining 's this 1 Your path is more beset 
 with danger than I thought. You must leave Berlin without so 
 much as seeing the king. You came here purposely in hopes of 
 meeting him. Is it so ? For shame! I read it in your downcast 
 looks. 
 
 Oliv. (wildly). I cannot — no ! I cannot. I will see him once 
 again if only to explain. 
 
 Thec. (sternly). Olivia, you forget yourself. 
 
 Oliv. (spitefully). So this is your boasted spurning of the world. 
 
 Thec. Sister, there is something higher than the world's 
 esteem — respect for self. Come, your carriage is below. There 
 is no time to lose, for he will presently be here. Nay, look not 
 at me thus. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. The Count of Toledo waits below. 
 
 Thec. 'Tis well. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Come — you shall come — away. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Julian, with a letter in his hand. 
 
 Jul. No one ! Yet Laroque bade me lose no time, but 
 prostrate myself at once before the intellectual queen. I 
 thought to find a brilliant gathering. Are the adorers of the 
 dread goddess vanished into air 1 ? So I am to meet the irresistible 
 muse at last. The old tricks, I suppose ; the well-worn attrac- 
 tions, with pompous mysterious noddings of the head, designed 
 to mask the emptiness within. Heigho ! How sick to death am 
 I of clever women, for ever juggling their wares to drum and 
 trumpet like cheap-jacks at a fair. There 's something fantastic 
 about this castle too. (Sits.) And this note, so daintily worded, 
 
DESPITE THE WORLD. 9 
 
 so gracefully expressed. Now I 'm prepared to swear that twenty- 
 just such, notes have already been despatched this day. Happy 
 they who can see truth in woman's guile. A book, — my Sappho ! 
 with pencilled thoughts upon the margin. What's this? 
 " Sappho was right ! In this base world the only end for those 
 who really love is suicide. It is more difficult to know how to 
 love than how to hate, — yet each one says he loves or hates. 
 Fools ! He to whom the mystery is locked yet feigns to have the 
 key!" This earth- born. goddess must be a singular woman. 
 
 [Behind curtain, in c. of flat, low and plaintive music, 
 played on harps, something dreamy and sad, — say 
 one of the "Songs without Words," — the same 
 music to recur at stated intervals. After a few bars 
 Thecla is heard to declaim, through the music, 
 behind the drapery, which is to be drawn aside by 
 unseen hands as she speaks the last lines. It woidd 
 be xoell to have, the space behind, the archway raised 
 two steps, so as to give her the appearance of a 
 statue when the curtain is drawn aside. Her pose 
 and draperies should be very carefidly studied. 
 Thecla declaims. 
 " Poor's the mute heart with speech never blest ; 
 Poor is the blossom uncrowned with perfume. 
 I glide through the world, my love unconfessed ; 
 Like a lamp on an altar unknown, I consume. 
 
 Jul. Strange sentiments "these for a successful woman ! 
 None shall e'er guess the deep passion I cherish, 
 Love prisoned and numbed in a winter supreme, 
 (The lightnings of Heaven are born but to perish). 
 In the halls of the grave we shall slumber and dream. 
 
 Jul. Is it a heart that bursts its prison bars, or only an echo 
 which murmurs mockingly 1 
 
 Thrice hallowed the ashes that are heavenwards lifted ; 
 Thrice blessed the holocaust kindled above. 
 We spurn the dumb flower with scent never gifted, 
 As we grieve for the heart never opened to love." 
 
 [She pauses, and looks triumphantly at him before 
 coming down the steps, — his back turned to her, 
 sitting on an ottoman or sofa. 
 Jul. Ah ! She is here ! How weirdly beautiful ! Madam, 
 you sent for me, and I came forthwith. 
 
 Thec. A thousand apologies, sir. Having to recite before the 
 Court to-night, I am forced to snatch rehearsal hours when I may. 
 I was repeating a few verses that answer to my thoughts. 
 
10 DESPITE THE WOKLD. 
 
 Jul. And which I confess have waked in me chords long silent. 
 
 Thec. You have the reputation, Count, of being particularly 
 severe upon us poor women, and yet I find you disposed to be 
 indulgent ; or are you, after all, a courtier like the rest t 
 
 Jul. Then, are those verses yours 1 
 
 Thec. Strangely inharmonious as they are, I am forced to 
 confess that they are mine. 
 
 Jul. Yours ! 
 
 Thec. You seem vastly surprised ! Your astonishment is 
 scarcely galant ! 
 
 Jul. Pardon me. I expected to find upon your young lips 
 music of quite another character — more rhythmical, more beauti- 
 ful, perhaps. The passion of these verses seems to rouse deep 
 within my breast some vanished memory. (Suddenly changing 
 his manner.) But really I am making myself quite ridiculous. 
 
 Thec. (musingly). Music of another character ! Then much 
 evil has been said to you of me. 
 
 Jul. No, Countess ; not so. You were described to me as a 
 splendid deity, the fascination of whose smile floods the dark 
 recesses of men's souls with light. I was told that you are 
 the muse of dreams— of golden, hazy, evanescent dreams ; that 
 around the sorceress floats an intoxicating atmosphere, the scent 
 of which means death. You believe in love, they say; but 
 your love is the laughing child of the arrow and the bow, who 
 knows not tears. Your life is a life of feasting, over which 
 oblivion is to cast an eternal veil. 
 
 Thec. For a portrait drawn at second-hand, it is not unlike. 
 Let us commune of other things. My invitation to you appeared 
 doubtless strange, but all I do is strange. Moreover, you are 
 said to fly from us women as from a pestilence, which is not 
 flattering ; and we, haughty, revengeful dames, glory in bringing 
 a foe as suppliant to our feet. Sir knight, you are betrayed ! 
 You came here as a guest, I detain you as a prisoner, fair booty 
 of my sword and spear ! 
 
 Jul. Never had prisoner so fair a gaoler. Yet beware ; men 
 were born to be ungrateful, and I may escape. 
 
 Thec. We amazons know well how to guard our prey. 
 
 Jul. Indeed ! If I mistake not, your armoury holds none 
 but flowery chains. Speedily woven, as lightly snapped in 
 twain. How long, fair tyrant, is my durance to continue ? 
 
 Thec. Till we learn to know each other better. Most men's 
 souls are but shallow streams, to be sounded by a glance ; but 
 the soul of woman lies deeper than a well. Now come. Let us 
 throw bantering aside, let us be straightforward and open one to 
 the other. What do you think of me 1 
 
 Jul. Truly and frankly ? 
 
DESPITE THE WOELD. 11 
 
 Thec. Truly and most frankly. Yet stay. I can tell you 
 beforehand what you think. You take me for a handsome, 
 commonplace woman, without brains, a dreadfully good diges- 
 tion, and an everlasting grin to show off the beauty of her 
 teeth. If you believe all that the tattlers have to say of me, 
 I will throw open the prison doors at once. Better, then, that we 
 part almost ere we 've met. (.4 brief silence.) Do you elect to 
 go or stay 1 
 
 Jul. I stay. 
 
 Thec. Then speak freely. 
 
 Jul. I believe you to be a woman who, but for circumstances, 
 might have soared into an angel ; but who, stricken down by 
 doubt, has cast away her wings and fallen prone to earth. I 
 believe you might have been some man's highest treasure, just 
 as your bright laugh even now spreads happiness where'er you 
 go. I take you for a woman who has something to forget — a 
 fault perhaps — perhaps a disappointed hope ; who firmly clasps 
 her eyes with her own hands, nor dares to look around. 
 
 Thec. Thanks. Others see in me only a frivolous Sultana, a 
 Fata Morgana with a heart of stone. Far from divining that I 
 too was born to suffer, they would wring a smile from me even 
 in the hour of my death. As the world could not give me what 
 I sought, I accepted what it gave. I resolved at any price to 
 reign, and, behold ! I am but a poor play queen, spurning the 
 fools who know not stage dross from gold. 
 
 Jul. And have you never loved 1 
 
 Thec. No. Love as understood- by those about us is but a 
 mean welding of base subterfuge, of joyless joys, of fever 
 without delirium. As I understand it, it may be a madness, 
 but a sublime madness, which blots out the past, devours the 
 present, annihilates the future. Who would have courage to 
 love like this 1 
 
 Jul. Are there, then, on earth, think you, no souls as generous 
 as yours ? 
 
 Thec. No doubt there are ; but he who would find them must 
 wade through such a slough of murky selfishness and egotism 
 as well-nigh to sicken him into a . renunciation of his race. I 
 have renounced mine, have drowned it in the bowl of pleasure — 
 have slain it outright. 
 
 Jul. Then I rightly solved your riddle 1 
 
 Thec. Be not too sure of that. You and I are lightly dis- 
 cussing love, as we might discuss the war, the last mode, the last 
 new tragedy. By-the-by, I have read your ' Sappho,' and like 
 it much ; but I hate Alceon, your hero. With the mole-like 
 blindness of his sex, he would make of woman either a slave or 
 toy ; would calculate to a nicety each heaving of her breast. 
 
12 DESPITE THE WOELD. 
 
 But what matter, after all? Would not her portion still be 
 the balls and banquets, the rose wreaths and wax-lit chan- 
 deliers ? What more, forsooth, should a well-brought-up damsel 
 need? 
 
 Jul. Strange ! In you there are two women. Which is the 
 mask, and which the real face 1 
 
 Thec. (gaily). Guess ! I leave you now to ponder over this 
 new riddle. Prisoner on parole, you have our gracious per- 
 mission to wander in the park, where you may find a friend or 
 two perhaps, empty-headed courtiers most of them, and one 
 true man of genius, the great Voltaire. Good-bye. (Archly.) 
 Meditate deeply over the gems of our discourse, or (going off in 
 a peal of laughter) go and play skittles in the grounds. [Exit. 
 
 Jul. She leaves me thus ! What a fascination in her in- 
 spired look ! Has she been merely toying with me, or has her 
 haughty soul but hidden away this page from eyes too blind to 
 read 1 But why, then, have revealed herself to me 1 A stranger, 
 come to-day and gone to-morrow. Is this statue of marble or 
 of clay 1 
 
 Laroque and Baron Erfurt without. 
 
 Lar. I tell you, Baron, I know all about it. Who should be 
 better informed than I ? 
 
 Jul. Here come the popinjays who dance and flap their 
 painted wings in the sunlight of her eyes. Why waste her 
 charms on them — a daily, hourly, profanation. 
 
 [Is going out, but stops. 
 
 Enter Laroque and Erfurt by the opposite door. 
 
 Erf. Then, according to you, our star-crowned muse 1 
 
 Lar. One moment. Let us not misunderstand one another. 
 I but chronicle a forgotten fact — a pearl dropped from history. 
 " Once on a time, in a mighty city, rendered illustrious by heroes 
 of the brain, there was a great lady and also an envoy from a 
 foreign court." (Julian draws himself %ip and listens near the 
 door.) "The envoy was an erratic youth, one of those overblown 
 enthusiasts who always have a proverb pat upon their lips; who 
 build of woman's virtue castles in the air, only to hurl stones 
 of doubt at them, and erect ideal fortresses of love, glorious 
 because they know naught of the reality." 
 
 Erf. 'Twere hard not to recognize the portrait. 
 
 Lar. " The ingenuous diplomat wandered over the surface of 
 the earth, seeking his ideal like some hero of a fairy tale." 
 
 Jul. They speak of me ! 
 
 Lar. "The great lady was passing fair. She had, moreover, 
 registered a bet to conquer the invincible." 
 
 Jul. (aside). A bet J [Throws down his hat on chair. 
 
DESPITE THE WOKLD. 13 
 
 Erf. A bet ! 
 
 Lar. I repeat, a bet — who should be so well informed as 1 1 — 
 " with a certain celebrated poet and philosopher, who on his side 
 swore, under certain circumstances, to create on the subject a 
 brand new comedy." 
 
 Erf. Voltaire ! 
 
 Lar. Hush ! In diplomatic circles names are guessed, but 
 never spoken. 
 
 Jul. (aside). And so like all the rest she's perjured, false, and 
 double-faced ! Her sweet ways are base deceit and artifice. 
 
 Erf. And the result 1 
 
 Lar. " The envoy knelt at the great lady's feet, communed 
 alone with her, and then " 
 
 Erf. Well, and then 1 
 
 Lar. Alas ! the rest is mystery ! 
 
 Jul. (advancing calmly). I may possibly fill the gap in your 
 romance. 
 
 ERF.'} Y ° Ullere! 
 
 Jul. The envoy (as you will that such shall be his title) came 
 — came and saw the fair one, fair as dreams of youth. From her 
 lips fell words like balm upon long festering wounds, and for a 
 brief moment he thought he had found the masterpiece of 
 Heaven's handiwork — the spotless beaming one — the beautiful. 
 And then the dream vanished as it came. The harp was there, 
 but stilled, alas ! Its keys were rusted, its chords were snapped. 
 Finally, the bet is lost, and the new comedy will never see the light. 
 
 Erf. And the envoy 1 
 
 Jul. (taking tip his hat, ivhich he had thrown down when he 
 advanced). Resolved to go. 
 
 Erf. And he did well ! 
 
 Jul. Who knows? Yes, he went away, blithe and merry- 
 hearted ; for had he not amused a great lady, two courtly butter- 
 flies, and a world-renowned philosopher 1 ? — more than many a 
 professed jester could ever hope to do. 
 
 Lar. {slowly). But I 'm not so sure that I think 
 
 Jul. And who in Heaven's name recks what you think? 
 (Coldly). But ere he leaves the scene he will place this epitaph 
 over the wan ashes of his trustfulness : " He found a false idol 
 girt with lying worshippers ; the first he pitied, the second he 
 
 Erf. Have a care, young sir ! The jest is broad, and, to say 
 the least, ill-timed. 
 
 Jul. Is this a menace from the Lord of Erfurt 1 A duel ! 
 My Lord, for shame. Nay, put up your sword. Reserve its light- 
 nings for a nobler purpose. We two are honest men, and honest 
 
14 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 hearts are now-a-days too rare for casual spitting on an idle 
 point. 
 
 Lar. Well said ! Let my winter cool your April blood ! Best 
 leave at once ! and yet you cannot without first seeing the King. 
 He will have come ere this. He 
 
 " Who by streaming locks 
 Holds victory enchained ; 
 Who, 'mongst primaeval rocks, 
 Re-echoed by battle shocks, 
 Glory on glory gained." 
 Verses of mine, penned in his honour. Ahem ! Neat. The 
 occasion is propitious. 
 
 Jul. Frederick here, say you ? How 1 
 
 Lar. You must know that the King is fond of his incognito. 
 His title of Count Hecksen, under which cognomen he seeks out 
 his lieges, is a species of moral toga in which he wraps himself 
 when 
 
 Erf. {laughing). When it pleases him to play Haroun-al- 
 Raschid. Ah ! apropos, great poet, your parable 's deciphered, 
 your impenetrable mystery unveiled, Ariadne is discovered. 
 
 Lar. Gentlemen ! gentlemen ! Pray don't compromise me. 
 A Court rhymster never mentions names. My head, I do declare, 
 feels quite loose upon my shoulders. 
 
 Jul. Of what Ariadne would you speak 1 ? 
 
 Lar. I pray you, Baron ! 
 
 Erf. Of the beauteous nymph, sung by his immortal verse, 
 whose lord has fled into a better sphere, and who has known how 
 to console her widowhood with a wandering love. 
 
 Jul. (smiling). And so Bacchus is 1 
 
 Erf. (nodding). Ye — es. 
 
 Jul. And Ariadne ? 
 
 Erf. Of course our heaven-inspired Countess. 
 
 Jul. She ! It is a lie ! 
 
 Erf. Sir ! 
 
 Jul. A lie, I say ! — worse, a calumny black as hell, born of 
 envy or revenge ! 
 
 Erf. Know you well this fair one, whose colours you seem so 
 anxious to fix upon your helm ] 
 
 Jul. Enough if needful to sustain my words. 
 
 Erf. But I tell you he is here now, comes here almost daily 
 under the shallow pretence of seeking her political advice. 
 
 Jul. Is this true, Monsieur Laroque 1 
 
 Lar. Yes ! Though why he comes it is not for us to say — 
 " He who by streaming locks holds victory enchained ! " 
 
 Jul. Lost, alas ! perchance she may be, but a royal favourite 
 never ! Which of you dare to say the word 1 
 
DESPITE THE WORLD. 15 
 
 Erf. (exasperated). I! This fellow is unbearable ! 
 
 Jcl. {menacingly). I see, my Lord, that five yards of grass 
 may yet be our lot ! 
 
 Erf. When you please, sir ! But here comes the King, — see 
 how she hangs upon his arm ! 
 
 Enter Frederick and Thecla, arm in arm, passing round the 
 front of the stage, from one door to the other, during their 
 interview. 
 
 Fred. And so you think war would be rash, against our 
 cousin of France ] Perhaps you 're right, fair prophetess, as you 
 generally are ; but we will hear our other staunch adviser on the 
 subject, our great Voltaire. I came to crave half an hour of 
 your hospitality, to blot from my troubled brain awhile the 
 tawdry glitter of statecraft ; but Time, regardless of the wish of 
 kings, moves on, and I must take my leave. Your castle, 
 Countess, might be the stronghold of Armida herself. 
 
 Thec. Alas, sire, I fear the enchantress is wanting 
 
 Fred. What sybil than yourself more fitted to give laws ? 
 
 Thec. Oh, that I were indeed gifted with the mystic eye of 
 dreams ! To fathom 
 
 Fred. What? 
 
 Thec. That which you keep so jealously concealed. 
 
 Fred. In policy 1 
 
 Thec. No — in love. Confess, sire, that you came here to- 
 day to see a lady 1 
 
 Fred. Of course I did. Who loves me not, the fickle fair 
 one. 
 
 Thec. Who loves you but too well. 
 
 Fred, (looking at her). Can it be % Why, then, her constant 
 coldness ? 
 
 Erf. (to Julian). Did I not tell you 1 Have you any doubt 1 
 See how they dally with each other's hands. 
 
 Thec. But tho' she loved you well, she forgot not her dignity 
 or yours ; and doubting her own strength, sought security in 
 flight. 
 
 Fred. Who loves me well, you say 1 
 
 Thec. Better even than I. 
 
 Fred. Of what lady would you speak ! 
 
 Thec. I know all, sire. My sister was here but now, and 
 has confessed. 
 
 Fred. Olivia of Novgorod at Berlin ! No more. Stir not 
 the leaves now shrivelled and decayed — crumbling rapidly to 
 dust. Your sister, tho' once she plighted troth with me, sub- 
 mitted to union with another, because then I was a fugitive. 
 
 Thec. (sighing). Perchance 'tis better thus. 
 
16 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 Feed. Tell her from me that she has naught to fear. This 
 heart, that once was fire, shall now be steel to her. Nay ! Tell 
 her nothing. Enough of this. The sun is low, and I am waited 
 for at Sans Souci. Gentlemen, good evening. Ah, Count 
 Julian, poet and ambassador! You in a lady's castle 1 ? Fie! 
 Where have you stowed your principles 1 To-morrow night the 
 King holds Court, and will expect you all. Muse, warm me this 
 statue — convert this Puritan — (sees Julian glaring at him, then, 
 with a laugh) — Jealous of me, i' faith ! The work then 's half 
 begun. 
 
 Thec. I doubt it, sire. 
 
 Feed. Adieu, Countess, I kiss your hands. Tell Voltaire I 
 expect my revenge for beating me at chess last night. Gentle- 
 men, may I count upon your company 1 
 
 [Exit with Laroque and Erfurt, conducted 
 to the door by Thecla. 
 
 Jul. (falling on a chair, and hiding his face in his hands). 
 Then it was all true ! 
 
 Thec. (approaching him). How chilly ! Stern as the tomb, 
 as cold and silent. Well, Count, and what think you of our 
 excellent Prussians ? 
 
 Jul. Nothing ! 
 
 Thec. A presumptuous reply. 
 
 Jul. I know them not. 
 
 Thec. Then study them. 
 
 Jul. Would they repay the trouble spent? I have travelled 
 much ; have found ever the same sickening routine of self- 
 glorious vanity and falsehood over the whole surface of the 
 earth. My life is spent in a weary search for that which never 
 can be found. 
 
 Thec. The philosopher's stone 1 
 
 Jul. (after a contemptuous silence). Why not ? Your head- 
 gear, Countess, is a miracle of art. Your dress is absolutely the 
 beau ideal of good taste. 
 
 Thec. (lightly). Really? 
 
 Jul. It is true that in France that ribbon would be worn 
 more highly poised 
 
 Thec. Of a truth you are remarkably well versed in the latest 
 mode! (With increasing heat). And is it fashionable just now 
 in France to be for ever darkly groping for the unattainable 1 Is 
 it the mode for the great ones there to be always pale and worn 
 and rueful and resigned? Do the flower of its youth trick 
 themselves in mystery, as in a tragic robe, welling with noble 
 sadness, or burning with disdain 1 If such be the case, receive 
 my heartfelt congratulations. You are yourself the very pink of 
 fashion. 
 
DESPITE THE WOELD. 17 
 
 Jul. You see, Countess, that intercourse between us is im- 
 possible. It is not our fault ; your genius takes too high a flight. 
 
 Thec. {ironically). Really ! your perspicacity is something 
 terrible. 
 
 Jul. I may be poor in tact, perhaps ; but I strike always from 
 the heart. 
 
 Thec. Shafts winged with pain ! Our great Voltaire says 
 
 Jul. Speak not to me of Monsieur de Voltaire. 
 
 Thec. Presently you will deny merit, even to him ! 
 
 Jul. I admire and appreciate, without loving him. 
 
 Thec. Why? 
 
 Jul. Because we cannot love where we do not esteem. 
 
 Thec. Your aphorism is severe on M. de Voltaire. 
 
