Love and Intrigue | Page 8

strange notions to thy romantic brain, Ferdinand; let me not lose my
temper-- ungrateful boy! Thus dost thou repay me for my sleepless
nights? Thus for my restless anxiety to promote thy good? Thus for the
never-dying scorpion of my conscience? Upon me must fall the burden
of responsibility; upon me the curse, the thunderbolt of the Judge. Thou
receivest thy fortune from another's hand--the crime is not attached to

the inheritance.
FERDINAND (extending his right hand towards heaven). Here I
solemnly abjure an inheritance which must ever remind me of a
parent's guilt!
PRESIDENT. Hear me, sirrah! and do not incense me! Were you left to
your own direction you would crawl through life in the dust.
FERDINAND. Oh! better, father, far, far better, than to crawl about a
throne!
PRESIDENT (repressing his anger). So! Then compulsion must make
you sensible of your good fortune! To that point, which, with the
utmost striving a thousand others fail to reach, you have been exalted in
your very sleep. At twelve you received a commission; at twenty a
command. I have succeeded in obtaining for you the duke's patronage.
He bids you lay aside your uniform, and share with me his favor and
his confidence. He spoke of titles--embassies--of honors bestowed but
upon few. A glorious prospect spreads itself before you! The direct
path to the place next the throne lies open to you! Nay, to the throne
itself, if the actual power of ruling is equivalent to the mere symbol.
Does not that idea awaken your ambition?
FERDINAND. No! My ideas of greatness and happiness differ widely
from yours. Your happiness is but seldom known, except by the misery
of others. Envy, terror, hatred are the melancholy mirrors in which the
smiles of princes are reflected. Tears, curses, and the wailings of
despair, the horrid banquet that feasts your supposed elect of fortune;
intoxicated with these they rush headlong into eternity, staggering to
the throne of judgment. My ideas of happiness teach me to look for its
fountain in myself! All my wishes lie centered in my heart!
PRESIDENT. Masterly! Inimitable! Admirable! The first schooling I
have received these thirty years! Pity that the brain at fifty should be so
dull at learning! But--that such talent may not rust, I will place one by
your side on whom you can practise your harlequinade follies at
pleasure. You will resolve--resolve this very day--to take a wife.

FERDINAND (starting back amazed). Father!
PRESIDENT. Answer me not. I have made proposals, in your name, to
Lady Milford. You will instantly determine upon going to her, and
declaring yourself her bridegroom.
FERDINAND. Lady Milford! father?
PRESIDENT. I presume she is not unknown to you!
FERDINAND (passionately). To what brothel is she unknown through
the dukedom? But pardon me, dearest father! It is ridiculous to imagine
that your proposal can be serious. Would you call yourself father of that
infamous son who married a licensed prostitute?
PRESIDENT. Nay, more. I would ask her hand myself, if she would
take a man of fifty. Would not you call yourself that infamous father's
son?
FERDINAND. No! as God lives! that would I not!
PRESIDENT. An audacity, by my honor! which I pardon for its
excessive singularity.
FERDINAND. I entreat you, father, release me from a demand which
would render it insupportable to call myself your son.
PRESIDENT. Are you distracted, boy? What reasonable man would
not thirst after a distinction which makes him, as one of a trio, the equal
and co-partner of his sovereign?
FERDINAND. You are quite an enigma to me, father! "A distinction,"
do you call it? A distinction to share that with a prince, wherein he
places himself on a level with the meanest of his subjects? (The
PRESIDENT bursts into a loud laugh.) You may scoff--I must submit
to it in a father. With what countenance should I support the gaze of the
meanest laborer, who at least receives an undivided person as the
portion of his bride? With what countenance should I present myself

before the world? before the prince? nay, before the harlot herself, who
seeks to wash out in my shame the brandmarks of her honor?
PRESIDENT. Where in the world couldst thou collect such notions,
boy?
FERDINAND. I implore you, father, by heaven and earth! By thus
sacrificing your only son you can never become so happy as you will
make him miserable! If my life can be a step to your advancement,
dispose of it. My life you gave me; and I will never hesitate a moment
to sacrifice it wholly to your welfare. But my honor, father! If you
deprive me of this, the giving me life was a mere trick of wanton
cruelty, and I must equally curse the parent and the pander.
PRESIDENT (tapping him on the