Imaginary Conversations and Poems Part 52

_Annabella._ Neither am I, who am only one year younger, so foolish as to believe there is any dog Mahomet. And, if there were, we have dogs that are better and faithfuller and stronger.

_Wilhelm._ [_To his father._] I can hardly help laughing to think what curious fancies girls have about Mahomet. We know that Mahomet is a dog-spirit with three horsetails.

_Annabella._ Papa! I am glad to see you smile at Wilhelm. I do a.s.sure you he is not half so bad a boy as he was, although he did point at me, and did tell you some mischief.

_Count._ I ought to be indeed most happy at seeing you all again.

_Annabella._ And so you are. Don't pretend to look grave now. I very easily find you out. I often look grave when I am the happiest. But forth it bursts at last: there is no room for it in tongue, or eyes, or anywhere.

_Count._ And so, my little angel, you begin to recollect me.

_Annabella._ At first I used to dream of papa, but at last I forgot how to dream of him: and then I cried, but at last I left off crying.

And then, papa, who could come to me in my sleep, seldom came again.

_Count._ Why do you now draw back from me, Annabella?

_Annabella._ Because you really are so very very brown: just like those ugly Turks who sawed the pines in the saw-pit under the wood, and who refused to drink wine in the heat of summer, when Wilhelm and I brought it to them. Do not be angry; we did it only once.

_Wilhelm._ Because one of them stamped and frightened her when the other seemed to bless us.

_Count._ Are they still living?

_Countess._ One of them is.

_Wilhelm._ The fierce one.

_Count._ We will set him free, and wish it were the other.

_Annabella._ Papa! I am glad you are come back without your spurs.

_Countess._ Hush, child, hush.

_Annabella._ Why, mamma? Do not you remember how they tore my frock when I clung to him at parting? Now I begin to think of him again: I lose everything between that day and this.

_Countess._ The girl's idle prattle about the spurs has pained you: always too sensitive; always soon hurt, though never soon offended.

_Count._ O G.o.d! O my children! O my wife! it is not the loss of spurs I now must blush for.

_Annabella._ Indeed, papa, you never can blush at all, until you cut that horrid beard off.

_Countess._ Well may you say, my own Ludolph, as you do; for most gallant was your bearing in the battle.

_Count._ Ah! why was it ever fought?

_Countess._ Why were most battles? But they may lead to glory even through slavery.

_Count._ And to shame and sorrow.

_Countess._ Have I lost the little beauty I possessed, that you hold my hand so languidly, and turn away your eyes when they meet mine? It was not so formerly ... unless when first we loved.

That one kiss restores to me all my lost happiness.

Come; the table is ready: there are your old wines upon it: you must want that refreshment.

_Count._ Go, my sweet children! you must eat your supper before I do.

_Countess._ Run into your own room for it.

_Annabella._ I will not go until papa has patted me again on the shoulder, now I begin to remember it. I do not much mind the beard: I grow used to it already: but indeed I liked better to stroke and pat the smooth laughing cheek, with my arm across the neck behind. It is very pleasant even so. Am I not grown? I can put the whole length of my finger between your lips.

_Count._ And now, will not _you_ come, Wilhelm?

_Wilhelm._ I am too tall and too heavy: she is but a child.

[_Whispers._] Yet I think, papa, I am hardly so much of a man but you may kiss me over again ... if you will not let her see it.

_Countess._ My dears! why do not you go to your supper?

_Annabella._ Because he has come to show us what Turks are like.

_Wilhelm._ Do not be angry with her. Do not look down, papa!

_Count._ Blessings on you both, sweet children!

_Wilhelm._ We may go now.

_Countess._ And now, Ludolph, come to the table, and tell me all your sufferings.

_Count._ The worst begin here.

_Countess._ Ungrateful Ludolph!

_Count._ I am he: that is my name in full.

_Countess._ You have then ceased to love me?

_Count._ Worse; if worse can be: I have ceased to deserve your love.

_Countess._ No: Ludolph hath spoken falsely for once; but Ludolph is not false.

_Count._ I have forfeited all I ever could boast of, your affection and my own esteem. Away with caresses! Repulse me, abjure me; hate, and never pardon me. Let the abject heart lie untorn by one remorse.

Forgiveness would split and shiver what slavery but abased.

_Countess._ Again you embrace me; and yet tell me never to pardon you!

O inconsiderate man! O idle deviser of impossible things!

But you have not introduced to me those who purchased your freedom, or who achieved it by their valour.

_Count._ Mercy! O G.o.d!