 Jul. Voltaire makes my blood curdle in my veins, with his 
 arrogant contempt for the opinion of the world. 
 
 Thec. Ah ! the murder 's out ! There 's the terrible cant 
 word launched at last. Public opinion ! False echo of a 
 thousand idle voices, which an infant's babble or an idiot's cry 
 is sufficient to arouse, but which, once roused, naught shall 
 still henceforth ! Bow ye neck and knee before this awful 
 majesty, whose robes are wrought from shadows, whose brow is 
 wreathed in clouds ! Pile up the altars till they seethe and flare 
 with wrecked ambitions and with blighted hopes ! Pour forth 
 a libation of cherished memories ! — and tell me then, what is 
 this deity that you adore ? An empty name — a substanceless 
 chimera : worse still, a common courtesan, whose charms are 
 purchased with a price. My poor Laroque, who is content to 
 skim thro' life wearing the livery of a changeless smile — Baron 
 von Erfurt, an adventurer whose head 's as empty as his purse — 
 these are the world ! Pale parasites, who sit daily at my board, 
 ready to curse or cringe, as suits their mood. The verdict of 
 these, and such as they, is " public opinion." You worship and 
 I defy it ! 
 
 Jul. Words ! Countess — dangerous words, which burn the 
 lips that utter them. Listen to me. As wandering stars may 
 meet by chance in the vast firmament on their heavenly pil- 
 grimage, so have our lots, one sad, one joyous, crossed for a brief 
 instant. To-morrow we shall go our ways, — you on the blossom- 
 strewn path of pleasure and indulgence ; I, solitary, ignored, 
 derided maybe ; seeking painfully but patiently for truth where- 
 with to kindle faith. One day my words may vaguely echo in your 
 breast, as might Laroque's latest ode, or Erfurt s tales of love. 
 
 Thec. Count ! 
 
 Jul. Remember or forget, I will tell you what I think. 
 Lady, there are wars that must not be waged — battles that may 
 not be fought. A woman's pride should never — can never 
 
18 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 resemble the pride of man. You say yon have flung your glove 
 full in the monster's face, have scorned and defied the world ; 
 but are you sure the potent hand will never be raised to strike 1 
 And even granted that it could be so, that all thro' life you 
 might be allowed to spurn and gag the mysterious power, none 
 the less will your purity have lost its lustre, none the less will 
 your robe of whiteness have become dabbled and smirched with 
 mire. The terrible unseen one will have wrapped you in his 
 hundred arms, will have sullied your brow with the touch of his 
 thousand lips, have howled your name aloud with his myriad 
 tongues ; and a woman's name must ever be breathed with bated 
 breath, lest the snow be defiled with which it should be crowned. 
 
 Thec. (ironically). Why, you are an improvisatore as well as 
 a poet, fit almost to join our philosophical court. It is a pity 
 such fine words should be lost on sterile ground. 
 
 Jul. (impetuously). Woman ! are you an angel or a fiend? 
 
 Thec. (lightly). Probably neither one nor other, or rather, 
 perhaps, both. " More angelic than the angels," as Laroque 
 tearfully remarked last night, in an access of admiration due to 
 my French cook. For am I not a woman ? But the shock of 
 battle too long sustained is wearing to the brain, and, as a 
 woman, I have a wholesome dread of wrinkles. Remember you 
 are the victim of my sword and spear. We have material for at 
 least a week's tournament. 
 
 Jul. I decline the honour of the contest. 
 
 Thec. (clapping her hands). Bravo ! An unconditional sur- 
 render ! by all known laws of warfare. Are we Prussians, then, 
 to gather laurels upon every field 1 
 
 Jul. Where there is no conflict there can be no defeat. 
 
 Thec. Oh ! How like poor man's petty vanity ! And why, 
 pray, do you decline to fence with me ? 
 
 Jul. Because I am about to take my leave. 
 
 Thec. Depart from the castle ? 
 
 Jul. And from Prussia. 
 
 Thec. So suddenly 1 I won't believe it. 
 
 Jul. I go, I say. 
 
 Thec. When? 
 
 Jul. To-morrow. 
 
 Thec. And when did you make this grand resolve ? 
 
 Jul. Now. 
 
 Thec. Be it as you will. But your fervid eloquence has 
 degenerated with alarming promptness into monosyllables. Adieu, 
 then. But how about your embassy ? 
 
 Jul. It will be in safe hands. 
 
 Thec. A diplomatic answer truly ! The king was right when 
 he said 
 
DESPITE THE WORLD. 19 
 
 Jul. (impatiently). Countess, farewell, 
 
 Thec. Do we then meet no more % 
 
 Jul. No. 
 
 Thec. (smiling). Really? 
 
 Jul. What purpose would another meeting serve ? 
 
 Thec. Not even courteous, on my word ! Your solemn 
 retreat with bag and baggage looks dreadfully like flight. 
 Beware, lest I pursue and it become a rout ! I believe that you 
 are afraid. 
 
 Jul. Of whom ? 
 
 Thec. Either of me or of yourself. 
 
 Jul. Lady ; I have watched children crush the butterfly that 
 lighted on the window-pane for very wantonness. I have marked 
 others idly shattering in play the flower which bloomed upon 
 their path. 
 
 Thec. Go on, sir. 
 
 Jul. And then, I have turned from my way to avoid saying, 
 "The work of your hands is contemptible and base." 
 
 [Boivs coldly and exit. 
 
 Thec. (after a pause of bewilderment). He scorns me. He ! 
 Neither he nor any one. He may learn to hate, but shall never 
 dare to scorn. Disdain and insolence from him ! After all, 
 what matters it 1 Are there not hundreds here who prize mj' 
 lightest favour ? But 'twixt them and he, oh ! what a gulf is 
 there ! What is this fiery breath which burns my cheek ? 
 Offended vanity ! — no more. If he were indeed never to return. 
 (Takes a hand-glass from the table and surveys herself.) But he 
 will — he will return ! 
 
 Voltaire (putting in his head through c. curtains). Alone ? 
 
 Thec. Alone! 
 
 Vol. Has he long been gone 1 
 
 Thec. He went but now. 
 
 Vol. And he loves you, of course, already ! 
 
 Thec. (slowly and doubtfully). Aye. He loves me ! 
 
 Vol. Wretched man. 
 
 Thec. (wildly). Nay, say rather, most wretched woman ! 
 
 [Falls on a seat and buries her face on the table. 
 
 Vol. Stand matters thus 1 (Standing over her.) Then 
 wretched woman, truly ! I positively almost believe in the 
 most absurd of human passions — Love ! But Voltaire may not 
 believe. The world would laugh too much ! [Curtain, 
 
20 
 
 DESPITE THE WOELD. 
 
 Tableau II. Exterior of Palace of Sans Souci, near Berlin. 
 Scene divided. On P. side, illuminated doorway at back, 
 leading into ball-room, ivith flight of five or six steps leading up 
 to it. Trees with Chinese lanterns, garden chairs, dec. This 
 set to occupy two-thirds of the stage. On o.p. side, a pavilion, 
 occupying about from first to third grooves, ivith door leading 
 to park, and secret door at back masked by a picture. Table 
 with candles and a silver dish ; seats. The distinctions of 
 colour should be strongly marked. Thus, the shrubbery and 
 adjuncts should be cool and green, and the interior of pavilion 
 red and warm. Outside the pavilion door, a small flat of cut- 
 out scenery at E. angles with pavilion, masking tipper entrance 
 on o.p. side. The small flat to represent bushes, ivith a statue 
 of Cupid blindfold. Under the statue, practicable marble seat. 
 Dance music at intervals behind scenes. 
 
 > — T-* 
 
 BACK C LOTH _ ILLUMINATED PALACS. \ D0 P ® R L |~ T » 
 
 RAISED PLATFORM. I ^Z" 1 * 
 
 RAISES PLATFORM. 
 
 
 
 / DOOR. 
 
 | WITH SEAT., 
 
 PAVILION. 
 
 O 
 
 a 
 
 SF.T OF ACT H. 
 
 Enter Laeoque, reading from a paper. 
 
 " When glorious Mars bestrode his mighty horse, 
 And rushed victorious along his starry course, 
 Ne'er was his path bestrewn with wreaths so thick 
 As those that strew the path of Frederick ! " 
 
 There. That 's a beautiful ending to a first-rate ode. Now no 
 one would guess how difficult it is to turn an heroic rhyme to 
 
DESPITE THE WOELD. 21 
 
 Frederick, and yet the man's deeds speak for themselves. There's 
 sick, and quick, and lick, — but they can not somehow be made 
 to sound heroic. If I could only find the king, and recite these 
 verses to him, he 'd name me Court poet at once ; but he 's left 
 the ball this hour, and no one knows where he 's gone. If the 
 northern Muse were gone too, it might not be so surprising ; but 
 there she is in the ball-room, like some triumphant Pallas, holding 
 a brilliant court of her own. The cynosure of all eyes, admired 
 of all admirers ; more especially since it is known that the king 
 
 Well, it 's natural in her, for is not woman frail 1 (Sits under 
 
 statue.) And yet the situation 's complicated. There 's this 
 Count Julian, the Puritan, to whose society she seems so unac- 
 countably attached. But who shall blame her 1 She has her 
 position to make, like all of us, and is making it. Every satellite 
 revolves around this star, while the spotless Princess Olivia sits 
 alone. Ah, me ! they may say what they like, but propriety is 
 no longer the fashion. Not but what our poor Countess is quite 
 proper — oh, quite proper !— but — what 's this 1 A handkerchief 
 — lost in the park — near the king's private pavilion. Very sus- 
 picious indeed. Just now, in the ante-room, I found on the 
 floor, by strange coincidence, this note : — " Frederick : After the 
 third dance, I shall expect you in the pavilion near the statue. 
 Come." Brief, unsigned, but to the point; and cautious, too. 
 Mr. Cupid, you are certainly the presiding deity here. The 
 whole place is seething with love-tokens. 
 
 Enter, down steps,, Erfurt and Voltaire. 
 
 Erf. So you never condescend to dance, M. de Voltaire 1 
 
 Vol. No, sir, I leave that to monkeys and popinjays. 
 
 Erf. And yet, if I mistake not, even now, in yonder room, 
 there are celebrated men engaged in the innocent enjoyment of a 
 quadrille. Invincible generals, statesmen of unknown depth. 
 
 Vol. Earnestly occupied in playing the fool. 
 
 Erf. But, according to the teaching of your own immortal 
 works, the age of Pieason will soon dawn on us, and then how 
 happy shall we be ! (Very glibly, without full stops.) Equality 
 in instruction, equality of institutions, equality in wealth ! All 
 men are brothers ; why not, then, inaugurate a universal lan- 
 guage 1 The organic perfectability of the vegetable world being 
 undisputed, why should Nature be less powerful in the nobler 
 existence of thinking man? The destruction of the two most 
 active causes of decay, luxurious wealth and abject penury, will 
 certainly prolong the general term of life. Medicine shall be 
 honoured in the place of war, which is the art of murder. The 
 noblest study of the acutest minds shall be devoted to the arrest 
 of the causes of disease ; and, as the lower animal bequeaths its 
 
22 DESPITE THE WOBLD. 
 
 vigour to its offspring, so man shall transmit his improved 
 organization to his sons 
 
 Vol. (holding his ears). Stop ! stop ! in mercy ! He winds 
 off the anxious study of long years like a skein upon a reel. 
 Have I preached and thought only to be caricatured by parrots, 
 who glibly mouth that they cannot comprehend 1 Alas ! alas ! 
 what credit to be wise in the midst of a world of fools ! 
 
 Lar. (behind). Philosophy is the fashion just now in the 
 intellectual court to which we have the honour to belong. 
 
 Vol. Yes ; young dandies learn to put it on as they don their 
 coats, or sprinkle powder in their hair. 
 
 Erf. What would you have, M. de Voltaire 1 ? "We follow 
 only in your steps humbly, at a respectful distance. You are 
 the head of a new school. My hairdresser said to me, this 
 morning, — "Though but a poor fellow, Baron, I believe as little 
 as the finest gentleman." And the man was honest. 
 
 Vol. Words, words, young sir. 
 
 Erf. Do you not, then, believe in honesty 1 
 
 Vol. When it suits my purpose, I believe the moon to be made 
 of cheese. But what do you here in solitude, M. Laroque, 
 
 " 'Mid leafy groves, beneath the azure vault, 
 Sparkling with myriad gems" ? 
 
 Are you, too, weary of railing at the world, or are you hatching 
 a new sonnet, as ostriches sit upon their eggs, alone in the wide 
 desert 1 It 's a melancholy profession, that doesn't pay. Depend 
 on it, none should turn poet who are capable of hewing wood or 
 drawing water — more healthy and more lucrative. 
 
 Lar. (rising and coming forward). No. I was meditating on 
 history. 
 
 Vol. Another dreary occupation — the study of our fellow 
 man ! 
 
 Erf. Sacred, or profane 1 
 
 Lar. On contemporary history. See. [Shows handkerchief. 
 
 Vol. A strange book ! the page of finest cambric. 
 
 Lar. Adorned with an embroidered crest. 
 
 Erf. A crest ! I should recognize it, but cannot recall to 
 mind I have certainly seen it before, but where 1 
 
 Lar. This kerchief was lost here, close to the pavilion where 
 Frederick is said to meditate and love. 
 
 Erf. They say his love 's compounded of politics and sawdust, 
 dull pastime for young ladies surfeited with dolls. 
 
 Lar. At any rate, it 's very suspicious ; there 's no denying 
 that. 
 
 Erf. Stay, I have it. A tiger rampant, supporting a sword. 
 The crest of the noble family of Herfland. 
 
DESPITE THE WOKLD. 23 
 
 Lar. The family of the Lady Olivia ! 
 
 Erf. And of the Lady Thecla. 
 
 Vol. [aside). Verily the human mind loves a sharp bit of 
 scandal, as donkeys thistles ! 
 
 Lar. Which can it be 1 
 
 Erf. Is there room for doubt? If the good name of the 
 Princess Olivia is not in itself enough, enter yonder, where the 
 crowd that salutes the rising sun will show clearly which it is. 
 
 Lar. If it were indeed she ! 
 
 Erf. You 've come upon a precious talisman, for by the help 
 of this artless scrap of white fabric we might strike upon the 
 trace of a whole romance. 
 
 Lar. One moment, Baron, one moment. That talisman has 
 been taken from me who found it, to whom it appertains by 
 right, and I solemnly reclaim it. Give it me. 
 
 Vol. So do vultures rend their plumes over a feast of garbage. 
 I 'm prepared to swear in favour of the virtuous sister, but it'sno 
 affair of mine. 
 
 Erf. (laughing). What — ambitious, M. Laroque ? Would you 
 change this dainty token 'gainst a place 1 
 
 Lar. Why not? Many a fortune has risen upon a more 
 slender basis. 
 
 Erf. Oh ! most unselfish poet, whose eyes can turn from 
 Parnassus down to common earth ! Take it, it's yours. And 
 may it bring you happiness. Here comes Prince Novgorod, 
 mirror of ancient aristocracy. 
 
 Vol. Then I '11 decamp. His wife's odour of sanctity hangs 
 round him too. ' Pah ! [Exit r.u.e. 
 
 Novgorod comes down steps. 
 
 Lar. The very occasion — his influence ! You must intro- 
 duce me. 
 
 Nov. Well met, Baron. I am forced to come out and breathe 
 the air, so disgusted am I and overwhelmed by all I see and 
 hear. 
 
 Erf. Indeed, Prince ! This is bad news. Does the Prussian 
 Court not please you ? 
 
 Nov. I verily know not on what world I stand. Have I been 
 sleeping for a thousand years? After a lengthened sojourn in 
 the Courts of Europe, I, two years since, as it seems to me, 
 retired with my bride to my estates upon the Volga. And now 
 that I take up once more my old career, what do I find ? Surely 
 my eyes and ears deceive me. A king, who receives me, ambas- 
 sador — me, Prince of Novgorod, in boots and spurs. A Court 
 where one risks at every turn to find oneself elbowed familiarly 
 by some low writing fellow with probably no shirt beneath his 
 
2-i DESPITE THE WOELD. 
 
 coat, whose snuff is fuller's- earth, and who at one time would 
 have been honoured by admittance to the kitchen. I find every 
 sacred law of etiquette held up to ridicule, every antique privilege 
 forgot. While to crown all, behold a French Envoy on a secret 
 mission, who thereby is placed on the same rank with me, and 
 who has absolutely no ancestors, not the smallest twig of a family 
 tree ! A sort of scribbler, who gabbles an incomprehensible 
 jargon, while his fingers are thick begrimed with ink. 
 
 Erf. But who happens to be called Voltaire. 
 
 Nov. A name quite unknown, as I 've been informed. 
 
 Erf. Pardon me, Prince, too well known, some say ; though 
 here we acknowledge in him a master born to transform the 
 world. 
 
 Nov. What does it all mean 1 The earth slides from beneath 
 my feet, and my head goes round. Is he an ambassador who 
 amuses himself by playing the philosopher 1 
 
 Vol. (ivho is crossing and going up steps on way to hall-room, 
 but who stopped on hearing his name). No, your Highness ; only 
 a philosopher who spends his spare time in playing the ambas- 
 sador. Your humble servant. [Exit into Palace. 
 
 Nov. What means that mocking smile of his? I almost 
 believe he dares to laugh at me ! 
 
 Lar. Present me to the Prince. I have important things to 
 say to him. 
 
 Erf. Allow me, Prince. Count Adam de Laroque-Tournai. 
 
 Nov. A very ancient French family, though poor. It pleases 
 me to touch your hand. 
 
 Lar. Prince, you are too good. 
 
 Erf. A distinguished literary character. 
 
 Nov. What, he too ! In my young days, a man of gentle 
 birth would rather die of starvation than join a company of 
 merry-audrews. But times are sadly changed. 
 
 Erf. You have something urgent, you say, for His Highness's 
 ear? Then I will go and bask in the new sun's rays awhile. 
 My lord, I take my leave. [Exit up steps. 
 
 Nov. You have something you would communicate to me, sir 1 
 
 Lar. I have desired the honour of knowing your highness, 
 because I flatter myself I may, perhaps, be of some poor use 
 to you. Moreover, the veneration that I have for the name of 
 Novgorod, whose origin looms dimly through the night of 
 time 
 
 Nov. Yes, yes ; I am aware of my illustrious descent. Pro- 
 ceed. 
 
 Lar. Prince. Are you certain we 're not overheard ? I have 
 a painful fact to reveal to you, which, once divulged to vulgar 
 ears, might compromise your noble name in the face of Europe, 
 
DESPITE THE WOELD. 25 
 
 whose eyes are ever fixed with reverence on you. In these 
 degenerate days, when the sad duty falls to us of keeping ward 
 over our privileges assailed, we must be united, and help each 
 other in order to be strong. 
 
 Nov. The speech of a true gentleman. 
 
 Lar. I hope so. {Mysteriously.) Ahem ! Restore this ker- 
 chief to whom it belongs. Lost here, by the King's door. Look 
 at the crest. 
 
 Nov. (stamping his foot). Thecla ! Will you always shower 
 shame upon us ! What does not your folly cost me ! Poor 
 Olivia ! how sweetly different art thou from thy madcap 
 sister ! But, excuse me, sir. This secret affects the honour of 
 a noble house. 
 
 Lar. A secret known to none, and buried. 
 
 Nov. Count of Laroque Tournai, we bestow on you our 
 friendship. 
 
 Lar. Thanks, prince. You honour me too highly. But, see ; 
 here the lady comes. 
 
 Nov. Ah ! the sooner the better. 
 
 (Enter Thecla and Julian down steps.) 
 
 Thec. Let us close our argument in the soft summer air, that 
 the breeze may scatter our foolish words. I assure you we shall 
 both be gainers. 
 
 Jul. No, Countess ; yours I bind together in a posy, to 
 prison in the casket of my heart, that their sweetness may per- 
 meate my life. 
 
 Thec. All these are terribly like a courtier's compliments, and 
 I hear so many each weary day. 
 
 Nov. {advancing). Countess von Thiirenau. 
 
 Thec. My dear brother-in-law, as I live ! Are you here in 
 dutiful attendance on my sister 1 What a model husband, and 
 how doubly blessed a wife ! Welcome to the frivolities of Sans 
 Souci. Has the amiable atmosphere of corruption, wafted to 
 us from beyond the Rhine, succeeded yet in melting the ice- 
 bound tracts of your frowning Neva 1 Do tell me, is. every one 
 in Russia as coldly virtuous as you? How dull it must be 
 there ! Must it not, Count Julian of the sunny South ? 
 
 Nov. Countess — dally not thus idly with serious things. It 
 becomes neither your youth nor the wisdom you choose to 
 assume. I have a word to say to you in private. 
 
 Thec. In private ! Heaven protect me, what an awful declara- 
 tion ! I protest ; I shiver from top to toe ! Gentlemen, will 
 you excuse me 1 It shall not be for long. (Julian and Laroque 
 retire.) Well, Prince, I listen. 
 
Zb DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 Nov. Your family springs from an illustrious root, though 
 much less old than mine. 
 
 Thec. (drily). Ahem ! Might we not in mercy begin nearer 
 home than Charlemagne ] Trespass not on my patience ! Would 
 you speak of virtue or of duty 1 Then need you delve no deeper 
 than my dead father's name — a revered one which is a never- 
 failing charm. Beware how you use it lightly ! 
 
 Nov. Then in his name will I speak now. Your folly, with- 
 out limit, is a disgrace to your sister and to me. You have a 
 high position, a princely fortune, and an ancient title to sustain 
 intact before the world. How do you fulfil your sacred duty ? 
 
