HERMANN. I suppose till you have hired a dozen assassins to silence mytongue forever! Is it not so! But (in his ear) the secret is committedto paper, which my heirs will publish.[Exit.]
FRANCIS, solus.
Francis! Francis! Francis! What is all this? Where was thy courage?where thy once so fertile wit? Woe! Woe! And to be betrayed by thyown instruments! The pillars of my good fortune are tottering to theirfall, the fences are broken down, and the raging enemy is alreadybursting in upon me. Well! this calls for some bold and sudden resolve!What if I went in person—and secretly plunged this sword in his body?A wounded man is but a child. Quick! I'll do it. (He walks with aresolute step to the end of the stage, but stops suddenly as if overcomeby sensations of horror). Who are these gliding behind me? (Rollinghis eyes fearfully) Faces such as I have never yet beheld. Whathideous yells do I hear! I feel that I have courage—courage! oh yes tooverflowing! But if a mirror should betray me? or my shadow! or thewhistling of the murderous stroke! Ugh! Ugh! How my hair bristles! Ashudder creeps through my frame. (He lets a poigniard fall from underhis clothes.) I am no coward—perhaps somewhat too tenderhearted. Yes!that is it! These are the last struggles of expiring virtue. I reverethem. I should indeed be a monster were I to become the murderer of myown brother. No! no! no! That thought be far from me! Let me cherishthis vestige of humanity. I will not murder. Nature, thou hastconquered. I still feel something here that seems like—affection. Heshall live.[Exit.]Enter HERMANN, timidly.
HERMANN. Lady Amelia! Lady Amelia!
AMELIA. Unhappy man! why dost thou disturb me?
HERMANN. I must throw this weight from my soul before it drags it down to hell. (Falls down before her.) Pardon! pardon! I have grievously injured you, Lady Amelia!
AMELIA. Arise! depart! I will hear nothing. (Going.)
HERMANN (detaining her). No; stay! In the name of Heaven! In the name of the Eternal! You must know all!
AMELIA. Not another word. I forgive you. Depart in peace. (In the act of going.)
HERMANN. Only one word—listen; it will restore all your peace of mind.
AMELIA (turning back and looking at him with astonishment). How, friend? Who in heaven or on earth can restore my peace of mind?
HERMANN. One word from my lips can do it. Hear me!
AMELIA (seizing his hand with compassion). Good sir! Can one word from thy lips burst asunder the portals of eternity?
HERMANN. (rising). Charles lives!
AMELIA (screaming). Wretch!
HERMANN. Even so. And one word more. Your uncle—
AMELIA. (rushing upon him). Thou liest!
HERMANN. Your uncle—
AMELIA. Charles lives?
HERMANN. And your uncle—
AMELIA. Charles lives?
HERMANN. And your uncle too—betray me not!
(HERMANN runs off)
AMELIA (stands a long while like one petrified; after which she starts up wildly, and rushes after HERMANN.) Charles lives!
THE ROBBERS (encamped on a rising ground, under trees,their horses are grazing below.)
CHARLES. Here must I lie (throwing himself upon the ground). I feel as if my limbs were all shattered. My tongue is as dry as a potsherd (SCHWEITZER disappears unperceived.) I would ask one of you to bring me a handful of water from that stream, but you are all tired to death.
SCHWARZ. Our wine-flasks too are all empty.
CHARLES. See how beautiful the harvest looks! The trees are breaking with the weight of their fruit. The vines are full of promise.
GRIMM. It is a fruitful year.
CHARLES. Do you think so? Then at least one toil in the world will be repaid. One? Yet in the night a hailstorm may come and destroy it all.
SCHWARZ. That is very possible. It all may be destroyed an hour before the reaping.
CHARLES. Just what I say. All will be destroyed. Why should man prosper in that which he has in common with the ant, while he fails in that which places him on a level with the gods. Or is this the aim and limit of his destiny?
SCHWARZ. I know not.
CHARLES. Thou hast said well; and wilt have done better, if thou never seekest to know. Brother, I have looked on men, their insect cares and their giant projects,—their god-like plans and mouse-like occupations, their intensely eager race after happiness—one trusting to the fleetness of his horse,—another to the nose of his ass,—a third to his own legs; this checkered lottery of life, in which so many stake their innocence and their leaven to snatch a prize, and,—blanks are all they draw—for they find, too late, that there was no prize in the wheel. It is a drama, brother, enough to bring tears into your eyes, while it shakes your sides with laughter.