 Thec. (first angry, but turns it off with a laugh). Prince ! 
 Pshaw ! Too stupendous an exordium for me not to take fright 
 at what 's to come. Fie ! A sermon in the midst of a ball ! A 
 death's-head disguised in flowers ! And you an ancient 
 diplomate ! 
 
 Nov. You have misused your natural advantages — have 
 renounced every privilege of your rank. You live like a gypsy 
 'mid a herd of mountebanks. Your strange relations with the 
 King, though doubtless pure and above reproach 
 
 Thec. Enough ! you trespass on my good-nature. Have you 
 aught else to say 1 
 
 Nov. Yes, (mysterious) I have to return this kerchief, lost by 
 you there ! It was a grave imprudence, only removed from crime 
 in that no one saw it. Thank your guardian angel that you 're 
 safe. 
 
 Thec. This kerchief! Ah! (With emphasis.) Yes, a grave 
 imprudence truly, but one which may be repaired, and shall, I 
 promise you ! Thanks. 
 
 Nov. Good-night, Countess ! Eeflect upon my words. 
 
 [Exit up steps. 
 
 Lar. (coming down on her other side). That kerchief was found 
 by one of your most devoted slaves, who chanced upon this letter 
 also. [She reads, and hides it in her bosom. 
 
 Thec. I understand. Your silence, wily courtier, must be 
 bought. You seek the nomination of which we spoke a few days 
 since. It shall be yours ! You have my word ! 
 
 Lar. Fair muse, the worship of a life ! 
 
 Thec. A truce to protestations ! Go ! 
 
 Lar. Behold me poet-laureate ! The longed-for wreath of bay 
 upon my brow ! I '11 seek His Majesty at once ! " When glorious 
 Mars bestrode his mighty horse ! " [Exit declaiming. 
 
 Julian comes down. 
 
 Thec. (pensive). Oh, Olivia ! Olivia, sister ! After your 
 solemn promise ! 
 
DESPITE THE WOULD. 27 
 
 Jul. Dearest muse, you seem to have become, in very truth, a 
 marble statue. So pale, so serious. Nay, now the stone returns 
 to life ! You are agitated ! 
 
 Thec. I ! A passing cloud, such as at times o'ershadows all 
 our lives. Listen to me, Julian, for I am in a serious mood. 
 It is time to throw half confessions to the winds. You say you 
 love me. You do love me ! I feel — I know it ! My soul 
 whispers the sweet words to me ! I hear it in your silence rather 
 than your speech. (Tenderly laying her head on his breast.) And 
 I love thee, my Julian ! Wherefore should I hide it ? I love thee. 
 
 Jul. Yes, Thecla. Strange being ! In spite of myself, I 
 love ! Reason struggled hard against my passion, but is 
 conquered, and has given up the fight. I have fought and 
 wrestled with myself in vain. My fate is in your hands, 
 enchantress, to be woven as you list for weal or woe. 
 
 Thec. Not so, Julian; our fates are in each other's hands. 
 Architects of our own future, it remains for us to build a life of 
 joy or sorrow for ourselves. Oh ! may we not cast our happiness 
 away. Let us act with prudence, for with ardent souls like ours 
 there can be no middle course. It must be heaven or hell ! 
 Say, Julian, have you the courage to raise your head and pro- 
 claim aloud, This one reputed lost is the lady of my choice 1 Are 
 you strong enough never to let the noisome breath of doubt for 
 a moment stain the mirror of your faith 1 
 
 Jul. My Thecla 
 
 Thec. (putting her hand on his lips). No, not yet. Twere 
 rash. 
 
 Jul. I will never doubt thee. 
 
 Thec. Alas ! Vows have oft been broken ! 
 
 Jul. Am I then of so little faith? (smiling). Give me that 
 rose that it may nestle near my heart, and whisper thy name to 
 me in dreams 
 
 Thec. Not now. If you prove true I will give it in token 
 that I am yours for ever. And now, take time rather than be 
 forsworn. Return to the ball, and listen to the idle things they 
 may say there of me. Then reflect deeply ere you finally decide. 
 To-night we will meet no more. To-morrow, if you come not to 
 the castle 
 
 Jul. I shall have quitted Prussia. 
 
 Thec. You have understood me. (Music within.) The third 
 dance ! Go, Count. Leave me. Adieu. 
 
 Jul. Say rather, au revoir. 
 
 Thec. (passionately). Perhaps. [Exit Julian up steps. 
 
 If I should but lean upon a broken reed ! But he is not as 
 other men. Yet at the thought my heart stands still ! 
 
 [Dance music, piano, behind scenes, 
 
28 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 Enter Voltaire down steps, who bows to Julian as he passes. 
 
 Vol. Well, my brilliant child, and have I won the bet 1 
 
 Thec. (passionately). Voltaire, what have you done 1 I love 
 that man ! 
 
 Vol. Then you shall lend your valuable experience and help 
 to write the comedy. 
 
 Thec. Best wait to see the end. Hush ! Some one comes ! 
 
 Vol. A mysterious lady, veiled ! Oh, shade of virtue, I 
 thought as much ! 
 
 Thec. Come, Voltaire — come away with me. 
 
 [They retire in shadow of statue. 
 
 Enter Olivia, veiled, by first entrance l. 
 
 Oliv. The alley is deserted, though I thought I heard voices. 
 I can no longer bear this withering suspense, but will see and 
 speak with him, come what may. I spied the key on entering, 
 and took it from the lock. (Turning in terror) Ah ! No one — 
 only the wind among the leaves. Now is my time. 
 
 [Enters pavilion, and closes door rapidly ; as she does so, 
 Erfurt appears at top of steps, makes a gesture of 
 surprise, and departs. 
 Vol. Oh, Goddess of Propriety ! I sniff the virtuous presence 
 of the Princess Olivia ! 
 
 Thec. Alas, Voltaire ! I pray you, silence. Come with me. 
 
 [Exeunt R.U.E. 
 Oliv. (sinks on a seat in pavilion). Heaven ! Is it just that 
 I should suffer thus 1 Spite of myself, a mysterious force drags 
 me on till I totter over a precipice. A mystic chain of iron 
 binds me hand and foot, and a will other than my own forces 
 my presence here. I will see his face once more, will tell him 
 how I really loved him, that I am not the vile creature that he 
 thinks, and then will return my weary way, consoled. Oh, 
 Frederick, Frederick ! do I not love thee still ? 
 
 [Buries her face in her hands. 
 
 Enter, down steps, Erfurt and Laroque. 
 
 Erf. Yes, yes. I tell you the pavilion 's inhabited. Now to 
 un-nest this timid dove. With my own eyes I saw her go in. 
 
 Lar. Who? 
 
 Erf. A lady, unless it can be an angel, though if it be she 
 must be a slightly fallen one. No, an angel having wings 
 would have preferred the chimney. Very decidedly a mortal 
 woman. 
 
 Oliv. How late he is. The precious moments fly. What if 
 he were not to come ? What if my absence from the ball were 
 
DESPITE THE WORLD. 29 
 
 to be remarked? But, no. All think me closeted with the 
 Queen Mother. 
 
 Erf. The Princess Olivia ! My good friend, you 're dazed. 
 The idea's preposterous. If I saw it with my eyes I'd not 
 believe it. 'Tis against the preaching of our new philosophy. 
 
 Lar. But I tell you I met and bowed to her sister in the cor- 
 ridor not two minutes since. 
 
 Oliv. (in the pavilion, walking up and down feverishly). He 
 comes not ! he comes not ! If he could measure my anguish, 
 if he could know with what anxiety I wait, he would be more 
 pitiful. 
 
 Lar. Are you certain this is the only door 1 
 
 Erf. Most certain. 
 
 Lar. And she must pass this portal ? 
 
 Erf. Undoubtedly, and we shall see her. 
 
 Lar. Supposing she were masked 1 
 
 Erf. As a captain of His Majesty's body-guard, I have a right 
 to know who wanders furtively at night within the royal 
 precincts. 
 
 Lar. But the King 
 
 Erf. Is engaged elsewhere. Besides, who knows better than 
 he that a good soldier blindly obeys his orders ? 
 
 Enter Voltaire, r.tj.e. 
 
 Vol. Gentlemen, gentlemen ! In a pensive frame to-night, 
 sighing at the yellow moon 1 Are you in love, or do you plot 
 treason against our good Frederick 1 I should have thought 
 the magnums of claret in the supper-room much more in your 
 line. 
 
 Erf. Ah, great master ! Your advent is well timed. We are 
 ready to prove to you 
 
 Vol. That man is the least rational of all the animals 1 I 
 learnt that ere you were born. Don't waste your time teaching 
 me old saws. The claret will repay you better. 
 
 Lar. (to Erfurt). Let us withdraw a little and watch, for 
 fear of frightening our bird. Are you with us, M. de Vol- 
 taire ? [Music behind ceases. 
 
 Vol. Thank you, no. When a performance is more than 
 usually ridiculous, I prefer a warm seat among the audience to a 
 cold caught among the actors. 
 
 Lar. Let us go, then. [Exeunt, third grooves, l. 
 
 Vol. (taking snuff). Thecla prays me to lure these men away. 
 Shall I, for her sake, act contrary to well-worn principles, and 
 lend a helping hand 1 JSTo. It 's a bad precedent. Let the 
 imbroglio unravel itself, and sham virtue pilot its vessel to a 
 haven if it can. [Exit up steps. 
 
30 DESPITE THE WOKLD. 
 
 Oliv. (turning to doo?-). I thought I heard a key grinding in 
 a lock. It is not here. (Tunis and sees Frederick, who comes 
 through the picture.) Frederick! 
 
 Fred, (coldly). Yea, princess, 'tis I, in answer to your sum- 
 mons. I fear I 've made you wait, not willingly, I beg you to 
 believe ; but the King has a thousand cares : an important 
 review to organize for to-morrow, a council to be held with 
 generals, envoys from abroad to hear and answer. Pardon me, 
 princess, technical details can scarcely interest you. You asked 
 for a secret interview. You have it. Speak. 
 
 Oliv. His frozen speech chills my words upon my lips. 
 
 [Sinks on her knees. 
 
 Fred. Well. You seem to have that to speak which finds 
 difficulty in utterance. Is it not singular 1 Were a stranger to 
 see us thus — you flushed, confused, with lowered eyes ; I, calm 
 and smiling — he might be led to think that he saw a fair 
 criminal on bended knee before a benign judge, did he not 
 know, which he could not fail to learn, that the Princess of 
 Novgorod was never criminal, and that Frederick the Second 
 never forgives. 
 
 Oliv. Sire, cease this leaden comedy. 
 
 Fred. Princess ! When Frederick deigns to appear in comedy, 
 it is on the wide stage which is called the world. Speak on, we 
 wait your pleasure. 
 
 Oliv. The Empress of Russia sent my husband here as am- 
 bassador ; I could not do less than follow him. 
 
 Fred. Why excuse yourself? We are duly thankful to Eliza- 
 beth ; for a beautiful ambassadress is more to our taste than a 
 wooden ambassador with a whalebone spine. Unless our me- 
 mory fail us, you were here, unmarried, some few years back. 
 Then can you tell our cousin of Russia that the ill-used Hereditary 
 Prince has vanished beneath the king's diadem, and that Frederick 
 the Second is altogether another man. 
 
 Oliv. Has Frederick, then, forgotten all 1 
 
 Fred. Who studies and dissects the passions, learns to laugh 
 at them. 
 
 Oliv. Then it will be easier for me to speak ; for I am 
 impelled to speak, sire, of a hapless lady, who loved the Crown 
 Prince with a deep and fervent love. 
 
 Fred. Indeed ! And what, in Heaven's name, would this lady 
 of the King ? 
 
 Oliv. She fears lest the King should have been deceived con- 
 cerning her ; lest he should see her actions through a dis- 
 coloured light. There were strong motives for her line of 
 conduct, of which the King may yet be ignorant. She would 
 implore the King to bury reverently his memory of her, and 
 
DESPITE THE WOELD. 31 
 
 then (sobbing) with tender hand to strew her grave with the 
 immortal blossoms of regret. 
 
 Fred. She would have the King forget her 1 Re- assure the 
 lady for me. Tell her the King not only forgets, but even 
 adds the most complete indifference, although that lady's selfish- 
 ness darkened and blighted his youth. Have you no more 
 to add 1 
 
 Oliv. (in a suffocated voice). No more. 
 
 [She rises from her knees. 
 
 Feed. Then our interview is at an end. You may go. 
 
 [She totters to the door. 
 By-the-bye, in the grove, without, a few hair-brained young men, 
 distraught with idleness, are waiting, who have vowed to see the 
 face of the lady who entered here. 'Tis but a silly jest, but, of 
 course, the reputation of the Princess Olivia will silence all 
 whisperings. 
 
 Oliv. Oh, sire, this is horrible ! Betrayed by you ! But 
 there is another door. 
 
 [Ritshes to the picture. Frederick interposes. 
 
 Feed, [coldly). That entrance is reserved for the persons who 
 are dear to His Majesty. You, princess, are not one of those. 
 
 Oliv. Sire, sire ! As you are great, have mercy on me, 
 forget the past. I am but a feeble woman, and your revenge 
 would not hunt down so weak a quarry? Poor in all that 
 makes life beautiful, I 've naught to live for but the world's 
 respect, which is as air and light to me. To please the insatiate 
 world, I have torn, one by one, the fibres of my heart, till it has 
 grown a withered thing. Mercy ! mercy, sire ! 
 
 Fred. When our past, of which you spoke just now, lies 
 mouldering in a common heap of ashes, then will the King of 
 Prussia reply to the Princess of Novgorod. 
 
 [He takes letters from a casket, burns one by one, leaving 
 ashes in a silver dish. 
 
 Oliv. Alas, alas ! My letters ! All is indeed over now. 
 
 [Sinks on chair, and buries her face in hands. 
 
 Enter Voltaire, down steps in park, with a letter. 
 
 Vol. Here, in due form, is my recall to France. The King 
 has, it seems, forgiven Mahomet, and languishes for my return ; 
 or is it that he has a snug little apartment in the Bastile await- 
 ing me 1 I shall, indeed, be glad to go, as this spectacle is really 
 too insipid. "With all their trumpet-blowing and banging of 
 drums, everything is hollow and below contempt. Their virtue 
 is veneer, their philosophy an echo. They are true to themselves 
 only in all-pervading greed and malice. Our age of reason must 
 commence elsewhere. Ah, Count Julian. 
 
32 DESPITE THE WOKLD. 
 
 {Enter Julian, r.u.e.) 
 
 Jul. It must be here ; near the statue, by the door of the 
 pavilion. 'Tis well. Here I am to meet this Baron Erfurt, 
 whose pedantic ways are so insufferable. 
 
 Vol. I smell a rat. They 've sent him here to find Oh, 
 
 how base is man ! I 've half a mind to spoil this silly trick. 
 The discomfiture of the mischief-makers will repay me for being 
 weak enough to meddle in the troubles of fellow-fools. (Advanc- 
 ing). Count Julian ! 
 
 Jul. (turning). Voltaire ! 
 
 Vol. Baron Erfurt gave you rendezvous here for the generous 
 purpose of surprising a lady, supposed to be shut up in the 
 pavilion. Is it not so ? 
 
 Jul. (angrily). What lady 1 
 
 Vol. The action would be mean enough were she a stranger, 
 would it not? But supposing her to be one dear to you, it 
 would be 
 
 Jul. More infamous still. 
 
 Vol. I quite agree with you. Then, will you stay here as 
 mere tool and accomplice of empty-headed Erfurt's little plots 1 
 
 Jul. (hesitating). I would not so disgrace myself. 
 
 Vol. Ah, that was what I wished to know. Not being a 
 woman, I thought there might be some hope of your combating 
 your curiosity. 
 
 Jul. You shall see. I await the Baron, to fling my glove in 
 his face. 
 
 Vol. Well said. 
 
 Fred. All is over now. 
 
 Oliv. Are you inexorable, Frederick ? 
 
 Fred. No. I have compassion on you. I merely wished you 
 to tremble for that which you hold dearest on earth — your lying 
 reputation, and showed you how easily it could be overthrown. 
 Now I say to you, This worldly respect by which you breathe 
 and live ; behold, I give it you as alms ! Beturn to the homage 
 and admiration of the world. Beturn unspotted to pursue your 
 arid way. The past exists no more. Behind that picture you 
 will find a secret stair, leading, by an obscure corridor, to my 
 mother's ante- chamber. Go. 
 
 Oliv. Oh, Frederick ! (He boivs coldly. She recedes again.) 
 Sire ! [She is going. Frederick moves the picture. Thecla 
 in a black cloak, with mask in hand, stands pale in 
 Thou ! the °P enin 9- 
 
 Fred. You here, Thecla 1 How 1 
 
 Thec. I tracked your steps. Pardon me, sire, but my sister 
 was to be saved. 
 
DESPITE THE WORLD. 33 
 
 Oliv. Saved ! What do you mean 1 
 
 Thec. A lady was seen to enter here. This handkerchief, 
 embroidered with the crest of both of us, was picked up near the 
 door. They wait without to see one of us two pass. 
 Oliv. Oh, Heaven! 
 
 Thec. Therefore one of us two must go out by that door, or 
 both are lost. 
 
 Oliv. Oh, I have not strength. I should droop and die. 
 Thec. No, you will not die ; for I, who am here, can and will 
 save you. Take this mask and domino. At the postern-gate 
 a carriage waits, without livery or arms. Yours I sent home 
 long since. You are supposed to have returned to your palace. 
 Lose not a moment. Your husband has but now left the ball, 
 and may suspect if you delay. Go. Fly ! 
 Oliv. But you, sister. 
 
 Thec. (with a hitter smile). I ! what have I to lose or gain 1 I 
 despise the world. 
 
 Oliv. No, no; I could not suffer this. The fault is mine; be 
 mine the punishment. 
 
 [Goes towards door; at this moment, Laroque, Erfurt, 
 and a few guests come, laughing, down the steps. 
 She hears them, recoils, kisses her sister's hands, and 
 saying wildly, " Forgive me, sister, but I dare not 
 face them," dashes through the panel, which closes 
 after her. 
 
 Fred, (who has watched with crossed arms). I knew it. A 
 nature of stone, selfish to the core. 
 
 Thec. (passes her hands over her brow). Poor sister ! rather 
 pity her, for she deceives herself. 
 
 Jul. (advancing to Erfurt). Baron Erfurt ; before leaving the 
 palace, it is my duty to tell you that a wilful soiler of reputations 
 is among the most dastardly of men. You will know where to 
 find me. 
 
 Erf. At your service, sir. 
 
 Jul. Adieu and thanks, M. de Voltaire. 
 
 Vol. Begone ; nor look behind. Bemember Lot's wife. 
 
 Thec. (with an effort). Now, sire, I am ready. Give me your 
 hand, and open yonder door. Let us go. 
 
 Fred. You are too noble for me to do aught but bow before 
 your will. Baise your brow, Countess, that its light may shine 
 on them. 
 
 Lar. Hush ! The door moves. Be ready, Baron Erfurt. 
 
 Erf. In the King's name, who goes there 1 
 
 [Julian, who stands at lop of steps, ivith bach to 
 audience, turns his head. 
 
34 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 Fred. The King of Prussia and the Countess von Thiirenau. 
 Remove your hat, sir, and precede us to the ball-room. 
 
 [Knocks off Erfurt's hat. 
 Lar., Erf., and Guests. The King ! 
 
 Fred. Why do you smile, Count of Laroque-Tournai 1 Is it 
 some new epigram — another effusion on Bacchus and Ariadne 1 
 Your French birth should lead you to remember that prison cells 
 are very cooling to over-heated brains. 
 
 Lar. (stammering). I, sire, smile 1 Never was more serious in 
 all my life. 
 
 Vol. I declare, if I were not Voltaire, I would like to be 
 Frederick the Second. 
 
 [They move towards steps. Thecla is on the Kings left 
 arm; therefore, on fawning up steps, she comes face 
 to face with Julian, who is c. of stage at top of 
 steps. 
 Thec. (starting). He here. The only one in all the world 
 whom I would have far from hence ! Oh, Fate, thou art remorse- 
 less ! (Drops King's arm.) I pray you, sire, leave me. I am 
 ill. I suffocate for want of air, and would be alone. Leave me, 
 leave me — all — I pray you go ! 
 
 [She staggers to a chair which is placed for her in c. 
 Lar. (officiously). A sudden indisposition ails our muse. Gen- 
 tlemen, stand aside, I beg. A fan ! — a pouncet-box for the 
 Countess ! 
 
 Fred. Be it so. Remember, Countess von Thiirenau, in case 
 of need, that Frederick has but two friends — you and Voltaire. 
 (Takes Voltaire's arm.) Come, Voltaire. Gentlemen, follow 
 me. 
 
 Vol. She, too, 's been playing with fire, and burnt her fingers. 
 Hot-headed girl ! 
 
 Lar. (aside to Erfurt). Did you hear him ? That 's plain 
 speaking, at all events. 
 
 Erf. (aside to him). A diploma of favourite, signed and 
 sealed. (To Julian.) "Well, sir, you regret your heat of a few 
 moments since. Have we unbound your eyes 1 
 
 Jul. Who begged light of you 1 Better darkness than the 
 pale-green light of deadly fens. 
 Erf. Count ! Another insult. 
 Jul. I have already said that I await your orders. 
 Erf. My friends shall be with you within the hour. 
 
 [All exeunt. Julian is following. 
 
 Thec. (on the chair). Count Julian, stay. Stay, I say. I 
 
 wish it. I stoop to beg of you. Well, Julian ! Blind fortune 
 
 makes us meet once more to-night, though to-morrow only was 
 
 to have cast the die. Perchance the gods are kinder than they 
 
DESPITE THE WOELD. 35 
 
 seem, and would save us hours of suspense. One question. 
 One single word as answer. Speak. Are you also blind 1 
 
 Jul. Am I not to believe my eyes 1 
 
 Thec. (rising). Not always, Julian. Circumstances are oft- 
 times as lying to the eye as to the ear. He falters. Oh, bitter 
 destiny ! His gold is counterfeit. His metal 's no better tem- 
 pered than that of other men. 
 
 Jul. You do well to rail, lady. Reproaches sit lightly on 
 your lips. 
 
 Thec. Listen to me. Were one to come to me and say, 
 " Count Julian, the man you love " — for I do love you — " is a 
 coward, a vile wretch, whose name is thick stained with mire ; 
 he drags his fouled scutcheon in the dust ; is but a bravo, who 
 sells his sword to whoso will buy the notched and rusty blade," 
 I should answer, " It is not true ; it is a lie ! " 
 
 Jul. I was prepared to say as much of you ten moments since. 
 I believed in you with all my soul. Then that accursed door 
 opened, and 
 
 Thec. It was not enough. Were I to see you grovelling — 
 ground into the dust— under a foe's point, imploring, for bare 
 charity, a little life, — were my eyes to look on you gaming in 
 a hell with loaded dice, I should murmur to myself, content in 
 spirit, thus was he compelled to act. Such is my love — such 
 my faith, patient and long-suffering, without which love is of 
 no worth at all ! 
 
 Jul. No. You would not endure coldly, as you profess, if 
 you feel as deeply as you pretend to feel. When the Fates point 
 with so direct a finger, you could not. but believe. 
 
 Thec. (impatiently). The Fates ! the Fates ! Does your heart 
 say nothing 1 
 
 Jul. If my heart spoke after that I 've seen, I 'd tear it from 
 my bosom with these hands. 
 
 Thec. A boast worthy of unstable faith. The low brute 
 courage of the suicide, no more. 
 
 Jul. Madam ! 
 
 Thec. Yes, low and vile. As low and vile as all this idle 
 searching into a woman's secrets. As mean as this banding 
 together of self-righteous men to hound her down. Strange it 
 should need the hands of so many heroes to flush a woman's 
 brow with shame. Truly a noble pastime, worthy of the gods ! 
 I knew they were there, the flight of evil birds, but thought 
 not to find the eagle couched among them. 
 
 Jul. When you appeared, I had turned to go, too haughty to 
 assume a part that lowered me in my own esteem — too proud to 
 admit of a suspicion which profaned the lady of my love. You 
 are so beautiful, I could not believe that Heaven had writ its 
 
36 DESPITE THE WOELD. 
 
 name upon your face and blurred it from your heart. But I was 
 deceived. Better, perchance, that I should know it now, for I 
 have unveiled 
 
 Thec. (bitterly). The truth ! Say the word, as you believe it. 
 But how know you that you are not victim of a misconception — 
 fooled by a false fire, such as leads hinds through bogs to their 
 despair 1 
 
 Jul. Explain your conduct, if you can. I only ask to be 
 convinced. 
 
 Thec. Count Julian, no ! Bemember our converse on this 
 very spot but a few hours past — a time that seems now, alas, so 
 long — so long ago ! I said that the love which I demanded must 
 be crowned with infinite faith. Since then you have doubted. 
 Henceforth you are a stranger to me, and to a stranger I will not 
 explain myself. What ! A life of petty jealousies, of small 
 quarrels, and puny pardonings 1 Fie ! A life for water-carriers 
 and market-wenches, but a life-long disgraceful chain to you and 
 me. No, Count Julian ; the book is closed, its clasps clamped- 
 to for ever. 
 
 Jul. Your assumed anger, Thecla, deceives me not. The 
 farce is well played, but is unworthy of you. The obscure 
 lover falls into the shade before a conqueror of kings. How 
 poor appears the conquest of one solitary heart when an 
 entire people are prepared to worship at your feet ! Frederick's 
 greatness needed but a tangible glory mid his host to lead his 
 arms from victory to victory. In truth, thrice happy king — 
 thrice happy 
 
 Thec. Count, peace ! No more ! You know not what you say ! 
 
 Jul. (fiercely). Do I not] Have I not heard your name 
 tossed, like a bubble on the air, in sport, by those who should 
 have named you on their knees 1 Have I not seen you pointed 
 at with nods and curlings of the lip, like any wanton woman of 
 the town 1 For shame ! 
 
 Thec. Count Julian ! 
 
 Jul. Aye, I speak of that I know. You reap the harvest 
 which you sowed unwittingly. I told you there were battles a. 
 woman durst not wage without a smirching of her innocence. I 
 told you that, in the unequal fight, you must inevitably be 
 broken and undone. What are you now, who sit on the crazy 
 throne of popular caprice? A beauteous lily, plucked from 
 fostering earth, deprived of root, and so of life, placed in a 
 gilded glass. After an hour's triumph, the flower will blacken 
 and decay, spite of the gold that hems it round. Oh, Thecla ! 
 are you content that such should be your fate 1 Believe me, 
 you 've mistaken the way ; turn back, while yet there 's time. 
 Come, rouse thee, Thecla ! You may yet do something with 
 
DESPITE THE WOELD. 37 
 
 your sullied life. Remedy the follies of the past ; blot out the 
 errors of inexperienced youth. You said, with truth, "Our 
 book is closed ; its clasps are clamped for ever." Farewell ! 
 We meet no more ! [Exit. 
 
 [Thecla looks after him, clasps her hands over her eyes, 
 then falls on the marble seat under statue. {Music 
 as in First Tableau.) 
 Thec. Gone ! Gone, with bitter words and burning lip ! 
 Another vanished dream ; another illusion lost 1 Alone, poor 
 heart ; ever alone ! If he prove faithless, what, then, is true 1 
 The smile of Heaven, which warms and gives us life, 's a lie. 
 The bursting spring, that heralds forth eternity, is but a mocking 
 shade ! This rose, which he begged but now, blooms still, 
 despite his lack of faith. [She clasps the feet of the stattie.] Oh, 
 Love, Love, Love ! wise were they of old who portrayed thee 
 veiled. Thy form embodies the godliness of youth. Thy glo- 
 rious feet are wet with dewy daffodils. Thy breath is fragrant 
 as morning flowers. But 'neath that rainbow film there lurks a 
 skull, from whose sightless orbs darts forth a lurid flame, that 
 scorches and devours ! Alone for evermore ! 
 
 [She lays her head upon the statue's feet. N.B. In the 
 country, where the statue is, of course, painted on 
 the flat, the pedestal must project several inches, to 
 allow Thecla to rest head and arms on it, and be 
 of a convenient height to allow of a graceful pose 
 tvhile sitting in abandonment. 
 
 Enter Voltaire, down steps, without seeing her. 
 
 Vol. I have taken hasty leave of Frederick, who was by no 
 means pleased. I 'm sick of embassies — the puppets are too 
 easily moved. The only creature I regret to leave is Thecla. 
 With the spirit of a will-o'-the-wisp, her heart is wrought in 
 gold ; but I much dread it may become tarnished here. It 's no 
 affair of mine. I 'm getting a bad habit of meddling in others' 
 lives. Since I took up diplomacy, I 've forgotten how to think. 
 It 's plain I must make a choice — artist or ambassador. Of the 
 two, I much prefer the artist. 
 
 Thec. {raising slightly her head without changing her pose). 
 And you do well, Voltaire. 
 
 Vol. Here still, Thecla, at this hour ! So pale and worn ! 
 Go in ; the night air is damp. 
 
 Thec. {sitting up). Yes; art is the true life — the spring of 
 great emotions, of noble impulses, of generous enthusiasm. I 
 have thought it long ; now conviction speaks plainly in my 
 breast. {Rises and comes forward.) Art is the faithful friend 
 whose placid smile shines on the soul alike in good and evil 
 
38 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 fortune, soothing with tenderness your every grief, gilding with 
 poetry your every joy. Art is the real life. 
 
 Vol. (takes smiff). Cant phrases, my child, cant phrases, false 
 as sea murmurs in a shell, happily adopted by the world, because 
 we poets have shouted them aloud, and it's easier to accept 
 others' opinions than form new ones for ourselves. I, who stand 
 here, and I ought to know, wrote my best tragedies comfortably 
 seated in a soft arm-chair, with a plentiful supply of the best 
 rappee, chewing the cud of breakfast while awaiting dinner, my 
 wig unruffled by fine poetic frenzy. Depend upon it, the public, 
 moved to tears, are far more real poets than we who pump the 
 water from their eyes. But never breathe to the simple public 
 that great truth, or farewell enthusiasm — an absurd but necessary 
 evil — farewell celebrity ; worse still, farewell the ducats that 
 chirp in our pockets and help to round our forms. 
 
 Thec. It 's false, Voltaire, and you know it. Yourself live 
 ofttimes in another world, are agitated by emotions which tear 
 and inspire the soul. Were it not so, the spark would die in 
 you, and you would sink dumb to insignificance. With all 
 artists — with actors — 'tis the same. I myself saw Garrick in 
 London after Hamlet. He was pale. He trembled still, con- 
 vulsed with the horrors of his mimic destiny. His aspect terri- 
 fied me. I asked him if he needed help. " I am ill," he said. 
 " This fever, every night renewed, slowly gnaws away my life. 
 What matter ! Though the frail body die, the soul's immortal !" 
 From that day, Voltaire, I have longed for the larger life ! I 
 have burned to live in the grand joys and sorrows of the great 
 ones of the past ! 
 
 Vol. Thecla, you rave. 
 
 Thec. To be lulled into an enchanted world ! To be borne 
 far away from this narrow, sordid life ! To commence each 
 night a new existence — young, ardent, free ! To burn with love 
 and noble wrath, or bow with the heroism of self-sacrifice ! To 
 cause other hearts to beat with the whirl of your own passions ! 
 To make other eyes to weep with your own tears ! Oh ! Is not 
 that to live? [pensively). There, too, might I not find forget- 
 fulness ? 
 
 Vol. Is this the haughty beauty, all smiles and triumphs, 
 whom silly men choose to dub the favourite ? Child, put this 
 mad notion from you. Believe me, bury it at any cost. Garrick 
 played upon your faith in him. To be able to tear yourself each 
 night with passion you must be cold and calculating, you must 
 be disillusioned, or you will die. You, Thecla, most certainly 
 would die. 
 
 Thec. And you, who admit death as a possible result, would 
 deny the power of art 1 
 
DESPITE THE WOELD. 39 
 
 Vol. Play of muscles — combination of colour — effect of light. 
 Delightful, no doubt, but nothing more. Self-willed that you 
 are, you think me but a wind-bag. Would you have a proof 1 
 CWbillon writes to me from Paris that the great Lemaure, idol 
 of the public, the reigning toast, has suddenly abdicated from 
 her throne, still young, still steeped to the lips in plaudits. 
 What think you of that ? Do people wilfully give up the real 
 life? It vexes me much, moreover, personally, as I counted 
 specially on her for my ' Semiramis.' 
 
 Thec. Your ' Semiramis '? The tragedy you read to me. Who 
 has taken her post ? 
 
 Vol. No one as yet. The inspector of Paris theatres tears 
 his wig, buffets the powder in his eyes in vain. The king 
 rages, wont attend council, or see a minister. The Pompadour 
 is furious. But time passes as I gossip here, and I must start 
 to-night. 
 
 Thec. Voltaire, you seek an actress? I offer one — myself. 
 
 [Vol. takes snuff — a pause. 
 
 Vol. Eh ! You ! Poor child, your brain is overwrought. 
 
 Thec. Why so ? As reigning sibyl, I have oft recited here, 
 and have drawn tears when I recked not if they smiled or wept. 
 Not a word — no arguments — no counsellings. 'T were vain. I 
 have thought of all, see all, know all. My will is strong ; I will 
 fight and conquer. Voltaire, are you my friend ? 
 
 Vol. Am I — who knows? Some say I'm only a wicked old 
 cynic ; how, then, can I believe in friendship ? 
 
 Thec. Old friend, long years have proved you. 
 
 Vol. Now she would wheedle me. Oh ! woman, how artless, 
 yet how deep ! 
 
 Thec. Will you propose me ? Yes, or no ? Answer, quick ! 
 
 Vol. Humph ! 
 
 Thec. No time for humphs ! Quick — yes, or no ? 
 
 Vol. And if I refuse ? 
 
 Thec. Then I will propose myself. 
 
 Vol. Pause on the threshold of this mad idea. Accept advice 
 not often tendered. You will be unhappy. 
 
 Thec. Not more wretched then than now. 
 
 Vol. Be responsible for yourself then. I wash my hands. 
 I will propose you. 
 
 Thec. When do you start ? 
 
 Vol. In an hour. 
 
 Thec. We will go together. 
 
 Vol. Impossible. The silken chains which bind you to the 
 world, to your family, to the Court ? 
 
 Thec. Are broken, all ! 
 
 Vol. I could have sworn that nothing could surprise me. I 
 
40 DESPITE THE WOELD. 
 
 was mistaken. You may become a great actress, Thecla ; pro- 
 bably you will. But the art you worship will cost you tears of 
 blood. 
 
 Thec. Lend me your tablets. "Write. This day, the 12th of 
 June, 1746, Thecla Herfland, Countess of Thiirenau died. 
 
 Vol. {Laughing, and throiuing himself on a seat). Amen ! 
 Though I don't understand a word ! 
 
 Thec. Give me the pencil — turn another page. ( Writes. 
 Music as in First Tableau to the end.) — "I, at the point of 
 death, do hereby will and bequeath my houses and estates, and 
 all my wealth, to my dear sister, Olivia, Princess of Novgorod, 
 absolutely, with the exception of a legacy of five hundred 
 florins yearly to each of my two tirewomen, and a further 
 sum of ten thousand florins of gold, which shall be paid, year 
 by year, to M. de Voltaire, to be dispensed by him according 
 to instructions given by me. Signed this 12th of June, 1746. 
 Thecla von Thiirenau." The name I 've borne through good or ill 
 report I look on for the last time. A strange feeling, old friend, 
 is death in life. 
 
 Vol. But what would you do 1 
 
 Thec. Live to love. 
 
 Vol. I begin to understand. That sum of ten thousand 
 florins 1 
 
 Thec. Is to be the annual pension of the greatest actress in 
 France. The step is taken from which there 's no return. The 
 Countess von Thiirenau is dead ! May her memory yet linger 
 for a little while shrined in a few faithful hearts ! See to that 
 paper at once, Voltaire. My women are to be trusted ; they will 
 arrange the rest. Who could have thought that Julian's words 
 would so soon have borne their fruit ! And now, to cast the 
 veil of labour over my sullied past. Art shall light my path, a 
 goal of lambent flame. Art and love must be the twin chords 
 whose music shall give life to my new-born soul. 
 
 Vol. Thecla, I was wrong, and I recant. There does exist a 
 mystic power. The sacred light shines forth in you, a prophetic 
 promise that you shall be great. 
 
 Thec. Great ! Yes. I shall be great ! I will be great for 
 him — and he shall learn to love me truly yet — despite the 
 world. 
 
 [Curtain. Music as in First Tableau to the drop of 
 curtain. 
 
DESPITE THE WOELD. 41 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Tableau III. — Drawing-room, in Palace of Versailles, lit up. 
 Doors r. L. and c. Window in fiat. When applause is I 
 it is to be audible through the centre door, which is 6 
 to lead to the Court Theatre. Card-table R. When scene opens, 
 Erfurt and Laroque are playing at chess, seated on two 
 chairs which have their backs to each other, with a stool in 
 centre which holds chess-board. Erfurt sitting on horseback 
 across his chair, elbows resting on its back. Laroque seated 
 sideways on his chair, his arms over the back. When they 
 abandon their game, they will move back the chairs and stool, 
 and place chess-board on a table. 
 
 Lar. (moving a piece). The world is not much larger than 
 this chess-board after all, Baron. We are for ever bidding long 
 farewells, and parting in tears only to come together unexpectedly 
 at the very next turn. A tiny ball set in infinite space. This 
 day five years ago we parted abruptly at Berlin, and here we are 
 re-united at Versailles. 
 
 Erf. Yes, M. Laroque. Time for the moment is annihilated. 
 Here we are quietly playing chess, as we did at Sans Souci five 
 years ago. 
 
 Lar. When I was arrested. 
 
 Erf. Consequent on too pungent an epigram on His Most 
 Sacred Majesty. I can't help smiling when I think of it. It 
 was most laughable. Ha, ha ! 
 
 Lar. I don't agree with you. Pray don't remind me of it, 
 Baron. I feel a sort of crawling when I so much as think of 
 prison-cells. A bed of stone — rats and spiders without end — 
 and mildewed bread to eat ! Ugh ! But I 've profited by the 
 lesson, and have never so much as turned the smallest epigram 
 since. 
 
 Erf. Nor an ode to the back of Venus or the frown of Jove 1 
 
 Lar. Never ! No. Funerals now afford me a chaste emolu- 
 ment. They 're more decorous ; besides, dead men don't sign 
 orders of arrest. I have taken to serious literature, indite a 
 graceful elegy sometimes, compose heart-rending tragedies. More- 
 over, you will easily understand that the dignity of my new 
 position 
 
42 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 Erf. By-the-bye, I had forgotten to congratulate you. Since 
 your rather hurried — ahem ! — pardon me. Since your return to 
 your native land you have been named, I think 1 ? 
 
 Lab. Governor of the Royal Theatres, Manager of His 
 Majesty's Servants, and Inspector of Ballets. And a very diffi- 
 cult post I do assure you it is ! What has Time done for you, 
 Baron 1 
 
 Erf. In the humdrum order of things, I have risen to the 
 rank of Colonel, and am now attached to the Special Envoy sent 
 to patch up a peace between France and Prussia. 
 
 Lar. Excuse me — let us steer clear of politics, an unwise 
 pursuit of which by mere spectators leads often to the spiders 
 and prison fare. You understand me. Besides, it scarcely suits 
 the dignity of my new position 
 
 Erf. I apologize ; check to your king. 
 
 Lar. What think you of our French Court 1 
 
 Erf. Charming ! Such balls ! such merrymakings ! such 
 dainty ladies in such gay costumes ! such amorous dallyings ! 
 More like a dream than a reality. 
 
 Lar. Only arrived but a few short hours since ; are you 
 already launched 1 Young heads ! young hearts ! So burning hot ! 
 As Voltaire says, You 'd disappear in steam but for the cold shower 
 of sorrow. Come ; what fair ladies do you already know ? 
 
 Erf. Only two as yet. Both delightful, with the added 
 pickle of just a little spite. Madame de Pierrefitte and the 
 Duchess of Valence. Tell me about them ; who are they 1 
 
 Lar. Young man, I have the honour to repeat that my 
 pastime lies in funerals, which afford a delectable addition to my 
 income. Now these ladies are very much alive indeed, powerful 
 at Court, and therefore dangerous. So I may only discourse to 
 you concerning their virtue, which is long since dead and buried. 
 
 Erf. Checkmate. 
 
 Lar. I am beaten. Enough of chess (they rise). I remarked 
 to you that our globe is small. You will find many here whom 
 you already know. 
 
 Erf. Indeed 1 But it 's according to the teaching of our new 
 philosophy. Many of us were born under one star, and our lives 
 are compelled to move together in one cycle to the end. 
 
 Lar. As you are a new comer, I will venture on a word of 
 advice. The mystic opinions in vogue at Frederick's Court are 
 not the fashion here. Under the rosy auspices of the Pompadour 
 we sing and dance and feast, and trouble ourselves concerning 
 Reason not at all ! 
 
 Erf. Yet Voltaire is here 1 
 
 Lar. Yes, but given over to the drama now, rather than to 
 abstruse mysticism. 
 
DESPITE THE WOELD. 43 
 
 Erf. Why the drama 1 
 
 Lar. Because the railer has been taken in the toils. He 
 is tied to the triumphal car of our great actress here, and 
 by her is softened into quite another man. Yes, you 
 will find old friends in plenty. Yesterday was presented at 
 Court the new Ambassadress from Russia. Judge of my 
 surprise when I beheld that marble paragon, the Princess of 
 Novgorod. 
 
 Erf. She ! Scarce suited to this laughing Court. 
 
 Lar. The Princess Olivia never was more imposing and 
 severe. Pale, serious, clad in deepest sable — for she still wears 
 mourning for her sister — she dropped among us rather like an 
 iceberg than a thunderbolt. King Louis dared not look her in 
 the face. The Duke de Richelieu seemed quite modest and 
 abashed. Passing by the Pompadour, she flung at her a stony 
 glance, which would have sent Medusa mad with jealousy, as 
 though to say, " See what a great wall there is betwixt us two ! " 
 Recognizing me, her thoughts reverted to her dead sister, and 
 she buried her features in her handkerchief. Excellent, tender- 
 hearted creature ! 
 
 Erf. Poor, erring Northern Muse ! She always was a thorn 
 in the Princess's side. 
 
 Lar. Apropos of Thecla, we have here an actress of remark- 
 able talent — the same whose shadow is Voltaire — whose oddity 
 is as strange as is her genius. 
 
 Erf. I know ! Mademoiselle Fides.* Her fame has reached 
 Berlin ; and I have special orders from Frederick to write to him 
 of her. This very night, I 'm told, she 's to declaim. I 'm 
 longing to see her. 
 
 Lar. Yes — in the Court Theatre, presently. Prepare yourself 
 for a great surprise. Does your philosophy, which tells of people 
 born under one star, say anything of those who are cast in the 
 same mould? The new genius is the living image of poor 
 Countess Thecla, whose sudden death at the ball of Sans Souci 
 shocked us so much five years ago. The same voice, the same 
 figure, the same bright, animated smile. The first time I saw 
 her, I stood with goggle eyes and open mouth, unable to articu- 
 late a word, which drew from her rosy lips a peal of laughter. 
 Indeed, had we not all assisted at the grand obsequies of the 
 late Countess, — on which, by the way, I wrote so excellent an 
 ode 
 
 Erf. Such coincidences of feature are by no means rare. We 
 all know cases of mistaken identity. 
 