SCHWARZ. How gloriously the sun is setting yonder!
CHARLES (absorbed in the scene). So dies a hero! Worthy of adoration!
SCHWARZ. You seem deeply moved.
CHARLES. When I, was but a boy—it was my darling thought to live like him, like him to die—(with suppressed grief.) It was a boyish thought!
GRIMM. It was, indeed.
CHARLES. There was a time—(pressing his hat down upon his face). I would be alone, comrades.
SCHWARZ. Moor! Moor! Why, what the deuce! How his color changes.
GRIMM. By all the devils! What ails him? Is he ill?
CHARLES. There was a time when I could not have slept had I forgotten my evening prayers.
GRIMM. Are you beside yourself? Would you let the remembrances of your boyish years school you now?
CHARLES (lays his head upon the breast of GRIMM). Brother! Brother!
GRIMM. Come! Don't play the child—I pray you
CHARLES. Oh that I were-that I were again a child!
GRIMM. Fie! fie!
SCHWARZ. Cheer up! Behold this smiling landscape—this delicious evening!
CHARLES. Yes, friends, this world is very lovely—
SCHWARZ. Come, now, that was well said.
CHARLES. This earth so glorious!—
GRIMM. Right—right—I love to hear you talk thus.
CHARLES. (sinking back). And I so hideous in' this lovely world— a monster on this glorious earth!
GRIMM. Oh dear! oh dear!
CHARLES. My innocence! give me back my innocence! Behold, every living thing is gone forth to bask in the cheering rays of the vernal sun—why must I alone inhale the torments of hell out of the joys of heaven? All are so happy, all so united in brotherly love, by the spirit of peace! The whole world one family, and one Father above—but He not my father! I alone the outcast, I alone rejected from the ranks of the blessed—the sweet name of child is not for me—never for me the soul-thrilling glance of her I love—never, never the bosom friend's embrace—(starting back wildly)—surrounded by murderers—hemmed in by hissing vipers— riveted to vice with iron fetters—whirling headlong on the frail reed of sin to the gulf of perdition—amid the blooming flowers of a glad world, a howling Abaddon!
SCHWARZ (to the others). How strange! I never saw him thus before.
CHARLES (with melancholy). Oh, that I might return again to my mother's womb. That I might be born a beggar! I should desire no more,—no more, oh heaven!—but that I might be like one of those poor laborers! Oh, I would toil till the blood streamed down my temples—to buy myself the luxury of one guiltless slumber—the blessedness of a single tear.
GRIMM (to the others). A little patience—the paroxysm is nearly over.
CHARLES. There was a time when my tears flowed so freely. Oh, those days of peace! Dear home of my fathers—ye verdant halcyon vales! O all ye Elysian scenes of my childhood!—will you never return?—will your delicious breezes never cool my burning bosom? Mourn with me, Nature, mourn! They will never return! never will their delicious breezes cool my burning bosom! They are gone! gone! irrevocably gone!
Enter SCHWEITZER with water in his hat.
SCHWEITZER (offering him water in his hat). Drink, captain; here is plenty of water, and cold as ice.
SCHWARZ. You are bleeding! What have you been doing?
SCHWEITZER. A bit of a freak, you fool, which had well-nigh cost me two legs and a neck. As I was frolicking along the steep sandbanks of the river, plump, in a moment, the whole concern slid from under me, and I after it, some ten fathoms deep;—there I lay, and, as I was recovering my five senses, lo and behold, the most sparkling water in the gravel! Not so much amiss this time, said I to myself, for the caper I have cut. The captain will be sure to relish a drink.
CHARLES (returns him the hat and wipes his face). But you are covered with mud, Schweitzer, and we can't see the scar which the Bohemian horseman marked on your forehead—your water was good, Schweitzer—and those scars become you well.
SCHWEITZER. Bah! There's room for a score or two more yet.
CHARLES. Yes, boys—it was a hot day's work—and only one man lost. Poor Roller! he died a noble death. A marble monument would be erected to his memory had he died in any other cause than mine. Let this suffice. (He wipes the tears from his eyes.) How many, did you say, of the enemy were left on the field?