 Lar. But this resemblance, I tell you, is prodigious. 
 
 * Better make the actors pronounce it Spanish fashion— Fee- dez, 
 
44 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 Enter Madame de Pierrefitte and Duchess de Valence, 
 arm in arm. 
 
 Mad. de P. (threatening bombastically with fan.) What ! do 
 you dare to gossip here, oh, recreant scions of a worthy race 1 
 To-morrow, at cock-crow, ye shall be broken on the wheel, and 
 your ashes scattered by the common executioner. 
 
 Duch. (the same business). You shall be burned alive, by 
 express orders of the Pompadour. I 'm not certain you shan't 
 first be pilloried. 
 
 Lae. Mercy, ladies, mercy. You crush us to the earth. Of 
 what fearful enormity are we innocently guilty 1 
 
 Mad. de P. Of the gravest crime possible at the Court of 
 France in the year of grace in which we live. 
 
 Duch. High treason, oh, hardened criminals ! You dare 
 quietly to abuse your neighbours here, when the last new wonder 
 of the world — -the priceless pearl of the Com6die Francaise — is 
 making her triumphant entry into the grand saloon ! Sinners, 
 feel ye no remorse 1 
 
 Erf. Mademoiselle Fides has arrived 1 
 
 Lar. We were speaking but now of her. 
 
 Mad. de P. And pray of what other subject could you speak 1 
 In the circle of the Pompadour, in the King's private chamber, 
 even at Kichelieu's naughty little suppers, in the public street, 
 there is but one matter of discourse — all trumpet forth one 
 name. It 's sickening. 
 
 Duch. The celebrated actress beguiles generals into forgetting 
 war, reverend ministers into cropping short their sermons ; more 
 marvellous still, for she has a dreadful will of her own, she 
 refuses to act in tragedies of the most colossal excellence. Did 
 she not decline to act in a play of yours, dear Madame de Pierre- 
 fitte? 
 
 Mad. de P. It matters not, dear Duchess, if she did. 
 
 Lar. And has she not conquered the invincible Julian of 
 Toledo, who, because he 's rude, and turns up his eyes, and wears 
 black clothes, all the ladies adore ? 
 
 Duch. (tapping him with fan). Hush ! Don't speak of him 
 before our dear friend here. She is herself stricken, makes 
 mad love to him, follows him like a pet dog, bows meekly 
 beneath his sarcasms, and he brushes her from him as though 
 she were a fly ! Ha, ha ! 
 
 Erf. What ! is he, too, at Versailles 1 
 
 Mad. de P. Count Julian 1 Yes ; as minister from Spain. 
 Do you know him, Baron ? 
 
 Erf. Five years ago, at Berlin, he pinked me with his sword. 
 
 Duch. Oh, how delightful ! A duel about a woman. 
 
DESPITE THE WOELD. 45 
 
 Erf. Who was not worth the blood we spilt. He 's a strange 
 man who strives to carry poetry into the realities of life, instead 
 of studying philosophy. 
 
 Mad. de P. At any rate, his manner 's not poetical towards 
 the Pompadour ! The Puritan declines even to be presented to 
 her — think of that ! 
 
 Duch. Which so piques her woman's vanity, that she 's for 
 ever making advances to him underhand. 
 
 Lar. The which he rejects with horror and scorn ! A strange 
 man, indeed ! 
 
 Mad. de P. And he 's a poet too. Has written a glorious 
 tragedy, called ' Sappho.' I have learnt much of it by heart. 
 
 (Sighs.) 
 
 Lar. Yes, 'Sappho'; in which Mademoiselle Fides is so 
 great. 
 
 Mad. de P. Great, indeed ! For my part, I can't see the 
 woman's talent whieh drives you men so crazy. 
 
 Erf. But who is this woman ? Whence does she come ? 
 Fides is not a name. 
 
 Mad. de P. No. She 's a mystery, and therefore the more 
 enchanting. Her name, I 'm told, means faith. She 's said to be 
 daughter of a gipsy — sister to a galley-slave — at all events, 
 something of very ignoble birth. 
 
 Duch. And, let 's whisper, her house is said to be a Maho- 
 met's paradise ; the very centre and summit of all that 's rare 
 and elegant and deliciously sinful in all gay Paris. 
 
 Mad. de P. Oh, the goings-on in that divine retreat ! It 's 
 murmured that she plays Aspasia there to at least a dozen 
 Alcibiades' ! 
 
 Duch. I vow it makes me blush! It's certain that her 
 fortune is immense — how acquired 1 
 
 MaTdeP. } M! ^w acquired? 
 
 [Both nod in unison and hide faces behind fans. 
 
 Lar. The dignity of my position forbids my listening to such 
 scandal. Moreover, I must visit the stage, and see that all 's 
 prepared. Ladies, I take my leave. [Exit. 
 
 Mad. de P. That dear Laroque. He, at least, ought to be 
 devoted to her. She feathers his nest for him with gold. He 
 had the honour of bringing her out. 
 
 Duch. No. She owes all to her worshipper, Voltaire, who 
 prepared her triumph in Semiramis. But here he comes. 
 
 Enter Voltaire. 
 
 Mad. de P. Well, you bad old man. We were just saying 
 wicked things of you. 
 
46 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 Vol. (hissing her hand). So I should have thought, fair lady. 
 I only think wicked things of you. 
 
 Dutch, (laughing). Well said, Voltaire ! 'Twere wiser, dear 
 Madame, not to array your arms against so formidable an enemy. 
 
 Mad. de P. (hazightily). I am not afraid of him. Love will 
 leave him very little time for war. 
 
 Vol. Keep your mosquito stings for others, ladies. They 
 harm me not. I marvel, really, that grand and noble dames like 
 you should waste so much ribald curiosity on a poor actress, who 
 is a daughter to me in my increasing age. It is hard, no doubt, 
 for you to pardon her beauty, her spirits, and her genius 
 
 Mad. de P. You say nothing of her spotless name. 
 
 Vol. Because she is, indeed, so pure, that it is, doubtless, 
 difficult for you even to comprehend the prodigy. 
 
 Enter Laroque, hurriedly. 
 
 Lar. Ladies, for pity's sake, lend me a smelling-bottle — a 
 pouncet-box. 
 
 Mad. de P. Good gracious! what's the matter? You seem 
 quite overcome. 
 
 Lar. Mademoiselle Fides has fainted. 
 
 Duch. Is that all 1 The gipsies have come to take her away. 
 
 Mad. de P. The galley-slave brother has probably appeared. 
 Really, these repeated tumblings about of hers are simply 
 nauseating. 
 
 Vol. Fainted ! and yet she was well but now. Tell us more, 
 Laroque. 
 
 Lar. As you know, in a moment of caprice she had donned 
 the habit of a fortune-teller, and was moving about the grand 
 saloon, prophesying good or evil to those around, when suddenly 
 she came to the Princess of Novgorod. Startled by her mourn- 
 ing or her stony presence, she turned deadly pale, staggered, and 
 would have fallen had I not placed her in a chair. All gave 
 what help they could, but she 's now in strong hysterics. 
 
 Vol. How rash ! how rash ! — would she betray herself 1 
 
 [Exit, hastily. 
 
 Mad. de P. I wonder she can't invent something newer than 
 these fainting fits. 
 
 Lar. (seeing wine, glasses, &c, on table at side). Ah ! here 's 
 water. [Exit ivith glass. 
 
 Mad. de P. But there's always something touching in 
 feeble health, dear Duchess. Let us leave off rouge, and paint 
 ourselves black under the eyes. Would it be becoming ? 
 
 Vol. (enters). It's over, and she 's said nothing. 
 
DESPITE THE WORLD. 47 
 
 Eef. Is she subject to these attacks ? 
 
 Vol. Yes ; she 's not strong, is most excitable, and in the 
 past has suffered much. 
 
 Duch. Of course, with a gipsy father to beat one till one 
 cries ! 
 
 Mad. de P. And a galley-slave brother to slap one black and 
 blue ! 
 
 Vol. Bless your kind hearts, sweet ladies. Most painful ! 
 For she didn't deserve it. You have no brothers, I think 1 ? 
 Sometimes, from the intoxication and triumph of the present, 
 her mind wanders back to the disappointments of the past, and 
 then she 's no longer mistress of herself. I 've seen her break 
 down sometimes whilst acting, as if her strength had left her 
 suddenly. 
 
 Erf. Which, of course, brings the performance to an un- 
 timely close. 
 
 Mad. de P. Oh dear, no. How innocent you are ! Therein 
 lies the consummate artfulness. Her friends spread, with long 
 faces, the distressing news. Fides has had a fit ! The poor, 
 dear, guileless public believes, admires, and melts in pity. 
 Second announcement : Fides will endeavour to recite. A 
 grateful murmur of applause. Up flies the curtain — the actress 
 appears, pale, scarcely able to stand. A general hurrah ! Some 
 begin to cry. Tears are catching ; soon the house is white with 
 pocket-handkerchiefs. A dead silence as she breathes forth some 
 feeble words. Her pallor gives place to a hectic flush ! — febrile 
 energy in the public service. Enthusiasm rises to delirium. 
 "Out with her horses, and let us drag her home ! " That 's the way 
 she made her reputation, the cunning minx. 
 
 Vol. Madame, unsay those false and cruel words. Yet it 's 
 what experience of human nature has led me to expect. (To the 
 Duchess.) If I were to relate, Duchess, what a power of 
 heaven-born inspiration hangs around her lips, — how, tossed on 
 the sea of passion, her convulsed fingers tear her tender skin 
 under the folds of her Greek robe, — (Duchess laughs. He turns 
 to the other), — did I explain to you that, were the whirl of her 
 impetuous energy not consumed by the exigencies of her art, she 
 must go mad 
 
 Mad. de P. (laughing). Ha, ha ! a little lunacy would make 
 it quite complete ! How terribly in earnest, M. de Voltaire ! 
 
 Vol. Do you ladies then believe in nothing 1 
 
 Mad. de P. In nothing (curtsying), and M. de Voltaire has 
 been our master. 
 
 Vol. Ladies, this is basest calumny. I must seek safety in 
 flight, or I shall end by blushing for myself as well as you ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
48 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 Duch. We 've put him to flight. Fancy a philosopher in love! 
 How deliriously new ! 
 
 Erf. The grand saloon is crowded with guests. Will you 
 come, ladies? 
 
 Mad. de P. No. The theatre opens later, and the grand 
 hall 's insufferably hot. Here are cards and dice. Suppose we 
 remain in the cool awhile, and play. What shall it be? Any- 
 thing to pass the time. Lansquenet? 
 
 Duch. By all means, Lansquenet. Baron Erfurt, will you join 
 us in a game ? 
 
 Erf. With pleasure. (They sit. Madame de Perrefitte 
 and Duchess on either side. Erfurt in centre.) Here's fifty 
 louis for the pool. Queen of Hearts ! Then it 's for you, 
 Duchess, to deal. 
 
 Enter Novgorod, leading in his ivife, pale, in black. 
 
 Nov. Compose yourself, madame, and remember who you are ; 
 if not for your own sake, at least for mine. I tell you it was 
 a trick of your overheated imagination. 
 
 Oliv. No. I repeat to you that it was her voice, — the voice, 
 as well as the features, of my dead sister, Thecla. 
 
 Nov. Nonsense. I warned you beforehand of the extra- 
 ordinary likeness existing between the actress and the late 
 Countess of Thurenau. 
 
 Oliv. But it was not alone the likeness, though that chilled 
 my veins. Her hand was cold, and held mine long in hers. 
 
 Nov. What 's this I hear ? Have we come to this ? Did the 
 low player dare contaminate the hand of the Princess of Nov- 
 gorod ? And you permitted it ? 
 
 Oliv. I tell you it is either Thecla or her ghost returned to 
 earth. 
 
 Nov. Your brain wanders. Once more, compose yourself, or 
 people will be asking the cause of your emotion. Kemember, 
 too, that, as happily she 's dead, no one need know that she was 
 united to us by ties of blood. Both Voltaire and Laroque have 
 promised to be silent. 
 
 Oliv. Yet, husband, admit for an instant that it might be 
 she. Could Thecla return to life — 
 
 Nov. I tell you she cannot. Her ashes moulder in the family 
 resting-place of Herfland ; a decent monument recites her virtues 
 and her early death. In natural course, we inherited from her, 
 very right and proper, and so there 's an end. Peace be with 
 her soul. 
 
 Oliv. Yet my mind misgives me. 
 
 Nov. Obey my will. Would you wish to share the slur 
 upon her name ? Would you desire hers always to be united 
 
DESPITE THE WOKU}. 49 
 
 publicly to yours — to mine? Compose yourself, I say, and hold 
 your peace. [She boivs her head. 
 
 Oliv. Be it as you will. 
 
 Erf. And he, too, is smitten with the actress. Certainly the 
 superb Count Julian is unlucky in his loves. 
 
 Ditch. Did we not hear rumours of something romantic 
 long ago between him and your hair -brained Countess of 
 Thurenau ? 
 
 Erf. Yes. He grieved deeply for her death, accused himself 
 of murder, attired himself in black, and swore to remain faithful 
 to her memory. 
 
 Mad. de P. I hate that Countess of Thurenau ! 
 
 Duch. You never saw her, dear. 
 
 Mad. de P. No matter, my love. How exasperating are 
 these Spaniards with their romance. Faithful to a shade ! 
 
 Duch. There 's no such powerful rival as the dead. 
 
 Mad. de P. And such a shade ! Absurd ! A sort of cour- 
 tesan of high degree decked out with poetry, like gingerbread 
 gilded for a fair. 
 
 Nov. (aside to Olivia). You hear them ? 
 
 Erf. Hush. That lady there in black is the Princess of 
 Novgorod. 
 
 Nov. They observe us, Princess ; be calm, and raise your 
 head. 
 
 Erf. Her sister, but one of a much nobler stamp. 
 
 Duch. Whose sister? 
 
 Erf. Hush ! The Countess* Thecla's. Let us change the 
 subject. 
 
 Mad. de P. I am not obliged to know it. 
 
 Duch. Nor I. And such an odious woman, too ! 
 
 Erf. But, ladies, think of me. 
 
 Mad. de P. You need not see her. Look the other way. 
 I should dearly like to wound this overpowering pride. 
 
 Duch. And so should I. (Aloud.) About this said departed 
 Lady Thecla, rumour whispered the most marvellous things. 
 There were really the most improper stories — quite dreadful- 
 such as I could not possibly repeat. 
 
 Mad. de P. Easily led astray, they say, poor thing. But 
 then she was half-witted, and should have been shut up. What- 
 ever her family were about, I can't think. Perhaps her sister 
 was no better than she. 
 
 Duch. There you 're wrong, dear — really too severe. I 'm 
 told the sister was a perfect stone, while the Lady Thecla — well, 
 was quite the contrary. Hid her vices under a mask of poetry. 
 Eveiything 's permitted to genius. Don't you wish you were a 
 genius, dear? 
 
 H 
 
50 DESPITE THE WOELD. 
 
 Enter Thecla, masked and dressed as a fortune-teller, on 
 LaroquE's arm. 
 
 Thec. {pauses and overhears conversation a short while). She 
 listens, impassive and indifferent ! without one word for the 
 sister who is gone ! 
 
 Mad. de P. [turning to Novgorod). By-the-bye, Prince, you 
 have been ambassador at Berlin. Did you know her 1 
 
 Nov. Who? 
 
 Mad. de P. The Countess of Thiirenau. 
 
 Nov. (confused, looking at Olivia and Laroqtje). Ahem ! 
 Certainly not, madame. The Prince of Novgorod knows no 
 ladies of questionable reputation. 
 
 Duch. Indeed. Most exemplary. I congratulate you, Prince. 
 
 Thec. (restraining herself no more, and coming impetuously 
 forward). Princess of Novgorod, defend your sister's name from 
 calumny. 
 
 Mad. de P. (feigning surprise). Her sister ! 
 
 Lar. (uneasily). The dignity of my position forbids that I should 
 compromise myself. I smell rats and spiders in the wind ! [Exit. 
 
 Thec. Princess, have you nothing in answer to these bitter 
 tongues ? 
 
 Oliv. (surprised, then coldly). I may pity her fate, but I may 
 not defend her. 
 
 Thec. 'Tis she who speaks ! 
 
 Duch. Really, Prince — too distress'd, I 'm sure. 
 
 [They rise from card-table. 
 
 Mad. de P. Truly grieved that we — 
 
 Nov. (embarrassed). Ladies, say no more. My opinion of her 
 was always the same as yours. One who can drag an ancestral 
 title in the dust is worthy of odium and contempt. Thecla von 
 Thiirenau was no relation of mine, was no longer the sister of 
 my wife ; for we had both denied and cast her oif. Was it not 
 so ? — answer, Olivia. 
 
 Oliv. (after a pause, in a broken voice). Yes ! 
 
 Thec. (aside). Oh, degraded souls ! steeped in the slime of 
 utter selfishness ! (Aloud.) Did not this lost one at the point 
 of death bequeath to you her splendid revenues 1 You did not 
 then, I think, deny the ties of blood 1 
 
 Nov. Who are you who, concealed beneath a mask, dare thus 
 to speak to me 1 
 
 Thec. (in anger and emotion). Who am 1 1 I — 
 
 Nov. Who? 
 
 Voltaire enters behind, and lays his hand on her arm. 
 Vol. Mademoiselle Fides, of the Comedie Franchise. 
 Erf. The great actress ! 
 
DESPITE THE WOULD. 51 
 
 Nov. The vile player ! — sprung from some prison spawn. 
 Ha ! ha ! I was wrong to be incensed, though it 's strange that such 
 creatures are admitted here ! You may, if you will, recite to my 
 scullions in the kitchen to-morrow. It will amuse them, and you 
 shall be well paid. 
 
 Vol. (aside). My child — patience — have a care. 
 
 Thec. Never fear, old friend. Yes, Prince of Novgorod, I am 
 the player, present here by His Majesty's desire. We both are 
 players, you and I. But you are always tricked out and painted 
 for the boards, whilst I act only at night. The part you play 
 is ever the same — false, hypocritical, woven in untruth ; baser 
 than prison spawn, in that your god has always been yourself. 
 
 Nov. Were you not a woman, I 'd have you whipped at the 
 cart's tail for this — 
 
 Thec. Insolent ! 
 
 Vol. Prince, you forget yourself. 
 
 Nov. Aye, whipped ! In the public market-place, as warning 
 to her fellows ! 
 
 [Raises his glove to strike her, Julian enters, comes 
 down between them, and takes glove from his hand. 
 
 Nov. Count of Toledo ! 
 
 Thec. {aside, in joy). He ! at last ! 
 
 Duch. This is amusing ; quite an impromptu play. 
 
 Mad. de P. The Puritan Spaniard can warm, it seems, though 
 marble to me. This woman's impudence is past belief. 
 
 Nov. I have been publicly insulted by one who is admitted here 
 on sufferance. Public shall her punishment be. I '11 see to it. 
 
 Jul. You will do nothing of the kind. 
 
 Nov. And who will prevent me, pray ? 
 
 Jul. I. 
 
 Nov. You ? Make common cause with this low scum ! and 
 against me, Prince of Novgorod ? You, a Spanish nobleman ] 
 
 Jul. I know not your cause of quarrel nor wish to be in- 
 formed. I perceived a glove raised by a man against a woman, 
 an act not worthy of praise even though she be a defenceless 
 player ; and as a man I saw my duty and did it, that is all. 
 
 Vol. This fellow almost reconciles me to my kind. 
 
 Nov. Beware, young sir. If you defend, you divide with her 
 the insult. 
 
 Jul. As you please. Permit me to return your glove. 
 
 Mad. de P. He warms into life. His cheek is flushed. I 
 feel I hate this woman. 
 
 Nov. Our official rank, sir, forbids a scandal. You shall 
 answer for this insult before the King. Princess, your hand. 
 
 [They are going out, when Thecla intercepts, and says 
 aside to Olivia. 
 
52 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 Thec. Your idol is as insatiable as pitiless. You will 
 sacrifice on its altar family and friends. 
 
 Oliv. (starts). Ha ! (Coldly.) Woman, let me pass. 
 
 [Exit Prince and Princess of Novgorod. 
 
 Erf. (to Madame de Pierrefitte). Did you remark ] She 
 withered her with a gorgon look. 
 
 Mad. de P. I go to take my seat for the recital, or I shall 
 lose favour with the Pompadour, and that means disgrace and 
 frowns from His Majesty the King. 
 
 Duch. And I follow your example, though, after this excite- 
 ment, she 's sure to have a fit, and I 'm tired of them. Come. 
 
 Mad. de P. Count Julian, are you with us 1 No ! You wish 
 your fortune told 1 
 
 Duch. (aside). Count, you are brave. May your quarrel not 
 embroil you with His Majesty ; but Russia is powerful, and 
 France on the eve of war with Frederick. Believe me, it were 
 wise to be well with the King's favourite. Fides is her dearest 
 friend. She may arrange it for you. Take my advice. 
 
 Mad. de P. Come, dear Duchess. He loves this upstart. 
 She had best not measure blades with me. 
 
 [Exeunt Mad. de P., Duchess, and Erfurt. 
 
 Vol. Is it safe to leave them alone together 1 (Thecla motions 
 him away.) Well, well. Have your will. It's no affair of mine. 
 I am with you, ladies. [Exit. 
 
 Thec. Count, receive my thanks. You have not defended a 
 dishonourable cause. The day may come when I can tell you 
 more. And now, farewell ; you have my gratitude. 
 
 [Fausse sortie. 
 
 Jul. Stay ! one instant ! Though you owe me nothing, yet I 
 have a favour to beg. Your voice echoes far into the caverns of 
 the past, sadly stirring the dry leaves of an imperishable sorrow. 
 Eaise for me that mask a moment. I have seen your face at a 
 distance on the stage. I know your name. I would look upon 
 you, and hear it from your lips. 
 
 Thec. An idle wish. (Takes off mask ;* then, simply,) They 
 call me Fides. 
 
 Jul. How passing strange ! The same — yet, no. There is a 
 veil of melancholy and deep-ploughed lines of suffering that 
 other face, thank God, never wore. No, you are not the same. 
 
 Thec. (gaily, with curtsey). I am a humble fortune-teller ; 
 shall I tell you yours, my fine signior 1 
 
 Jul. Whence would you draw your horoscope ? 
 
 Thec. From the past. 
 
 Jul. What know you of the past 1 
 
 * She need not put it on again. 
 
DESPITE THE WORLD. 53 
 
 Thec. Now you ask too much. Trust in the power of an 
 ever-watchful spirit, hovering round and spying out your ways. 
 
 Jul. That you say lightly is a truth to me. For five years 
 I 've felt that there 's, indeed, a spirit watching over me, whose 
 mysterious presence wraps me round. 
 
 Thec. {smiling). We each have a guardian angel. So, at 
 least, the poets tell us. 
 
 Jul. For five years I 've sought in vain. But a still voice 
 tells me now the spirit's near at hand. 
 
 Thec. (in mock tragic tones). And what gorgeous fretted 
 palace-roof covers this intangible existence ? 
 
 Jul. The painted canvas vault of the Com6die Frangaise. 
 
 Thec. A strange lodging ; but angels, they say, can perch any- 
 where. And by what name 's your spirit called 1 
 
 Jul. By a sweet name, as mystic as her nature, as harmonious 
 as her voice. Her name is Faith ; though why or how she 
 works this charm is a mystery to me. Do you know her, lady 1 
 
 Thec. Yes. But, like you, I fail to see how an angel in the 
 guise of a poor actress- 1 
 
 Jul. Listen. By a favour which myself I should never have 
 had the ambition to seek, — commissioned, too, by a minister who 
 loves me not, — I was despatched a short time since on a special 
 embassy to Paris. Arrived in France, I found a corrupt Court at 
 the feet of a shameless courtesan. Not caring to conceal my 
 contempt alike for court and favourite, I hurled my scorn 
 at both. Hourly I waited for my passports, supposing I 
 should be desired to leave ; instead of which the Pompadour 
 wrote to Spain, begging that I might be confirmed as plenipo- 
 tentiary to France. Who interests the Pompadour in me in 
 spite of my contempt 1 All this was strange. Finally, a few 
 days back, I received a card, which bore the words, " Come to 
 the Comedie Frangaise," written in characters similar to many 
 letters from time to time received — letters which spoke to me 
 in accents of help and comfort that seemed to whisper from 
 beyond the grave. I have an unknown protectress, a tender 
 counsellor, but where 1 I went to the theatre ; you were on the 
 stage, playing the character of a high-souled woman misjudged 
 through circumstances. 
 
 Thec. Wild phantasy. None of this points to me as your 
 mysterious spirit. 
 
 Jul. There, before a thousand eyes that knew it not, took 
 place a wondrous prodigy. There was the woman that I loved — - 
 whose untimely death has been the gnawing sorrow of my later 
 life. No, not glamour. It seemed sober truth. By what magic 
 did the tomb yawn before my sight 1 exposing a world long 
 vanished and forgot, in the midst of which she moved — she 
 
54 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 who, till too late, I never understood, — who died, perchance, for 
 me — whom I loved with a man's despotic love, whom I love yet 
 — the more that she was wrested from me. {These broken sentences 
 must be spoken very fast.) [Music as in other Tableaux. 
 
 Thec. (in increasing agitation). Thanks, thanks, Heaven ! 
 Now I am repaid ! 
 
 Jul. I saw her yet again, purified by the pale corpse-lights of 
 the hidden world. From my shadowed comer I hung upon your 
 every movement, drank in your every smile. You brought back 
 the past to me in a hallowed present of diminished grief. In 
 you the irrevocable exists no more, for the relentless grave gives 
 up its dead. Fides ! see me kneel and bow myself in the dread 
 presence of a hope renewed. [Music. 
 
 Thec. (aside.) Can he speak truth, who proved so unstable in 
 his faith 1 ? (Aloud.) No. Your thoughts but linger round the 
 vanished dead, flecking with the sun of your own life that which 
 is past and gone. You see in me but the portrait of another. 
 No, Count ; the low-born player might believe and hope who is 
 but mortal like the rest. Where would the future of the poor 
 actress be, if time taught you to see in her nothing but a mask ] 
 No ; there are griefs we can bear but once and live. In pity 
 pursue me not. Pass on your way — be merciful ! [Music. 
 
 Jul. Then 'tis indeed true 1 Your heart beats wildly as does 
 mine ! Your blood flows surging in your veins like mine ! You 
 burn with the same fever as devours me ! You love me, Fides ! 
 I knew it. Oh, speak the words ! 
 
 Thec. If such could be, I would exact the same deep love 
 you gave to her who 's dead. Valued for myself alone I should 
 yet be jealous of these memories. Your imagination sees me 
 other than I really am. If you in truth so long have mourned, 
 best trim the cherished flames and sit by them. [Music. 
 
 Enter Laeoque. 
 
 Lae. Where 's Mademoiselle Fides 1 Quick. As you respect 
 my office, delay no more. The symphony 's begun ; the Court 
 all expectation. 
 
 Thec. I come. (To Julian.) Destiny has cut our speech. 
 Are we to knit it up again ? 
 
 Jul. Yes ! at any cost. Were I to follow you to your home — 
 
 Thec. Enough. You will receive a token from me presently. 
 (Mad. de P. appears at back, b. " A token ! Ah ! " and dis- 
 appears.) See you interpret it aright. 
 
 Lar. (at door). Mademoiselle Fides ! 
 
 Thec. I come ! Between the acts meet me here again. Then 
 — who knows what the angel may ordain 1 I may say to you, 
 " Julian, the flower of literature and art in France await me there. 
 
DESPITE THE WORLD. 55 
 
 The King, the Court, cultivated minds from many lands — more, 
 the author of the play, Voltaire. I shall be stunned with 
 plaudits, overwhelmed with wreaths and garlands. Yet for 
 love of you am I prepared to break with all. I will leave 
 my brilliant future for your sake. Together we will wander 
 into a new world, and commence our lives afresh." Thus may 
 I speak. 
 
 Jul. Casting the die of certain happiness. 
 
 Thec. Take heed that you can trust yourself. It may yet be, 
 alas ! that for myself you love me not. I bear the form of another 
 sanctified to you by death. How know you that my soul speaks 
 the same langixage as my face % 
 
 Lar. (at door). They wax impatient. For the love of Heaven, 
 mademoiselle ! 
 
 Thec. I come ! I come ! Till then adieu. 
 
 [She withdraws her hand from him, and exit with 
 Laroque. 
 
 Jul. What is this siren who has spun her web about my 
 limbs % Thecla ! she wears thy lineaments ; I seek to trace thy 
 soul in her ! Forgive if now thou lookest down on me ! The 
 past lies here (hand on breast), and may never be effaced. 
 
 [Exit slowly after Thecla. 
 Enter Madame de Pierrefitte at back r., with a fan in 
 her hand. 
 
 Mad. de P. Gone ! And he who vaunts so high his purity 
 falls conquered by this Dalllah of the boards. Oh, man ! man ! 
 So has it ever been in the history of the world. Invincible to 
 rude assaults. A bright eye suffused with tears, an ivory shoulder 
 cunningly displayed, and you succumb, weighed down with 
 chains of imitation gold ! 
 
 Voltaire enters. 
 
 Vol. Heigho ! I am fatigued. It is like bran in the mouth 
 to hear people laugh at one's own jokes. Let others feed their 
 ears, I '11 e'en recruit my body with sleep. Ah ! The Queen 
 Regnant of the college of spite hatching some new mischief, I '11 
 be bound. What a pity we can't seize the hive, and plunge it 
 fathoms deep beneath the sea ! But then might the age of 
 Eeason dawn, and we're not ripe for it. (Aloud.) Alone, 
 madame, while the great actress declaims my favourite lines 1 
 A poor compliment to both of us.* 
 
 Mad. de P. I am not well, or etiquette would force me to be 
 
 there. Besides, the Pompadour gave me her fan to change, and I 
 
 must do the errand. This, it appears, is a favourite one, adorned 
 
 with strange mottoes and cabalistic signs, too good for common 
 
 * Makes himself comfortable in an armchair. 
 
56 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 use. It should be of value, it 's so very ugly. And so you see 
 I 'm forced to play the Abigail. 
 
 Vol. You stoop preparing for a higher rise. I like to find 
 prudent brains behind a comely face; for we see so little of 
 ladies' faces now-a-days, that worship must hang on what 's con- 
 cealed beneath. 
 
 Mad. de P. M. de Voltaire, you are quite another man, or 
 are you merely laying traps for us 1 You've ceased telling us 
 unpleasant truths. You smile and hold your caustic tongue, 
 wearing a quaint festive aspect, like some bear combed and 
 bedizened for a show. 
 
 Vol. I admit I'm lost, and wander in a maze. We live in a 
 world of idiots, whose inane applause sends cold shudders down 
 my back, and of dames more bold and painted than the figure- 
 heads of ships. And yet I dare not rail, for I 've met just one 
 or two who must have fluttered among us from some better 
 sphere, shaking my faith in the scepticism of a life. When you 
 lose your anchorage, even to unbelief, you 're tossed and tumbled 
 in a sea of troubles. I 'm getting old. 
 
 Mad. de P. You 're in your dotage, and this player girl will 
 revenge us on you yet. (He places handkerchief over his face.) 
 Aha ! How sweet 'twill be to gibe at you when you gravely 
 air a lowborn wife in the alleys of the park, surrounded by 
 a crowd of baby cynics, more corkscrew-visaged than you are 
 yourself. 
 
 Vol. (under handkerchief). Don't! The picture's harrowing 
 in the extreme. 
 
 Mad. de P. (waving her fan over him). Awful retribution for 
 him who so long has scourged our poor little sins. 
 
 Vol. The buzzing of insects soothes to slumber ; but your 
 babble takes away my breath, and reminds me that I came here 
 for rest. 
 
 Mad. de P. While Fides speaks the verses of the great 
 Voltaire 1 
 
 Vol. (removing one corner of the handkerchief). It is not lively 
 to gaze on one's own plays. (Aside.) Wake me if you have 
 anything charitable to say. That will secure me a good sound 
 sleep. 
 
 [Replaces handkerchief over face. 
 
 Miter Servant with silver salver, on ivhich is a scrap of paper 
 and a faded rose. 
 Mad. de P. What 's this 1 " For the Count of Toledo, from 
 Mademoiselle Fides," written in her hand. A withered flower, a 
 musty love-token. Then they 've known each other long, these 
 modest love-birds ! I seem to recognize your face 1 
 
DESPITE THE WORLD. 57 
 
 Serv. Yes, madame. 'Twas thanks to your kindness I obtained 
 service in the palace. 
 
 Mad. de P. A withered flower ! Starting, no doubt, a stream 
 of pent-up remembrances ! [Aloud.) I remember well. I who 
 launched can aid in your career. The actress bade you give 
 him this. / bid you carry this instead. (Gives fan and takes 
 flower.) Eeturn when he shall enter presently. Fifty louis if 
 you do my will. One word, and the hand that raised can cast 
 you down. 
 
 Serv. Madame, you shall be obeyed. [Exit. 
 Vol. (withdrawing handkerchief). What's that? I was dozing 
 off. You spoke. Whose praises were you about to sing 1 
 (Applause ivithout.) Aha ! Fides is surpassing herself. Go on. 
 Clap your idle palms and bray forth your asinine approval. For 
 once you 're in the right. When I produced my finest works, 
 and they rose like this at me, I answered them with jeers. But 
 for her somehow there 's music in the stamping of their foolish 
 feet. I 'm getting contaminated with their mud. Yet interest 
 in another is not without its charm. There 's something plea- 
 sant You there, madame 1 I retract. I dreamed, and 
 
 dreams run contrary to sober truth. Bravo ! Clap on ! clap on ! 
 She deserves it all. As I 'm a living fool I must add my degene- 
 rate self to all this folly. Brava ! brava ! See the sheep run 
 where the bell-wether bleats. 
 
 [Is running out. Bumps against Duchess and 
 Erfurt, who enter. 
 Duch. M. de Voltaire ! 
 
 Vol. Pardon. Not my fault. Merely the instinct of the silly 
 sheep ! Brava ! [Runs out. 
 
 Erf. He 's demented ! 
 Duch. Is the man failing in his intellect 1 
 Mad. de P. No matter. More harmless now that she has 
 cut his claws. 
 
 Duch. The Baron has seen and thinks her wonderful. 
 Mad. de P. Did he weep 1 It 's etiquette to weep at a Court 
 performance. 
 Erf. Why so 1 
 
 Mad. de P. Because Fides once drew a tear — one precious 
 priceless pearly drop — from the eye of His Most Gracious Majesty; 
 and ever since the Court has deemed itself obliged to weep like 
 so many Niobes. They 've made of our two theatres two great 
 lakes, in which one might plunge and drown oneself. 
 
 Enter Julian. 
 
 Duch. Here 's Count Julian following the mode. See how 
 pensive and how sad he looks. His face in mourning, like his 
 
58 DESPITE THE WOBLD. 
 
 dress. Have you, too, been weeping, noble Count ? Then there 's 
 hope for you. We '11 make a courtier of you yet. 
 Mad. de P. The nameless gipsy has bewitched him. 
 
 Enter Servant, with fan on salver. 
 
 Jul. " For the Count of Toledo, from Mademoiselle Fides." 
 Give it me. The token she bade me interpret aright. May the 
 protecting spirit not desert me. A fan, covered with in- 
 scriptions. Strange ! What 's this one which seems expressly 
 turned to view. 
 
 " Unless a man can mount he ne'er will rise; 
 Timid, he '11 not win smiles from ladies' eyes. 
 Better to fall than brook the peasant's lot, 
 To live unnoticed and to die forgot." 
 A singular enigma — at variance with her speech just now ! 
 
 Duch. A present from Mademoiselle Fides ? You are highly 
 honoured, though a fan is hardly an appropriate gift to so valiant 
 a gentleman as Count Julian. 
 
 Mad. de P. A fan ! May I admire it ? 
 
 Jul. (abstracted). "Unless a man can mount he ne'er will 
 rise." How in Heaven's name can this apply to me 1 
 
 Mad. de P. In all wide France there is but one fan like this, 
 presented by His Majesty on her fete-day to the Pompadour. 
 
 Duch. True. It is the same. I recognize it. What can it 
 mean 1 ? 
 
 Jul. Ladies, you mistake. This present comes from Made- 
 moiselle Fides. 
 
 Mad. de P. And this fan as certainly belongs to the Marquise 
 de Pompadour. 
 
 Duch. Who, perhaps, sent it through Mademoiselle Fides for 
 sundry private reasons. May it not mean an interview 1 ? O, fie! 
 how deceitful is the world. (Laughs behind her fan.) 
 
 Mad. de P. What delicacy it shows in her. A mask cast 
 over the germs of an intrigue. (Laughs behind her fan.) 
 
 Jul. What do you mean 1 
 
 Duch. Hush ! You may trust us. We 're very discreet. Ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mad. de P. Let us congratulate you, Count, on your success. 
 
 Duch. And the new star, after all, but plays the confidant. 
 Ha, ha ! 
 
 Mad. de P. The great actress descends from her lofty pedestal. 
 Ha, ha ! 
 
 Jul. I call upon you to explain the meaning of your words. 
 
 {Applause within. 
 
 Erf. Ah ! Mademoiselle Fidss begins her second scene ! 
 
DESPITE THE WOULD. 59 
 
 Duch. Then let us go. We must not lose a syllable. Tis 
 the decree of fashion. 
 
 Mad. de P. Yes. Let us go. Oh, for shame, Count ! How 
 dreadfully deep ! Your secret 's safe with us. Come, Baron ; 
 lead the way. 
 
 Duch. So all this railing at the favourite was merely bluster. 
 
 Mad. de P. His contempt for our frivolity but idle wind. 
 
 Duch. Oh, fie ! A heaven-born diplomat ! 
 
 [Exeunt arm-in-arm, preceded by Erfurt. 
 
 Jul. What mean these nods and raisings of the brow 1 Fides 
 a pander to the Pompadour 1 Not possible. Yet how explain 
 the favourite's interest in me 1 Can so much guile lurk 'neath so 
 fair a front 1 Why speak of leaving the triumphs of the stage 1 
 Could she stoop to toy with my deep grief, whose voice was as 
 balm upon my wounds 1 And this fan, with its strange legend. 
 Alas ! a likeness in feature, nothing more. Forgive me, Thecla, 
 that I profaned thy memory. 
 
 [Sits at card-table, with back to the people on the stage, 
 and buries face in hands. He had better leave fan 
 on table. 
 
 Lar. {entering). Bravo ! bravissimo ! Nothing could go better. 
 The boxes are resplendent with lace and diamonds. Fides out- 
 shines herself. Bless her great genius. My prologue was not 
 ineffective. His Majesty deigned to smile on me. Inspector of 
 Ballets may lead to a yet higher post. 
 
 Enter Officer — to Laroque. Count Julian of Toledo % 
 
 Lar. {drags him to the door). You have not seen her 1 Miser- 
 able man, she 's glorious ! You can catch a glimpse through 
 here. 
 
 Jul. (raising his head). No. The spell is broken — the 
 image shattered. What strange delirium, that I should be so 
 deceived. Oh, Thecla, pardon me ! [Buries face. 
 
 Off. But I tell you I don't want to see the actress. I have 
 business with the Count of Toledo. 
 
 Lar. (pompously). Eh 1 I understand. I don't understand a 
 word. Not want to see the greatest actress of the age 1 Go, 
 miserable man ! There sits the one you seek. 
 
 Off. {tapping his shoulder). Count Julian of Toledo. From 
 the King. 
 
 Jul. My passports ! And an order to quit France instantly ! 
 Am I going mad 1 What new mystery 's this 1 
 
 Off. From Her Excellency the Marchioness of Pompadour. 
 
 [Gives paper. 
 
 Jul. (reads). "Count, what are you about? The Prince of 
 Novgorod is furious, and tells the King that you or he must go, 
 
60 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 Abrupt dismissal of an envoy means war. With every desire 
 to aid you, I knew not what to say when the vast numbers of 
 the Russian troops were laid before me. Our armies will start 
 shortly for Prussia, and the Czarina would be too powerful an 
 ally for Frederick. For the time you must be sacrificed. 
 On the first opportunity you shall be recalled. Farewell. 
 Antoinette de Pompadour." Mystery on mystery. Why 
 this never-ceasing interest, which asks for no return ; and 
 yet — the riddle of the fan ! 
 
 " Unless a man can mount he ne'er will rise ; 
 Timid, he '11 not win smiles from ladies' eyes." 
 Alas, alas ! It 's plain enough. 
 
 Off. A carriage waits without. My orders are to see you to 
 the frontier. 
 
 Jul. To go ! without a moment's delay. Surely I trace in 
 this the direct finger of Fate. I thank the King ; he saves me 
 from myself. One moment, sir, and I will follow you. {Writes 
 in note-booh, and tears out page.) M. Laroque ; a favour, ere I 
 go. Deliver for me this note to Mademoiselle Fidls. 
 
 [Applause without. 
 
 Lar. Hark ! the curtain 's down. You can yourself speak 
 with her. 
 
 Jul. No, no ! a thousand times ! Destiny has willed it other- 
 wise. I am ready, sir. [Exit, hurriedly, with Officer. 
 
 (Enter, at opposite door, Madame de Pierrefitte.) 
 
 Mad. de P. Where is the Count 1 Quick ! Banished, through 
 this jade's insolence. Oh, she shall repent it bitterly. 
 
 Lar. He went but now. See (runs to window), his carriage 
 drives away, surrounded by an armed escort. 
 
 Mad. de P. Gone ! Was he downcast, or did he go in wrath? 
 
 Lar. He left quietly, confiding to me this note for Mademoi- 
 selle Fides. 
 
 Mad. de P. For her! Ah ! (places hand on heart) but she 
 shall rue this day. (Aloud, recovering herself). A note; yes. 
 But he also bade me send her this, which, in his hurry, he forgot. 
 A token she will understand. (Gives rose; takes fan from table.) 
 Be discreet. Not a word ! [Exit. 
 
 Lar. Not a word ! May I lose my important post if 1 com- 
 prehend a syllable ! 
 
 (Enter Thecla.) 
 
 Thec. Not here 1 And yet I saw him leave his place. Oh ! 
 I am young again. This is more than Spring ; I feel as though 
 I had commenced Eternity ! His words have lightened my over- 
 burdened heart. 
 
DESPITE THE WORLD. 61 
 
 Lar. Madame, by Count Julian's bidding I was to give you 
 these. 
 
 Thec. My token, returned ; and some written lines ! Heaven ! 
 a presentiment of evil chills my joy ! 
 
 Lar. (who has been to the centre door, returns. Applause 
 without). Madame, the public calls for you. No wonder. You 
 really were sublime ! Hark ! they clamour for you, although the 
 act has not concluded. Come. 
 
 Thec. Let them wait. I am fatigued — have need of rest. 
 Go and announce as much. [Exit Laroque. 
 