SCHWEITZER. A hundred and sixty huzzars, ninety-three dragoons, some forty chasseurs—in all about three hundred.
CHARLES. Three hundred for one! Every one of you has a claim upon this head. (He bares his head.) By this uplifted dagger! As my Soul liveth, I will never forsake you!
SCHWEITZER. Swear not! You do not know but you may yet be happy, and repent your oath.
CHARLES. By the ashes of my Roller! I will never forsake you.
Enter KOSINSKY.
KOSINSKY (aside). Hereabouts, they say, I shall find him. Ha! What faces are these? Should they be—if these—they must be the men! Yes, 'tis they,'tis they! I will accost them.
SCHWARZ. Take heed! Who goes there?
KOSINSKY. Pardon, sirs. I know not whether I am going right or wrong.
CHARLES. Suppose right, whom do you take us to be?
KOSINSKY. Men!
SCHWEITZER. I wonder, captain, whether we have given any proof of that?
KOSINSKY. I am in search of men who can look death in the face, and let danger play around then like a tamed snake; who prize liberty above life or honor; whose very names, hailed by the poor and the oppressed, appal the boldest, and make tyrants tremble.
SCHWEITZER (to the Captain). I like that fellow. Hark ye, friend! You have found your men.
KOSINSKY. So I should think, and I hope soon to find them brothers. You can direct me to the man I am looking for. 'Tis your captain, the great Count von Moor.
SCHWEITZER (taking him warmly by the hand). There's a good lad. You and I must be chums.
CHARLES (coming nearer). Do you know the captain?
KOSINSKY. Thou art he!—in those features—that air—who can look at thee, and doubt it? (Looks earnestly at him for some time). I have always wished to see the man with the annihilating look, as he sat on the ruins of Carthage.* That wish is realized.
*[Alluding to Caius Marius. See Plutarch's Lives.]
SCHWEITZER. A mettlesome fellow!—
CHARLES. And what brings you to me?
KOSINSKY. Oh, captain! my more than cruel fate. I have suffered shipwrecked on the stormy ocean of the world; I have seen all my fondest hopes perish; and nought remains to me but a remembrance of the bitter past, which would drive me to madness, were I not to drown it by directing my energies to new objects.
CHARLES. Another arraignment of the ways of Providence! Proceed.
KOSINSKY. I became a soldier. Misfortune still followed me in the army. I made a venture to the Indies, and my ship was shivered on the rocks—nothing but frustrated hopes! At last, I heard tell far and wide of your valiant deeds, incendiarisms, as they called them, and I came straightway hither, a distance of thirty leagues, firmly resolved to serve under you, if you will deign to accept my services. I entreat thee, noble captain, refuse me not!
SCHWEITZER (with a leap into the air). Hurrah! Hurrah! Our Roller replaced ten hundred-fold! An out-and-out brother cut-throat for our troop.
CHARLES. What is your name?
KOSINSKY. Kosinsky.
CHARLES. What? Kosinsky! And do you know that you are but a thoughtless boy, and are embarking on the most weighty passage of your life as heedlessly as a giddy girl? You will find no playing at bowls or ninepins here, as you probably imagine.
KOSINSKY. I understand you, sir. I am,'tis true, but four-and-twenty years old, but I have seen swords glittering, and have heard balls whistling around me.
CHARLES. Indeed, young gentleman? And was it for this that you took fencing lessons, to run poor travellers through the body for the sake of a dollar, or stab women in the back? Go! go! You have played truant to your nurse because she shook the rod at you.
SCHWEITZER. Why, what the devil, captain! what are you about? Do you mean to turn away such a Hercules? Does he not look as if he could baste Marechal Saxe across the Ganges with a ladle?
CHARLES. Because your silly schemes miscarry, you come here to turn rogue and assassin! Murder, boy, do you know the meaning of that word? You may have slumbered in peace after cropping a few poppy-heads, but to have a murder on your soul—
KOSINSKY. All the murders you bid me commit be upon my head!
CHARLES. What! Are you so nimble-witted? Do you take measure of a man to catch him by flattery? How do you know that I am not haunted by terrific dreams, or that I shall not tremble on my death-bed?—How much have you already done of which you have considered the responsibility?