 I dare not open it. As from Pandora's box, might not my happi- 
 ness take to flight] Courage! (Reads.) "You were right. 
 As you said, you wear the form of another, sanctified by death. 
 The face is there; the soul bears no resemblance. I remain 
 faithful to the memory of her who died for me. There yawns 
 a gulf between me and the confidant of Pompadour. Farewell !" 
 The confidant of Pompadour ! Mole that thou art! Could'st 
 thou not understand that it was for thy sake, that I might watch 
 o'er thee 1 Did not thy heart see through this shallow artifice 1 
 The poor flower that once thou cravedst, now dead and withered 
 is returned to me ! Was it in scorn or ignorance 1 " Faithful to 
 the memory of her who died for me." Oh, Julian ! Blind, blind ! 
 I am Thecla — Thecla herself alive, who loves thee still ! 
 
 [A pause. Music as in other Tableaux. 
 
 Enter Laroque. 
 
 Lar. Mademoiselle, they are impatient. Listen ! They will 
 tear up the seats. 
 
 Thec. Count Julian was here just now. Where did he go 1 
 Quick ! Speak ! 
 
 Lar. Count Julian ! Always Count Julian ! He is gone away. 
 Listen how the public stamp and shout ! I implore you, come ! 
 
 Thec. Gone ! Where 1 when 1 
 
 Lar. By order of the King— at the instance of the Prince of 
 Novgorod. Why, I know not. Oh, those poor seats ! If 
 obdurate to me, have pity, at least, on them. 
 
 Thec. Dismissed from Court, and I the innocent cause ] An 
 eoy u— war with Spain ! When may we meet again 1 Laroque 
 — q ick, run ! 
 
 Lar. Kun ! Yes ; to appease the angry multitude. Your 
 waywardness will bring my hairs with sorrow to the grave. 
 Though the position 's high, who 'd try to govern theatres ! [Exit. 
 
 Thec. Where has he gone 1 How to find him 1 The Pompa- 
 dour has retired to rest. 
 
 [Announcement without, " Make ivay there for the Prin- 
 cess of Novgorod." 
 
G2 DESPITE THE WOULD. 
 
 My sister ! She stands high in the world's respect. She 
 
 Enter Olivia. 
 
 Madame, one word. 
 
 Oliv. (coldly). What would Mademoiselle Fides with me 1 
 
 Thec. Oh, madame, help me ! The Count of Toledo has been 
 dismissed from Court on demand of the Prince, your husband. I 
 am the wretched cause. Should there be war with Spain, who 
 can tell when he may return 1 I have urgent need to speak 
 with him at once. The happiness of two lives hangs upon my 
 words. Thank me that you can help, at least, to blot out a 
 bitter wrong. 
 
 Oliv. The actress forgets her position and mine. I regret it, 
 but I cannot move in this. Count Julian publicly insulted my 
 lord, for which it is just that he should suffer. Let me pass. 
 
 Thec. But I tell you that I love this man. Help me to see 
 him. I conjure you, by your dead sister's memory. 
 
 Oliv. Nay, the amours of our tinselled queens of tragedy 
 can hardly interest the Princess of Novgorod. Let me pass, I 
 say, or I call the guard. 
 
 Thec. And can that name not stir your stony heart ! Do 
 you owe her nothing, this sister for whom you wear this mockery 
 of woe? I have been told that once, in a bitter strait, she 
 smilingly laid down her fair fame before the world for you. 
 You accepted the life sacrifice. The time has come. Once more 
 I charge you to repay the debt. 
 
 Oliv. Woman, you terrify me ! Who are you 1 Are you a 
 phantom risen from the tomb 1 
 
 Thec. She gave up more than life for you. In her name I 
 demand only that you forego a little pride ! Seek out your 
 husband ; down on your knees to him ; beg him, by his love for 
 you, to bear this shock upon his vanity. Do this, and you are 
 free. The debt is cancelled. 
 
 Oliv. Alas ! he loves me not. I have no influence with him. 
 His will is law to me. I bow and I obey. Besides, I could not 
 ask this of him. The world would gibe and curl its lips at us. 
 
 Thec. The world ! the world ! Oh, heart of adamant ! You 
 near the bottom of the precipice. Bemember the words of one 
 who is no more — whose warning returns from the groves of 
 eternal sleep : " When you shall stand in the solitude of death, 
 your God shall melt away, leaving you alone 'mid the curses of 
 your victims. And the first voice raised to denounce and to 
 upbraid will be the voice of the idol of your hands ! " 
 
 Oliv. {agitated). Who are you, I say, who dare to use such 
 words to me 1 My sister is dead. It is better that she should 
 be so. She disgraced her name and lineage- 
 
DESPITE THE WORLD. 63 
 
 Thec. (in violent indignation). As you've a soul to save, 'tis 
 false ! [Seizes her arm. 
 
 Oliv. Help, help ! 
 
 Thec. (flings her from her). Be not afraid. You 've nought 
 to fear from me. (Bitterly). The Countess Von Thurenau is 
 dead ; may her bones rest in peace ! Go on your thorny 
 way, and, if not yet too late, think of your sister's pro- 
 phecy. 
 
 Oliv. But tell me — 
 
 Thec. (pointing off). Go ! (Remains in an attitude of com- 
 mand till Olivia has slunk off, then sinks on a seat and sobs.) 
 She 's gone — she 's gone, to glide respected through the hollow- 
 world I learned early to despise. Heaven grant our paths may 
 never cross again. The player envies not her great estate. 
 But time moves on, bearing away my opportunity. My life has 
 shrunk into a shrivelled scroll. 
 
 Enter Voltaire. 
 
 Vol. How now, Thecla 1 
 
 Thec. Your hand has helped me when I needed strength; 
 you have encouraged me when sinking in despair. Oh ! aid me 
 now in my great extremity. 
 
 Vol. Why, child ! Pale and trembling, fresh from the 
 glories of your art ; flushed with a triumph well deserved. I 
 hoped to find you contented and serene. What 's this 1 A re- 
 action of spirits overstrained. Did I not warn you that it would 
 cost you tears of blood 1 
 
 Thec. No ; I am well. Well ! I spoke to him. He was here 
 just now. Unwittingly he told me that he loved me still, and 
 his wandering words spoke very truth. Oh ! Voltaire, the cup 
 I 've sought so long was at my lips. When I would have drank, 
 lo ! it was dashed from me. Dear friend, there 's treachery in 
 this. Fate unaided were not so relentless. My brain reels. I 
 feel I shall go mad. 
 
 Vol. Child, child ! What is this amazing mystery of 
 love, which sweeps reason headlong from her throne 1 ? One 
 by one you break down my patiently raised prejudices of 
 years. 
 
 Thec. I tell you that not half-an-hour ago he told me that he 
 loved me still. 
 
 Vol. Count Julian — 
 
 Thec. Is fled. I must speak with him. There 's agony we 
 cannot twice endure and live. One little word and all would be 
 set straight. Forgive my wayward speech, old friend, who 've 
 counselled me with a deep tenderness my dead father might have 
 
G-t DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 borne. Sole succour of my solitary life, desert me not in this 
 my darkest hour. [She clings to him. 
 
 Vol. This is the fever of a distempered mind. You are ill. 
 Your brain has been taxed too much. 
 
 Thec. The precious sand drips pitilessly on. I tell you I 
 must speak with him or I shall die. 
 
 Vol. So far gone as this? Well, well, your hand is cold, 
 your face on fire. There, he shall be found ; he cannot yet be 
 far, and I myself will be your courier. I cannot bring him back, 
 but you shall go with me. Oh ! prejudices of a life, that I 
 should sink to this — I, the high priest and patriarch of 
 Reason ! 
 
 Thec. Thanks, thanks. I knew you 'd not abandon me till I 
 flit past all mortal help. (She lays her head on his breast, having 
 risen from her seat.) Staun chest, truest friend. 
 
 Vol. And is it I who in my old age would play the benignant 
 fairy. Oh, Nemesis ! oh, Goddess of Folly ! What would my 
 grave disciples say if they could see me now ? 
 
 Thec. (still head on breast, but now coaxing him). You will 
 go at once. Never heed the night. Its breath is soft and warm 
 to strengthen man against the buffets of another bitter day. 
 There 's no time to be lost. Could I but tell him all I feel, I 
 should sink to sleep upon his breast in peace. 
 
 Vol. (in tears). Cease ! Speak not yet of sleep. Death is 
 for me, old useless trash that clogs the wheels of time. 
 Rocked by the zephyrs of success, all the world has to give 
 lies at your feet. Its sunniest rays play in your silken hair. 
 There, there ! You could always wind cross old Voltaire 
 round your dimpled baby finger. I'll do your errand. I will 
 seek him out, and you shall go with me to him. What is 
 this ? A tear ! Pooh, the rooms are hot ! Do you not feel 
 their overpowering warmth? (This irascibly.) I '11 speak to the 
 Pompadour about it. The ventilation is so very bad. 
 
 [Blows his nose violently. 
 
 Enter Laroqtte (applause without). 
 
 Lar. In the name of Heaven, do you not hear ? The act is 
 over now, and they insist on seeing you. Just hearken to their 
 rage ! They cry and stamp like fiends let loose. Madame, come 
 at once, or really there '11 be damage done. 
 
 Thec. What care I for their applause since he is there no 
 more? 
 
 Lar. (in agony). But I implore for my sake ! They will tear 
 up the seats. 
 
 Thec. Leave me in peace. Can you not see how deep my 
 suffering is ? 
 
DESPITE THE WORLD. 65 
 
 Lab. Oh, yes ! of course. You are fatigued, and I told them 
 so. But think of the public wrath. 
 
 Thec. Am I then a slave ] See ! I break my _ bonds 
 (throws off some portion of her head-dress). I reclaim my 
 sacred liberty — all that is left to me — a right to pine in solitude 
 and die. I act no more ! Away with these foolish trappings, 
 which insult my grief (tosses away bracelets, &c). These emblems 
 of a false god I spurn henceforth. Art is as empty as all other 
 things. An image fair, but as dumb and hollow as all in this 
 fickle world. I here renounce it. May it be accursed ! Voltaire, 
 I am strong. Let us go at once. 
 
 Lar. What a scandal 's here ! Does the dignity of my posi- 
 tion 
 
 Enter 2nd Officer, with soldiers. 
 
 Officer. Mademoiselle Fides, chief actress of the Comedie 
 Frangaise. For having failed in due respect to King and Court, 
 I am to conduct you at once to the prison of Fort L'^veque. 
 Follow me. 
 
 Lar. To the common prison ! Our great actress — the glory 
 of the artistic world 1 There must be some mistake. 
 
 Vol. To prison — you! (Clasps her in his arms.) Truly fate 
 is hard on us. Then you can't go with me. But these old 
 bones shall learn to fly and bring you news. 
 
 Thec. (leaning on him). No. The struggle 's past. The cruel 
 hand of destiny forbids that he and I should meet again on 
 earth. I see it written, and I bow my head. Grieve not for 
 me. I have tried to live. Have I not tried, Voltaire 1 A waste 
 of time and strength. I have only learned to die. (She clings 
 closely to him.) 
 
 Vol. We owe all this to that wind-bag of blatant pride, the 
 Prince of Novgorod. 
 
 Enter Madame de Pierrefitte. 
 
 Mad. de P. Not so. You owe this stroke to me. She dared, 
 a mere adventuress, forsooth, to measure arms with a high-born 
 lady of the Court. I said I 'd grind her to her true level in the 
 dust. I 've kept my word. Remove your prisoner ! 
 
 Vol. My faith in human wickedness begins to breathe again. 
 Trust one woman to hunt another to death ! [Curtain. 
 
66 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 Tableau IV. — Green Room, Comedie Francaise. 
 
 Pictures on tvalls, busts, clocks ; running obliquely on one side a 
 low passage, ivith trap in wall. 
 
 Enter Laroque and Martin. 
 
 Lar. I 'm worn out, bated and fussed past bearing. Though 'tis 
 no doubt a grand post, who would willingly be ballet inspector to 
 the King ? Talk of crowned heads and thorny pillows, indeed ; 
 it is nothing to the never-ending worry of our petty spites and 
 jealousies behind the scenes. Now just see how awkwardly I 'nx 
 placed. The performance to commence in half-an-hour ; the 
 theatre crowded with the flower of our gay capital ; His Majesty 
 (Heaven bless him !) will presently be here. And — hush — whisper, 
 lest we be overheard — it is possible I may find myself without a 
 heroine. 
 
 Mar. What ! No chief actress ! But Mademoiselle Clairon 
 came in just now, I saw her pass ; and Madame Dumesnil. 
 
 Lar. Both refuse to play the part because, forsooth, Fides 
 made it once her own. Oh, these women, these women ! I' ve 
 stormed, begged, supplicated, all in vain. I see that in the end 
 I shall be disgraced, hurled from my pedestal, return to black- 
 beetles and spiders, perchance ! I shiver at the thought ! Why 
 could I not leave theatres alone and be content with funerals ? 
 Of course you fail to understand. The case stands thus. Count 
 Julian returns to-day to Paris, by express order of the Pompadour, 
 though why, — but never mind that ; and, by way of delicate 
 compliment to him as poet, she has ordered, that ' Sappho ' shall 
 be played to-night. So far so good. But ' Sappho ' was the 
 sublimest creation of our poor Fides, and in her absence none of 
 her compeers dare undertake the character. Clairon shrugs her 
 dimpled shoulders, Dumesnil pouts and turns away. It's as 
 much as my place is worth to disobey the favourite ; yet we can't 
 give a tragedy with the chief character expunged. Was ever 
 luckless man in such a strait ! 
 
 Mar. Serious indeed. What do you propose to do ? 
 
 Lar. If Fides could only be induced — impossible — 1 Well, 
 well. In my difficulty I have fallen back upon a debutante — 
 chief pupil of the Conservatoire, who was not to have made her 
 bow for six months at least. But there's no help for it. A 
 Sappho of some kind we must have, and so I told the girl, in 
 spite of tears. She is to get through Sappho somehow, and 
 Heaven in mercy grant that she may not be hissed ! But you 
 bring news of Fides. When may she resume her work ? 
 
DESPITE THE WOKLD. 67 
 
 Mar. With rest and care within the year, perhaps — perhaps 
 never. 
 
 Lar. Dear doctor, what are you saying 1 
 
 Mar. The truth. (Lar. groans.) Her health, which has been 
 on the wane, has quite succumbed since that scandal at Versailles. 
 
 Lar. Absurd. She was detained barely through the night. 
 Early nest morning the Pompadour ordered her release. 
 
 Mar. True. Yet from that day her faculties have collapsed. 
 She sits for hours gazing on vacancy, listless and sad, as though 
 stunned by some violent shock. At the least sound she starts 
 and trembles. The wear and tear of her profession has proved 
 too much for her. 
 
 Lar. Tut, tut ! You exaggerate to show off your skill. Not 
 believing the case as bad as you report, I have written, urgently 
 requesting her presence here. 
 
 Mar. No use ; she will not come. At any rate I have given 
 my opinion ; the responsibility of action rests with you. [Exit. 
 
 Lar. Yes ! Everything falls on me ! Was ever luckless wretch 
 so harried and tormented. Ah, M. de Voltaire ! 
 
 Enter Voltaire. 
 
 I 'm at my wits' end. I wish that I was dead. 
 
 Vol. {laughing at him). Oh human nature ! thou maze of 
 contradictions ! How many thousands call on death and cling 
 to life the closer ! Why bear a burthen we would be tossing on 
 the ground 1 Is life so hard 1 Go buy a rope and hang yourself. 
 
 Lar. I tell you I shall be disgraced. 
 
 Vol. Oh sorrow worse than death ! What are your troubles 1 
 
 Lar. Without Fides I am lost. Is there no hope? (Vol- 
 taire shakes head.) 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. You are wanted, sir, upon the stage. 
 
 Lar. Yes, yes, I come. Who would be stage manager ! 
 
 [Exit, 
 Vol. Ha ! ha ! A whimsical world. One-half plays at love, 
 while the other devours its neighbours openly ! 
 
 Enter Thecla, pale and weak, who sinks into a chair. 
 
 Vol. You here, Thecla ? Risen but now from a bed of sick- 
 ness. How imprudent. 
 
 Thec. I am restless and feverish. Laroque sent for me, I 
 know not why, and I have come — (with bitter laugh) — I have 
 come to haunt the scenes of former triumphs, although I act no 
 more. That has glided into the past — the bitter past ! 
 
G8 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 Vol. Always brooding over what may never be recalled ! 
 You are still young and beautiful. Believe me, child. Turn 
 rather to the future. Sunshine cast on the ocean of the past 
 brings water to the eyes. 
 
 Thec. Sunshine. Yes. The sun shines on the grateful earth, 
 which springs to infinite life in thankfulness. What have I 
 done that the world should be wrapt in gloom for me 1 
 
 Vol. (puts hand on her head). Child, child ! who wert to have 
 been the solace of my age. Is not this strange ? I vow thou 
 art the more aged of the two, spite of my wrinkled cheeks and 
 shrunken limbs. Oh, Thecla, Thecla ! where is the art that was 
 to raise you above the world 1 Where is the friend who was to 
 soothe your every grief? Keturn to the healing goddess, and 
 seek comfort on her breast. 
 
 Thec. (sombre). There is no healing goddess but death ! My 
 art ! What has it done for me 1 It has procured me insult 
 before the man I love. It has showered tinsel flattery on me 
 from those who clap their hands, while they secretly despise me 
 as a mountebank. My art ! Another of the many frauds of 
 this false world. Your creed of nothingness is the true one, 
 Voltaire, though it terrified me once, and chilled my ardent 
 youth. (Very sombre). To sleep a dreamless sleep and be 
 forgot ! 
 
 Vol. We must have another doctor. Martin's drugs take no 
 effect. You are very ill. 
 
 Thec. Then is not this your creed ? 
 
 Vol. (confused). Yes, yes ; but it sounds scarcely fitting on 
 the lips of youth. Old Doctor Martin 
 
 Thec. Is like all the rest. He scans the surface ailments of 
 the body, nor dreams that the mind may have its fevers — more 
 terrible — beyond the reach of mortal pharmacy ! 
 
 Vol. Intermittent fever — of the mind ; for you vary strangely. 
 On some days you are almost yourself; on others you do naught 
 but call on death. 
 
 Thec. The flame of faith still burns within, lighting with 
 flickering spark the darkness of my soul ; and then the waves of 
 doubt surge over me, and all is black, without a ray of light. I 
 took the drugs that Martin ordered me, rather than pain the 
 kind old man, though the medicine which soothes my aching 
 heart lies here. 
 
 Vol. Martin says 
 
 Thec. That I am fading slowly away. Not so. I suffer from 
 excess of life — repressed, neglected, beaten down. (Draws out 
 letter.) See — this is his hand. " Our mysterious communion 
 becomes my first necessity. There is a depth of poetic passion in 
 your soul which gives me strength to bear. Happy the man 
 
DESPITE THE WOELD. 69 
 
 whom you shall bless with love. May we never meet 1 " (She 
 sighs.) Never more ! 
 
 Vol. Then you love him still. 
 
 Thec. Yes. My love is life to me. I cling to it as a ship- 
 wrecked mariner clings to the plank which shall bear him to a 
 haven. 
 
 Vol. Frail is the haven, and the waves beat cruelly. "Well, I 
 give the riddle up. The day that man was born, logic was mur- 
 dered. Perhaps we are both right, or perhaps but a pair of 
 fools. 
 
 Thec. (meditating sombrely). To sleep and be forgot. To 
 fight our puny fight, then crumble into dust intangible ! No, 
 Voltaire. It were too cruel. 'Tis a false creed. Love shines 
 on us from a world beyond the stars, and points to his brother, 
 Faith. He teaches that we are immortal through his own im- 
 mortality. You, who are blind to Love, can you not discern the 
 majesty of Death? As the sun sinks into the sea to rise on 
 other climes, so is the journey of the soul into the regions of 
 eternity. Woe to the man who knows not Love, for to him shall 
 his angel brother veil his face. 
 
 Vol. Meanwhile, this love of which you speak has made a 
 wreck of you. Five short years ago, who so gay as the Countess 
 Thecla 1 Bright in the glitter of youth and talent, you spurned 
 the world which lay prostrate at your feet. Then came the 
 shadowy visitant, and you fell bowed and broken, crushed by 
 those awful shades. You took refuge in a mimic world, illu- 
 mined by the divine halo of art. Keturn to it, Thecla. In the 
 splendour of your triumphs you will find, if not peace, at least 
 forgetfulness. 
 
 Thec. My art proved as unstable as all here below. I have 
 abandoned it for ever. 
 
 Enter Laroque and Martin. 
 
 Lar. What do I hear ? Mademoiselle Fides, if you have any 
 mercy, withdraw those words. You have obeyed my summons. 
 Thanks. Mademoiselle, have pity on a frantic manager, 
 whom everybody unites to drive stark mad. Since you retired 
 from the stage, I have not known a moment's peace. The tide 
 of mean jealousy and spite, which your genius helped to stem, 
 has broken loose, and the place is a Pandemonium. All the 
 ladies claim the same part, and will have it, or they won't act at 
 all. At one moment they are not on speaking terms, and rehearse 
 through the medium of interpreters ; at another, they rave and 
 wrangle, and threaten one another's hair and cheeks. Come, 
 when will you return to us 1 Name your own conditions. 
 
 Thec. If I wished it, doctor, when could I act again ? 
 
70 DESPITE THE WOELD. 
 
 Mar. In your present state of weakness, through which, with 
 care, we hope to bring you safely 
 
 Thec. Well? 
 
 Mar. Just now, violent emotion might prove fatal to you. In 
 six months we shall be more fit to judge. 
 
 Thec. You see, Laroque, I could not help you, even if I 
 would. But, as I wrote to you, build no hopes on me. I tell 
 you, finally, that I shall act no more. 
 
 Lar. Then I shall certainly revisit that prison cell. Ugh ! 
 