KOSINSKY. Very little, I must confess; excepting this long journey to you, noble count—
CHARLES. Has your tutor let the story of Robin Hood—get into your hands? Such careless rascals ought to be sent to the galleys. And has it heated your childish fancy, and infected you with the mania of becoming a hero? Are you thirsting for honor and fame? Would you buy immortality by deeds of incendiarism? Mark me, ambitious youth! No laurel blooms for the incendiary. No triumph awaits the victories of the bandit—nothing but curses, danger, death, disgrace. Do you see the gibbet yonder on the hill?
SPIEGEL (going up and down indignantly). Oh, how stupid! How abominably, unpardonably stupid! That's not the way. I went to work in a very different manner.
KOSINSKY. What should he fear, who fears not death?
CHARLES. Bravo! Capital! You have made good use of your time at school; you have got your Seneca cleverly by heart. But, my good friend, you will not be able with these fine phrases to cajole nature in the hour of suffering; they will never blunt the biting tooth of remorse. Ponder on it well, my son! (Takes him by the hand.) I advise you as a father. First learn the depth of the abyss before you plunge headlong into it. If in this world you can catch a single glimpse of happiness—moments may come when you-awake,—and then—it may be too late. Here you step out as it were beyond the pale of humanity—you must either be more than human or a demon. Once more, my son! if but a single spark of hope glimmer for you elsewhere, fly this fearful compact, where nought but despair enters, unless a higher wisdom has so ordained it. You may deceive yourself—believe me, it is possible to mistake that for strength of mind which in reality is nothing more than despair. Take my counsel! mine! and depart quickly.
KOSINSKY. No! I will not stir. If my entreaties fail to move you, hear but the story of my misfortunes. And then you will force the dagger into my hand as eagerly as you now seek to withhold it. Seat yourselves awhile on the grass and listen.
CHARLES. I will hear your story.
KOSINSKY. Know, then, that I am a Bohemian nobleman. By the early death of my father I became master of large possessions. The scene of my domain was a paradise; for it contained an angel—a maid adorned with all the charms of blooming youth, and chaste as the light of heaven. But to whom do I talk of this? It falls unheeded on your cars—ye never loved, ye were never beloved—
SCHWEITZER. Gently, gently! The captain grows red as fire.
CHARLES. No more! I'll hear you some other time—to-morrow,—or by-and-by, or—after I have seen blood.
KOSINSKY. Blood, blood! Only hear on! Blood will fill your whole soul. She was of citizen birth, a German—but her look dissolved all the prejudices of aristocracy. With blushing modesty she received the bridal ring from my hand, and on the morrow I was to have led my AMELIA to the altar. (CHARLES rises suddenly.) In the midst of my intoxicating dream of happiness, and while our nuptials were preparing, an express summoned me to court. I obeyed the summons. Letters were shown me which I was said to have written, full of treasonable matter. I grew scarlet with indignation at such malice; they deprived me of my sword, thrust me into prison, and all my senses forsook me.
SCHWEITZER. And in the meantime—go on! I already scent the game.
KOSINSKY. There I lay a whole month, and knew not what was taking place. I was full of anxiety for my Amelia, who I was sure would suffer the pangs of death every moment in apprehension of my fate. At last the prime minister makes his appearance,—congratulates me in honey-sweet words on the establishment of my innocence,—reads to me a warrant of discharge,—and returns me my sword. I flew in triumph to my castle, to the arms of my Amelia, but she had disappeared! She had been carried off, it was said, at midnight, no one knew whither, and no eye had beheld her since. A suspicion instantly flashed across my mind. I rushed to the capital—I made inquiries at court—all eyes were upon me,—no one would give me information. At last I discovered her through a grated window of the palace—she threw me a small billet.
SCHWEITZER. Did I not say so?
KOSINSKY. Death and destruction! The contents were these! They had given her the choice between seeing me put to death, and becoming the mistress of the prince. In the struggle between honor and love she chose the latter, and (with a bitter smile) I was saved.
SCHWEITZER. And what did you do then?
KOSINSKY. Then I stood like one transfixed with a thunderbolt! Blood was my first thought, blood my last! Foaming at the mouth, I ran to my quarters, armed myself with a two-edged sword, and, with all haste, rushed to the minister's house, for he—he alone—had been the fiendish pander. They must have observed me in the street, for, as I went up, I found all the doors fastened. I searched, I enquired. He was gone, they said, to the prince. I went straight thither, but nobody there would know anything about him. I return, force the doors, find the base wretch, and was on the point when five or six servants suddenly rushed on me from behind, and wrenched the weapon from my hands.
SCHWEITZER (stamping the ground). And so the fellow got off clear, and you lost your labor?
KOSINSKY. I was arrested, accused, criminally prosecuted, degraded, and—mark this—transported beyond the frontier, as a special favor. My estates were confiscated to the minister, and Amelia remained in the clutches of the tiger, where she weeps and mourns away her life, while my vengeance must keep a fast, and crouch submissively to the yoke of despotism.
SCHWEITZER (rising and whetting his sword). That is grist to our mill, captain! There is something here for the incendiaries!
CHARLES (who has been walking up and down in violent agitation, with a sudden start to the ROBBERS). I must see her. Up! collect your baggage—you'll stay with us, Kosinsky! Quick, pack up!
THE ROBBERS. Where to? What?
CHARLES. Where to? Who asks that question? (Fiercely to SCHWEITZER) Traitor, wouldst thou keep me back? But by the hope for heaven!
SCHWEITZER. I, a traitor? Lead on to hell and I will follow you!
CHARLES (falling on his neck). Dear brother! thou shalt follow me. Sheweeps, she mourns away her life. Up! quickly! all of you! toFranconia! In a week we must be there.[Exeunt.]
SCENE I.—Rural scenery in the neighborhood of CHARLES VON MOOR'S castle.
CHARLES VON MOOR, KOSINSKY, at a distance.
CHARLES. Go forward, and announce me. You remember what you have to say?
KOSINSKY. You are Count Brand, you come from Mecklenburg. I am yourgroom. Do not fear, I shall take care to play my part. Farewell![Exit.]
CHARLES. Hail to thee, Earth of my Fatherland (kisses the earth.) Heaven of my Fatherland! Sun of my Fatherland! Ye meadows and hills, ye streams and woods! Hail, hail to ye all! How deliciously the breezes are wafted from my native hills? What streams of balmy perfume greet the poor fugitive! Elysium! Realms of poetry! Stay, Moor, thy foot has strayed into a holy temple. (Comes nearer.)
See there! the old swallow-nests in the castle yard!—-and the littlegarden-gate!—and this corner of the fence where I so often watched inambuscade to teaze old Towzer!—and down there in the green valley,where, as the great Alexander, I led my Macedonians to the battle ofArbela; and the grassy hillock yonder, from which I hurled the Persiansatrap—and then waved on high my victorious banner! (He smiles.) Thegolden age of boyhood lives again in the soul of the outcast. I wasthen so happy, so wholly, so cloudlessly happy—and now—behold all myprospects a wreck! Here should I have presided, a great, a noble, anhonored man—here have—lived over again the years of boyhood in theblooming—children of my Amelia—here!—here have been the idol of mypeople—but the foul fiend opposed it (Starting.) Why am I here? Tofeel like the captive when the clanking of his chains awakes him fromhis dream of liberty. No, let me return to my wretchedness! Thecaptive had forgotten the light of day, but the dream of liberty flashespast his eyes like a blaze of lightning in the night, which leaves itdarker than before. Farewell, ye native vales! once ye saw Charles as aboy, and then Charles was happy. Now ye have seen the man his happinessturned to despair! (He moves rapidly towards the most distant point ofthe landscape, where he suddenly stops and casts a melancholy lookacross to the castle.) Not to behold her! not even one look?—and onlya wall between me and Amelia! No! see her I must!—and him too!—thoughit crush me! (He turns back.) Father! father! thy son approaches. Awaywith thee, black, reeking gore! Away with that grim, ghastly look ofdeath! Oh, give me but this one hour free! Amelia! Father! thyCharles approaches! (He goes quickly towards the castle.) Torment mewhen the morning dawns—give me no rest with the coming night—beset mein frightful dreams! But, oh! poison not this my only hour of bliss!(He is standing at the gate.) What is it I feel? What means this, Moor?Be a man! These death-like shudders—foreboding terrors.[Enters.]
*[In some editions this is the third scene,and there is no second.]Enter CHARLES VON MOOR, AMELIA.