 Mar. Now, madame, a word of advice. Lengthened con- 
 versation is injurious to you. It is late. Your carriage waits 
 below. Let me conduct you home. 
 
 Thec. You are right. My head swims. Dear friend, give 
 me your hand. Thanks. I am better now. 
 
 [They place her in chair. 
 
 Vol. Well? 
 
 Mar. (feeling pulse). No cause for alarm ; though her pulse 
 beats feebly. 
 
 Enter Erfurt. 
 
 Erf. Good evening, gentlemen. The house is crammed. Are 
 you ready to begin 1 [Thecla places hands before her eyes. 
 
 Vol. What ails you 1 
 
 Thec. Nothing. 'Tis over. He brings a breath from the 
 outer world, which I once pretended to despise, but now have 
 learned to hate. 
 
 Erf. What ! Mademoiselle Fides 1 This is a joyful surprise 
 indeed ! Do you act to night 1 
 
 Lar. Alas ! no. (Aside). Mouldy bread and spiders. Ugh ! 
 
 Erf. No 1 Ah, well ! Next week, perhaps 1 No 1 Then the 
 week after. The most dreadful rumours have been afloat con- 
 cerning you. We have been positively in despair. 
 
 Vol. Has the Court energy for so violent an emotion 1 
 
 Erf. You wrong the Court, which is a heaven on earth. We 
 dance and sing, knowing that there 's naught beyond the grave. 
 Such balls ! — such picnics in the park ! Madame de Pierre- 
 fitte 
 
 Thec. (rousing her). Aye — what of her 1 
 
 Erf. She's the centre and mainspring of our festivity — a 
 very Euphrosyne ! She expressed the deepest sorrow at your 
 illness, madame. Indeed, we were told by her that you had 
 caught the small-pox in prison and were dying. " I shall never 
 forgive myself," she repeated frequently, "if, through my means, 
 the stage is robbed of its fairest ornament." 
 
 Vol. Oh, woman, woman ! 
 
 Thec. (grinding teeth). Did she say so — the viper ! 
 
DESPITE THE WOELD. 71 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. This letter has just been left for Mademoiselle 
 Fides. 
 
 Thec. A letter ! — give it me. 
 
 Mar. Take it, M. de Voltaire. At present she 's not fit to 
 read. 
 
 Thec. Give it me, I say. (Rises, and falls bach into seat.) 
 From him — I knew it — I felt it here. 
 
 Mar. I cannot authorize this. I declare 
 
 Thec. That I am too weak to read it 1 (Smiling.) How vain 
 a thing is the boasted science of man! (Reads.) "I feel that 
 I must see you once again. I acted hastily. May I not have 
 misread your message 1 Yet, no — the chapter of my life was 
 closed five years ago, and to the end I am condemned to wander 
 on alone. Though faithful to my vows, yet must I gaze once 
 more upon your face, which is to me a vision of the dead. I 
 shall be in Paris for a single night on the 7th of October, and 
 will attend the theatre in hopes of seeing you. I shall mark the 
 genius shining from your eyes, shall wave you a farewell, and 
 then we meet upon this earth no more. — Julian." What day 
 of the month is this 1 
 
 Lar. The 7th of October. 
 
 Thec. To-night ! What piece is played 1 
 
 Lar. ' Sappho,' by express order of the Pompadour. 
 
 Thec. Sappho — my part — who plays it ? 
 
 Lar. Alas ! one who will certainly be hissed, and who is in 
 tears at the prospect in her "dressing-room. 
 
 Thec. Doctor, I have often assured you your science wa3 
 vain. I will prove it to you. 
 
 Mar. How? 
 
 Thec. You said that in six months I might possibly return to 
 the stage. 
 
 Mar. I repeat it. 
 
 Thec. And I say that you are wrong. I shall act to-night. 
 
 Mar. Impossible ! 
 
 Lar. What ! Can I believe my ears ] 
 
 Thec. Laroque, I must play Sappho to-night. On this one 
 condition I return to you. (Aside.) I will crush her with my 
 art, and he shall be mine yet. 
 
 Mar. This imprudence may cost your life. My conscience 
 bids me prevent 
 
 Thec. Prevent me ! Try ! 
 
 Vol. (to whom she had handed the letter). But can you do it 1 ? 
 Will your strength hold out 1 
 
 Thec. I can, because I will. 
 
72 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 Lar. I dance on air. There's not a moment to lose. Go 
 and dress. Angel of comfort — spirit of poetry — go, while I 
 present myself before the house, and announce the glorious 
 news. 
 
 Mar. I most solemnly protest 
 
 Thec. See, I am strong ; come with me. 
 
 [Exit with Doctor ; Laroque supports her out, then 
 comes down. 
 
 Lar. " On her fair brow Minerva's wisdom sits ; 
 
 Her hair, like Venus' own, is glittering bright." 
 But hold ! Take care, Laroque. No more odes : they 're dan- 
 gerous. Yet I 'm too gay for elegies. Was there ever such a 
 piece of luck 1 The Pompadour will be delighted — the sun of 
 royalty will shine on me. But let me fly to announce the sur- 
 prise we have in store. [Exit. 
 
 Vol. What courage — what an iron will set in a form how 
 frail ! 
 
 Erf. (looking about). And so this is the celebrated green-room 
 of the Comedie Frangaise. Art has here a gorgeous temple, 
 worthy of the noble priesthood who inhabit it. Portraits of 
 artists who live on a strip of canvas, and whose memory shall 
 endure for ages when their bodies are dust, and their genius fled 
 with their souls into oblivion. A strange thought that, M. de 
 Voltaire — that a few inches of flaxen fibre should be more 
 enduring than the supreme triumph of creation, the human 
 soul. 
 
 Vol. The world is made up of paradoxes, young man, and this 
 is one of them. Tell me more of the doings of the Court. How 
 I hate it and its ingratitude ! Would you believe it, they have 
 set up Crebillon against me, and swear my tragedies are nothing 
 to the soapsuds in his 'Catiline.' Oh, what an evil thing is man ; 
 how well that he lives not beyond the grave ! I am half- 
 persuaded to withdraw and live a hermit's life, write panegyrics 
 on imaginary virtue, and instruct the bucolic mind on human 
 vanity. But the Court would gladly see me go, and so I stay. 
 The Russian Ambassador gave a ball last night 1 
 
 Erf. Yes, and the Princess of Novgorod was resplendent with 
 icy sparkle. His Majesty led her through a dance, and swore 
 she froze his fingers to the bone. Such rarefied virtue is too 
 intense for our nether world. 
 
 Vol. So will it ever be. The gaudy weed spreads its flaunt- 
 ing petals to the air, while the healing herb shrouds its powers 
 for good deep down among its leaves. And silly man — how 
 blind! — grinds the second under foot, and decks with the first 
 the tresses of the fair ! 
 
DESPITE THE WORLD. 73 
 
 Enter Laroque. 
 
 Lar. I 've made the announcement, and never was there such 
 enthusiasm. The Pompadour will certainly pay me handsomely 
 for this. I've told the girl upstairs, too, of her reprieve, and 
 her tears have ceased to flow. All goes as merrily as a chime of 
 bells. 
 
 Erf. Then I go to take my place. Master, good night. (Kisses 
 Voltaire's hand.) M. Laroque, I congratulate you. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 Serv. The Duke of Orno sends to say he must have a seat at 
 any price. 
 
 Lar. There are none left. 
 
 Serv. His grace says that box No. 15 is still unoccupied. 
 
 Lar. It is taken. 
 
 Serv. He would know by whom. 
 
 Lar. By a messenger from the Spanish Embassy. 
 
 [Exit Servant. 
 Enter 2nd Servant. 
 
 2nd Serv. M. Diderot and the German Ambassador request 
 seats upon the stage. The Court being present, their absence, 
 they say, might be remarked. 
 
 Lar. The seats on the stage are taken. As it is, the per- 
 formers will scarce have room to move. Good heavens ! Will 
 you leave me in peace 1 And now I go to await the arrival of 
 His Majesty. 
 
 Fausse sortie — Martin enters, and runs against him. 
 
 Mar. Stay, M. Laroque. Once more I tell you that Made- 
 moiselle Fides is not fit to act. She can scarcely stand — her 
 memory flickers — she is playing with her life. 
 
 Lar. But she says she is strong and well. 
 
 Mar. There is some secret motive for her strange behaviour. 
 Even now, while her tirewomen are busy with their task, her 
 head sinks upon her breast, and she starts from lethargy, mur- 
 muring through set teeth, "I can, because I will." I return to 
 my post, and warn you that I shall endeavour to take her home. 
 I shall do my duty — you do yours. [Exit. 
 
 Lar. My duty ! my duty ! It 's very fine talking, but after 
 the enthusiasm of just now, I dare not. What am I to do 1 Oh, 
 my poor head. M. de Voltaire, why do you say nothing ? Your 
 cynical smile will drive me quite distracted. 
 
 Vol. Never fear ; Fides will recite. When she says she will, 
 you may safely trust in her. See — here she is. 
 
 [Fides appears as Sappho — they help her down. 
 L 
 
74 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 Lar. How do you feel, my dearest friend ? Eest in this chair. 
 Would you like something — a glass of water with a little 
 cordial in it ? 
 
 Thec. Thanks, no. I am well. Quite well. A blessed calm 
 has settled on my breast. 
 
 Vol. Was not my counsel wise — to seek the soothing 
 goddess, Art. But do not overtax your strength. The doctor 
 said 
 
 Thec. That I was feverish, though I told him my spirit 
 was at peace. Poor human science ! Feverish — yes ! What 
 actor but burns with fever whilst portraying the immortal woes 
 made sacred through the genius of our poets? What is our 
 enthusiasm but fever 1 The fever of Art — the fever of creation. 
 Do you think that I could rise to the last act of Sappho 
 were I not torn by passion — which is fever? Do you 
 think 
 
 Lar. We will think anything you please, if you will not 
 agitate yourself. You require calm and rest. 
 
 Thec. You are right. See how obedient I am, and in what 
 perfect peace ! (Coaxing him.) Come here, Laroque. Sit on 
 this stool beside me. Tell me — who is there in the house ? 
 
 Lar. Who ? Two thousand people, at least. 
 
 Thec. (impatient). Yes, yes. That is not what I ask. Who 
 is there — of importance ? 
 
 Lar. The whole flower of the Court. The King (Heaven bless 
 him !) will presently be here. 
 
 Thec. No, no. I mean not him. 
 
 Lar, Oh ! Among the literary world 
 
 [All this time Voltaire is sitting by, laughing. 
 
 Thec. Well? 
 
 Lar. There 's Crebillon, and Holbach 
 
 Thec. (pettishly). I care not for them. 
 
 Lar. An illustrious stranger arrived last night. He, too, will 
 honour us. 
 
 Thec. (joyously). Yes ? His name ? 
 
 Lar. His Majesty's father-in-law — King Stanislas of Poland. 
 
 Thec. (relapsing). What are kings to me ? No one else ? 
 
 Lar. No one. 
 
 Thec. Thank you, Laroque. 
 
 Vol. My child, are you certain of your memory ? Were it 
 not prudent to study your part awhile ? 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. Sir, you are wanted on the stage. 
 
 Lar. I come. They never give me a moment's peace. 
 
 [Exit with Servant. 
 
DESPITE THE WOELD. 75 
 
 Vol. Do you know, Thecla, that you have taught me some- 
 thing — me, the philosopher? All is so grovelling here below, 
 it is well something higher should exist, if only in the 
 imagination. Your eyes are bright — you are better already. 
 Truly art is the real life, and the red rag fame is not without its 
 worth. 
 
 Thec. I sought fame, never for myself, always for him. I 
 will say to him one day — Julian, Thecla and Fides are but one. 
 For love of you one died, the other sprang to life. For you 
 alone I became famous. Would you have love and sacrifice, 
 love's offspring ? See, these garlands of applause, of ad- 
 miration, that I gathered but for you. You care not for 
 them 1 Behold, I cast them all away — I renounce them every 
 one — for you ! 
 
 Vol. Thecla, your hand trembles 
 
 Thec. (sinking). Oh, if he were not to come ! If the only 
 strand that binds me yet to life were now to snap and leave me 
 anchorless ! 
 
 Vol. But he will come — his letter tells you so. For mercy's 
 sake do not torment yourself. He may be there now ; Laroque 
 may not have seen him. 
 
 Thec. True, dear friend, always my help in trouble. In the 
 passage yonder is an opening, through which you may survey the 
 house. 
 
 Vol. I understand. 
 
 Thec. (takes his hand). Thanks. I will look over my part — 
 give it me. 
 
 " What is this shade that like a phantom sits - 
 'Twixt me and light of day 1 
 I neither hate nor fear thee, Alceon, 
 Nor yet can I love thee." 
 
 Well, Voltaire 1 
 
 Vol. He has not yet come. 
 
 Thec. Not come 1 (Sinks back.) 
 
 Vol. Stay. 
 
 Thec. Is it he ? 
 
 Vol. No ; but there is a box vacant. 
 
 Thec. His, perchance. 
 
 Vol. The door opens. 
 
 Thec. It is he ! 
 
 Vol. The figure stands in shadow — I cannot discern. 
 
 Thec. Oh, look again ! 
 
 Vol. He comes forward — yes, Count Julian of Toledo. 
 
 Thec. prises). At last ! Let my eyes rest on him. Julian, 
 my Julian, how sad and worn. Now I can be great. To-night 
 
76 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 I shall excel myself. His Sappho shall speak thrilling word s ^ 
 him through me.* 
 
 Vol. Child, you are transfigured. Only speak presently as 
 you spoke just now, and you will be sublime. 
 
 Thec. My head swims ; my mind flutters beyond my grasp. 
 Hear me through my part, dear friend. My memory must not 
 fail me now. 
 
 Vol. Give me the book. Let us begin where you hurl your 
 scorn at Alceon. He says — where is it — here, — " Ah, you turn 
 pale." 
 
 Thec. " Not so, Alceon. You quail beneath my steady gaze. 
 I place my trust " 
 
 Vol. " In Him 1 " 
 
 Thec. " In my own strength. I have looked falsehood in the 
 face. The monster shrunk — spread her foul wings, and fled, 
 baffled, out of sight." 
 
 Vol. Brava ! brava ! Come a little forward, when Alceon 
 says, " I hate thee, Sappho ! " 
 
 Thec. (coming forivard). " Mine eyes gush forth for thee." 
 
 Vol. " Away with pity. I will none of it." 
 
 Thec. " My hate thou ne'er shalt have, whate'er befall. The 
 snake lies crushed beneath my feet. Spite of my wrongs, I 
 conquer, and with a smile I pass." 
 
 Vol. Brava ! What a gesture ! — what a look ! Were I the 
 author of the tragedy, I could desire no more. Let us 
 go on. 
 
 Thec. I dare not. As the scene proceeds, I have need of all 
 my strength. My heart and voice must swell with the cadence 
 of despair. Mocked and despised before all Greece ! Yet what 
 was Greece to her 1 ? Spurned before him in whose affection 
 alone she lived, as I live in Julian's. There lay the agony. 
 Poor Sappho ! what desperate anguish have I to delineate ! — and 
 justly to portray must delve into* my own heart's memories. Let 
 
 me try the first speech. The high priest says What says 
 
 he? 
 
 Vol. " Go, fallen priestess, go. Thou art accursed ! 
 Wander away, alone, exiled, disgraced, 
 Far from the haunts of men." 
 
 Thec. (rising to the situation gradually). 
 
 " Nay ; hallowed by Love, I tower above ye all ! 
 Approach if thou darest, Alceon ! 
 
 Advance one step ye cannot — ye are webbed in magic spells ! 
 Who from my hands shall wrest the sacred lyre ] 
 
 * These sentences, apparently long, are to bring her down from the back^ 
 slowly, to which she had r ashed. 
 
DESPITE THE WORLD. 77 
 
 It is mine. Its mystic chords baptised 
 With my soul's tears. Back ! back, I say ! 
 Ye shall not tear my treasure from me ! " 
 
 [Soft music of stringed instruments — she plays lyre. 
 Through thee, poor harp, my grief finds utterance. 
 " With bitter pain my bosom welleth o'er, 
 With soothing dew my eyes are bathed no more, 
 
 I bleed and sing. 
 Oh, kindly death, upon whose gentle breast 
 They who have fall'n in the world's fight may rest, 
 {With energy.) Thy comfort bring. 
 
 Mark well the world ! Idol whose scorching smile 
 And murderous kiss to chasms dread beguile, 
 Behold and see ! 
 'Mid blood and smoking holocausts he stands, 
 I, too, his victim, slain by cruel hands, 
 {With anger.) Oh, pity me ! 
 
 'Neath his destroying car must all bow down, 
 Prepared to sacrifice before his frown 
 
 Hope, Faith, and Love 1 
 Sisters star-crowned, sent down amid our strife 
 To whisper of another, better life 
 
 In Heaven above. 
 Who knows not Love, unworthy is to live — 
 Through Him I breathe who happiness can give ; 
 
 Or if that I 
 Be doomed to perish by celestial fire, 
 I, mounting radiant to my glorious pyre, 
 
 Rejoice to die !" 
 [She totters, and falls into Voltaire's arms. 
 
 Vol. Thecla, what is this — a deadly pallor spreads upon your 
 brow? 
 
 Thec. {sinking into seat). No, no. It is nothing — I am 
 strong. {Murmurs dreamily) " To my glorious pyre — Rejoice 
 to die." 
 
 Vol. Her great emotion's killing her. Quick — some one — 
 help ! 
 
 Lar. {entering). His Majesty 's arrived. A splendid house ! 
 I 've ordered up the curtain. All 's ready to begin. What 's this ] 
 Mademoiselle Fides fainted when she should be on the stage 1 
 111 luck pursues me. Oh, my distracted brain ! Ah ! Here 's 
 the doctor. This is opportune. 
 
78 DESPITE THE WORLD. 
 
 Enter Martin. 
 
 Mar. (kneeling by her — after a pause). As I expected. 
 Silence. 
 
 Vol. A passing faintness, doctor, is it not ] 
 
 Mar. She may rally ; yet, in her weakened state 
 
 Vol. You confess, then, that your drugs are vain 1 
 
 Mar. She might with care have been herself after a time ; 
 but now 
 
 Vol. Then we '11 try the last desperate remedy. There is a 
 medicine which may save her yet. I '11 wear wings upon my 
 shrunken heels and fly. Strange that Voltaire should come to 
 be love's messenger. \Exit hurriedly. 
 
 Lar. When I announced that Fides was to act, His Majesty 
 (Heaven bless him!) deigned graciously to touch my hand. And, 
 now, what is to become of me 1 Mademoiselle, for my sake rouse 
 yourself. Oh, doctor, if you can revive her I will give you gold. 
 
 Mar. Her life is beyond my healing art. Hope and wait. 
 
 Lar. Try something, I implore you. 
 
 Thec. (reviving). How bright the lamps — how great a crowd ! 
 He is there — I see him — my own Julian — I love thee. My 
 sister, too, she of the stony heart. Hark ! how they applaud. 
 Fides, the great actress, holds them in her thrall. " Hallowed by 
 love, I tower above ye all ! Approach if thou darest, Alceon." 
 Stay! Do you not see him — there. He rises from his seat — 
 glides along the corridor — now he crosses the threshold of the 
 stage — advancing ever. The door opens — he is here 
 
 At this moment enter Julian and Voltaire. She falls into 
 Julian's arms. 
 
 Jul. Thecla! 
 
 Thec. {laughing hysterically). You hear him. He knows me 
 now ! Yes, Julian. For ever thine. A pall drops between me 
 and thee. Where art thou 1 
 
 Mar. 'Tis as I thought. We may expect the worst. 
 
 Jul. Thecla! Hearken! 'Tis I who speaks — thy Julian. 
 Heaven, she hears me not. Thecla ! 
 
 Thec. What is this 1 Not death 1 Oh, no. Now thou art 
 mine once more I feel that life is beautiful. Together we will 
 wander far away, mid purling brooks and gently waving trees. 
 All fades dimly into night. 'Tis death indeed ; but beyond the 
 day breaks where we shall meet again, never to part through 
 all eternity. Here is the rose you begged for once — like me, 
 faded and withered now. Keep it; for my sake look on it 
 sometimes. 
 
 Jul. Thecla, my love, art thou then lost to me? 
 
DESPITE THE WOKLD. 79 
 
 Thec. Not lost. I shall be with thee still. Love never dies. 
 Voltaire, give me thy hand ; trusty friend, farewell ! Where art 
 thou, Julian 1 Alas ! I see thee not. With my head pillowed 
 on thy breast, tell me, ere I sleep, that thou lov'st me still — 
 Despite the World. 
 
 Jul. I love thee — I love thee ; but thou shalt not go. Thou 
 saidst we should wander in far-off lands. 
 
 Mar. She 's gone to a far-off land indeed ! 
 
 *£ JDeacH 
 Mae. Dead! 
 
 Curtain 
 
LONDON: PRINTED ET 
 
 FRANCIS, TOOK'S COURT, 
 CHANCERY LANE, EC. 
 
DESPITE THE WORLD: 
 
 & i«iiy gUrwattiix flag, 
 
 IN TWO PARTS AND FOUR TABLEAUX. 
 
 THE HON. LEWIS WINGFIELD 
 
 AND 
 
 GENEVIEVE DE GUERBEL. 
 
 PART I. BERLIN AND SANS SOUCI, 1746. 
 PART IP VERSAILLES AND PARIS, 1751, 
 
 For certain Fortions of the Plot the Author is indebted to an Italian Work. 
 
 LONDON : 
 PRINTED BY E. J. FRANCIS, TOOK'S COURT, E.C. 
 
 1874. 
 
Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
 Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 Treatment Date: May 2009 
 
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