AMELIA. And are you sure that you should know his portrait among these pictures?
CHARLES. Oh, most certainly! his image has always been fresh in my memory. (Passing along thee pictures.) This is not it.
AMELIA. You are right! He was the first count, and received his patent of nobility from Frederic Barbarossa, to whom he rendered some service against the corsairs.
CHARLES (still reviewing the pictures). Neither is it this—nor this— nor that—it is not among these at all.
AMELIA. Nay! look more attentively! I thought you knew him.
CHARLES. As well as my own father! This picture wants the sweet expression around the mouth, which distinguished him from among a thousand. It is not he.
AMELIA. You surprise me. What! not seen him for eighteen years, and still—
CHARLES (quickly, with a hectic blush). Yes, this is he! (He stands as if struck by lightning.)
AMELIA. An excellent man!
CHARLES (absorbed in the contemplation of the picture). Father! father! forgive me! Yes, an excellent man! (He wipes his eyes.) A godlike man!
AMELIA. You seem to take a deep interest in him.
CHARLES. Oh, an excellent man! And he is gone, you say!
AMELIA. Gone! as our best joys perish. (Gently taking him by the hand.) Dear Sir, no happiness ripens in this world.
CHARLES. Most true, most true! And have you already proved this truth by sad experience? You, who can scarcely yet have seen your twenty-third year?
AMELIA. Yes, alas, I have proved it. Whatever lives, lives to die in sorrow. We engage our hearts, and grasp after the things of this world, only to undergo the pang of losing them.
CHARLES. What can you have lost, and yet so young?
AMELIA. Nothing—everything—nothing. Shall we go on, count?*
*[In the acting edition is added—"MOOR. And would you learn forgetfulness in that holy garb there?(Pointing to a nun's habit.)"AMELIA. To-morrow I hope to do so. Shall we continue our walk,sir?"]
CHARLES. In such haste? Whose portrait is that on the right? There is an unhappy look about that countenance, methinks.
AMELIA. That portrait on the left is the son of the count, the present count. Come, let us pass on!
CHARLES. But this portrait on the right?
AMELIA. Will you not continue your walk, Sir?
CHARLES. But this portrait on the right hand? You are in tears, Amelia? [Exit AMELIA, in precipitation.]
CHARLES. She loves me, she loves me! Her whole being began to rebel,and the traitor tears rolled down her cheeks. She loves me! Wretch,hast thou deserved this at her hands? Stand I not here like a condemnedcriminal before the fatal block? Is this the couch on which we so oftensat—where I have hung in rapture on her neck? Are these my ancestralhalls? (Overcome by the sight of his father's portrait.) Thou—thou—Flames of fire darting from thine eyes—His curse—His curse—He disownsme—Where am I? My sight grows dim—Horrors of the living God—'Twas I,'twas I that killed my father![He rushes off]Enter FRANCIS VON MOOR, in deep thought.
FRANCIS. Away with that image! Away with it! Craven heart! Why dost thou tremble, and before whom? Have I not felt, during the few hours that the count has been within these walls as if a spy from hell were gliding at my heels. Methinks I should know him! There is something so lofty, so familiar, in his wild, sunburnt features, which makes me tremble. Amelia, too, is not indifferent towards him! Does she not dart eager, languishing looks at the fellow looks of which she is so chary to all the world beside? Did I not see her drop those stealthy tears into the wine, which, behind my back, he quaffed so eagerly that he seemed to swallow the very glass? Yes, I saw it—I saw it in the mirror with my own eyes. Take care, Francis! Look about you! Some destruction-brooding monster is lurking beneath all this! (He stops, with a searching look, before the portrait of CHARLES.)
His long, crane-like neck—his black, fire-sparkling eyes—hem! hem!— his dark, overhanging, bushy eyebrows. (Suddenly starting back.) Malicious hell! dost thou send me this suspicion? It is Charles! Yes, all his features are reviving before me. It is he! despite his mask! it is he! Death and damnation! (Goes up and down with agitated steps.) Is it for this that I have sacrificed my nights—that I have mowed down mountains and filled up chasms? For this that I have turned rebel against all the instincts of humanity? To have this vagabond outcast blunder in at last, and destroy all my cunningly devised fabric. But gently! gently! What remains to be done is but child's play. Have I not already waded up to my very ears in mortal sin? Seeing how far the shore lies behind me, it would be madness to attempt to swim back. To return is now out of the question. Grace itself would be beggared, and infinite mercy become bankrupt, were they to be responsible for all my liabilities. Then onward like a man. (He rings the bell.) Let him be gathered to the spirit of his father, and now come on! For the dead I care not! Daniel! Ho! Daniel! I'd wager a trifle they have already inveigled him too into the plot against me! He looks so full of mystery!
Enter DANIEL.
DANIEL. What is your pleasure, my master?
FRANCIS. Nothing. Go, fill this goblet with wine, and quickly! (Exit DANIEL.) Wait a little, old man! I shall find you out! I will fix my eye upon you so keenly that your stricken conscience shall betray itself through your mask! He shall die! He is but a sorry bungler who leaves his work half finished, and then looks on idly, trusting to chance for what may come of it.
Enter DANIEL, with the wine.
Bring it here! Look me steadfastly in the face! How your knees knock together! How you tremble! Confess, old man! what have you been doing?
DANIEL. Nothing, my honored master, by heaven and my poor soul!
FRANCIS. Drink this wine! What? you hesitate? Out with it quickly! What have you put into the wine?
DANIEL. Heaven help me! What! I in the wine?
FRANCIS. You have poisoned it! Are you not as white as snow? Confess, confess! Who gave it you? The count? Is it not so? The count gave it you?
DANIEL. The count? Jesu Maria! The count has not given me anything.
FRANCIS (grasping him tight). I will throttle you till you are black in the face, you hoary-headed liar! Nothing? Why, then, are you so often closeted together? He, and you, and Amelia? And what are you always whispering about? Out with it! What secrets, eh? What secrets has he confided to you?
DANIEL. I call the Almighty to witness that he has not confided any secrets to me.
FRANCIS. Do you mean to deny it? What schemes have you been hatching to get rid of me? Am I to be smothered in my sleep? or is my throat to be cut in shaving? or am I to be poisoned in wine or chocolate? Eh? Out with it, out with it! Or am I to have my quietus administered in my soup? Out with it! I know it all!
DANIEL. May heaven so help me in the hour of need as I now tell you the truth, and nothing but the pure, unvarnished truth!
FRANCIS. Well, this time I will forgive you. But the money! he most certainly put money into your purse? And he pressed your hand more warmly than is customary? something in the manner of an old acquaintance?
DANIEL. Never, indeed, Sir.
FRANCIS. He told you, for instance, that he had known you before? that you ought to know him? that the scales would some day fall from your eyes? that—what? Do you mean to say that he never spoke thus to you?
DANIEL. Not a word of the kind.
FRANCIS. That certain circumstances restrained him—that one must sometimes wear a mask in order to get at one's enemies—that he would be revenged, most terribly revenged?
DANIEL. Not a syllable of all this.
FRANCIS. What? Nothing at all? Recollect yourself. That he knew the old count well—most intimately—that he loved him—loved him exceedingly—loved him like a son!
DANIEL. Something of that sort I remember to have heard him say.
FRANCIS (turning pale). Did he say so? did he really? How? let me hear! He said he was my brother?
DANIEL (astonished). What, my master? He did not say that. But as Lady Amelia was conducting him through the gallery—I was just dusting the picture frames—he suddenly stood still before the portrait of my late master, and seemed thunderstruck. Lady Amelia pointed it out, and said, "An excellent man!" "Yes, a most excellent man!" he replied, wiping a tear from his eye.
FRANCIS. Hark, Daniel! You know I have ever been a kind master to you; I have given you food and raiment, and have spared you labor in consideration of your advanced age.
DANIEL. For which may heaven reward you! and I, on my part, have always served you faithfully.
FRANCIS. That is just what I was going to say. You have never in all your life contradicted me; for you know much too well that you owe me obedience in all things, whatever I may require of you.
DANIEL. In all things with all my heart, so it be not against God and my conscience.
FRANCIS. Stuff! nonsense! Are you not ashamed of yourself? An old man, and believe that Christmas tale! Go, Daniel! that was a stupid remark. You know that I am your master. It is on me that God and conscience will be avenged, if, indeed, there be a God and a conscience.
DANIEL (clasping his hands together). Merciful Heaven!
FRANCIS. By your obedience! Do you understand that word? By your obedience, I command you. With to-morrow's dawn the count must no longer be found among the living.
DANIEL. Merciful Heaven! and wherefore?
FRANCIS. By your blind obedience! I shall rely upon you implicitly.
DANIEL. On me? May the Blessed Virgin have mercy on me! On me? What evil, then, have I, an old man, done!
FRANCIS. There is no time now for reflection; your fate is in my hands. Would you rather pine away the remainder of your days in the deepest of my dungeons, where hunger shall compel you to gnaw your own bones, and burning thirst make you suck your own blood? Or would you rather eat your bread in peace, and have rest in your old age?
DANIEL. What, my lord! Peace and rest in my old age? And I a murderer?
FRANCIS. Answer my question!
DANIEL. My gray hairs! my gray hairs!
FRANCIS. Yes or no!
DANIEL. No! God have mercy upon me!
FRANCIS (in the act of going). Very well! you shall have need of it. (DANIEL detains him and falls on his knees before him.)
DANIEL. Mercy, master! mercy!
FRANCIS. Yes or no!
DANIEL. Most gracious master! I am this day seventy-one years of age! and have honored my father and my mother, and, to the best of my knowledge, have never in the whole course of my life defrauded any one to the value of a farthing,—and I have adhered to my creed truly and honestly, and have served in your house four-and-forty years, and am now calmly awaiting a quiet, happy end. Oh, master! master! (violently clasping his knees) and would you deprive me of my only solace in death, that the gnawing worm of an evil conscience may cheat me of my last prayer? that I may go to my long home an abomination in the sight of God and man? No, no! my dearest, best, most excellent, most gracious master! you do not ask that of an old man turned threescore and ten!
FRANCIS. Yes or no! What is the use of all this palaver?
DANIEL. I will serve you from this day forward more diligently than ever; I will wear out my old bones in your service like a common day-laborer; I will rise earlier and lie down later. Oh, and I will remember you in my prayers night and morning; and God will not reject the prayer of an old man.
FRANCIS. Obedience is better than sacrifice. Did you ever hear of the hangman standing upon ceremony when he was told to execute a sentence?
DANIEL. That is very true? but to murder an innocent man—one—
FRANCIS. Am I responsible to you? Is the axe to question the hangman why he strikes this way and not that? But see how forbearing I am. I offer you a reward for performing what you owe me in virtue of your allegiance.
DANIEL. But, when I swore allegiance to you, I at least hoped that I should be allowed to remain a Christian.
FRANCIS. No contradiction! Look you! I give you the whole day to think about it! Ponder well on it. Happiness or misery. Do you hear— do you understand? The extreme of happiness or the extreme of misery! I can do wonders in the way of torture.
DANIEL (after some reflection). I'll do it; I will do it to-morrow.[Exit.]
FRANCIS. The temptation is strong, and I should think he was not born to die a martyr to his faith. Have with you, sir count! According to all ordinary calculations, you will sup to-morrow with old Beelzebub. In these matters all depends upon one's view of a thing; and he is a fool who takes any view that is contrary to his own interest. A father quaffs perhaps a bottle of wine more than ordinary—he is in a certain mood—the result is a human being, the last thing that was thought of in the affair. Well, I, too, am in a certain mood,—and the result is that a human being perishes; and surely there is more of reason and purpose in this than there was in his production. If the birth of a man is the result of an animal paroxysm, who should take it into his head to attach any importance to the negation of his birth? A curse upon the folly of our nurses and teachers, who fill our imaginations with frightful tales, and impress fearful images of punishment upon the plastic brain of childhood, so that involuntary shudders shake the limbs of the man with icy fear, arrest his boldest resolutions, and chain his awakening reason in the fetters of superstitious darkness. Murder! What a hell full of furies hovers around that word. Yet 'tis no more than if nature forgets to bring forth one man more or the doctor makes a mistake—and thus the whole phantasmagoria vanishes. It was something, and it is nothing. Does not this amount to exactly the same thing as though it had been nothing, and came to nothing; and about nothing it is hardly worth while to waste a word. Man is made of filth, and for a time wades in filth, and produces filth, and sinks back into filth, till at last he fouls the boots of his own posterity.*