The Robbers (Schiller)/Act III
ACT III.
SCENE, A Garden.
Amelia, sitting in a pensive attitude. Enter Francis, both of them in deep mourning.
Francis.
What, still here, my little obstinate enthusiast? You stole away from our entertainment.—My guests were in charming spirits, but you disturb'd all our mirth.
Amelia.
Shame on such mirth! When your father's funeral dirge is yet sounding in your ears.
Francis.
What, still sorrowing? Will those pretty eyes never be dry?—Come, let the dead sleep in their graves,—and be the joy of the living.—I am just come
Amelia.
And when do you depart?
Francis.
Fy now! Why that haughty, that severe countenance? You distress me much, Amelia.—I come to inform you
Amelia.
What I know already,—that Francis de Moor is now the lord and master.—
Francis.
Precisely so.—It was upon that subject I wanted to talk with you.—Maximilian de Moor is gone to sleep with his fathers.—I am now the lord of these domains, and all that they contain.—Pardon me, Amelia: I wish to be the lord of all.—You know that you were properly a part of our family.—You know, my father regarded you as his own child:—You have not forgot him, Amelia:—You never will forget him.
Amelia.
Never, Sir!—Never!—No banquet, no mirth and revelry, shall banish his idea from my mind.
Francis.
Pious affection! But what you owed to the father, the sons sure now may claim;—and Charles being dead.—Ha! You are surprised! overwhelmed! are you not? Ay truly, so flattering a thought, a prospect so brilliant, and that so suddenly presented to your mind, was too much even for woman's pride—That Francis de Moor should spurn the proud ambition of the noblest families, and offer at the feet of a poor orphan, destitute and helpless, his heart, his hand, his wealth, these castles and domains!—He, whom all envy, all fear, declare himself Amelia's voluntary slave!
Amelia.
Why does the thunder sleep? nor cleave that impious tongue?—Curs'd wretch! my Charles's murderer! and thou hopest to be the husband of Amelia? Thou!
Francis.
Less heat, my Princess!—Not quite so high a tone!—Think not you have a lover who will bow at a distance, and sigh, and coo, and woo you like a Celadon.—No; Francis de Moor has not learnt, like the Arcadian swains, to breathe his amorous plaints to the caves, and rocks, and echoes.—He speaks;—and when he is not answered,—he commands.—
Amelia.
Worm! reptile! Thou command!—Command me? And if I laugh to scorn your commands, what then?
Francis.
A cloister, and imprisonment.—I know how to tame, to break that proud spirit.—
Amelia.
Ha! excellent!—Welcome the cloister and imprisonment, that hides me from the glances of that basilisk.—There I shall be free to think of Charles, to dwell on that dear image.—Away, away! haste to that blest abode!
Francis.
Is it so then?—Thanks for that instruction.—Now I have learnt the art to gall you.—This head, armed like another fury with her snakes, shall fright your Charles from your heart.—The horrible Francis shall lurk behind the picture of your lover, like the hound of hell.—I will drag you by those locks to the altar, and, with my dagger, force from your quivering heart the nuptial oath.
Amelia.
(Strikes him.) Take this love-token first.
Francis.
Hah! tenfold, and twice tenfold, shall be my vengeance. My wife! No:—that honour you never shall enjoy.—You shall be my wench, my paramour.—The honest peasant's wife shall point at you,—shall hoot you in the streets.—Ay, grind your teeth!—and scatter fire and murder from those eyes.—A woman's fury is my joy, my pastime;—'tis my heart's delight to see her thus!—These struggles shall enhance my triumph.—How sweet is enjoyment when thus forced, thus ravished.—Come to the altar,—this instant come. (Endeavours to force her.)
Amelia.
(Throwing herself about his neck.) Pardon me, Francis. (When going to take her in his arms, she draws out his sword, and steps back a few paces.) See'st thou now, villain, what I can do?—I am a woman,—but a woman, when in furyDare to come near me,—and this steel, my uncle's hand shall guide it to thy heart.—Fly me this instant. (She pursues him out with the sword.) Ah! Now I am at ease! I can breathe again.—I felt a tyger's rage,—the mettled courser's strength—To a cloister, did he say?—thanks for that blessed thought! Love, forlorn and hopeless love, finds there a kind retreat!—The grave of buried love!
(Exit.
SCENE, The Banks of the Danube.
The Robbers stationed on a height, while their horses are grasing on the declivity below.
Moor.
I must rest here. (He throws himself on the ground.) My joints are shook asunder;—my tongue cleaves to my mouth,—dry as a potsherd.—I would beg of some of you to fetch me a little water in the hollow of your hand from yonder brook, but you are all weary to death. (While he is speaking, Switzer goes out unperceived, to fetch him some water.)
Grimm.
Our wine-cantines are empty long ago.—How glorious, how majestic, yonder setting sun!
Moor.
(Lost in contemplation.) 'Tis thus the hero falls;—'tis thus he dies,—in godlike majesty!
Grimm.
The sight affects you, Sir!
Moor.
When I was yet a boy,—a mere child,—it was my favourite thought,—my wish to live like him! (Pointing to the sun.) Like him to die. (Suppressing his anguish.) 'Twas an idle thought, a boy's conceit!
Grimm.
It was so.
Moor.
(Pulling his hat over his eyes.) There was a time.—Leave me, my friends—alone
Grimm.
Moor! Moor! 'Sdeath! How his countenance changes!
Razman.
Zounds! what is the matter with him?—Is he ill?
Moor.
There was a time, when I could not go to sleep, if I had forgot my prayers!
Grimm.
Have you lost your senses? What! yet a school-boy!—'Twere fit indeed such thoughts should vex you!
Moor.
(Resting his head on Grimm's bosom.) Brother! Brother!
Grimm.
Come, come—be not a child, I beg it of you—
Moor.
A child! Oh that I were a child once more!
Grimm.
Fy, fy! Clear up that cloudy brow! Look yonder, what a landskip! what a lovely evening!
Moor.
Ay, my friend! that scene so noble!—this world so beautiful!
Grimm.
Why, that's talking like a man.
Moor.
This earth so grand!
Grimm.
Well said!—That's what I like!
Moor.
And I so hideous in this world of beauty—and I a monster on this magnificent earth—the prodigal son!
Grimm.
(Affectionately.) Moor! Moor!
Moor.
My innocence! O my innocence!—See how all nature expands at the sweet breath of spring.—O God! that this paradise—this heaven, should be a hell to me!—When all is happiness—all in the sweet spirit of peace—the world one family—and its Father there above!—who is not my Father!—I alone the outcast—the prodigal son!—Of all the children of his mercy, I alone rejected. (Starting back with horror.) The companion of murderers—of viperous fiends—bound down, enchained to guilt and horror!
Razman.
'Tis inconceivable! I never saw him thus mov'd before.
Moor.
(With great emotion.) Oh! that I could return once more into the womb that bare me! that I hung an infant on the breast! that I were born a beggar—the meanest hind—a peasant of the field! I would toil till the sweat of blood dropt from my brow, to purchase the luxury of one sound sleep, the rapture of a single tear!
Grimm.
(To the rest.) Peace, O peace!—the paroxism will soon be over.
Moor.
There was a time when I could weep with ease.—O days of bliss!—Mansion of my fathers! O vales so green, so beautiful! scenes of my infant years, enjoy'd by fond enthusiasm! will you no more return? no more exhale your sweets to cool this burning bosom!—Oh never, never shall they return—no more refresh this bosom with the breath of peace. They are gone! gone for ever!
Enter Switzer, with water in his hat.
Switzer.
Captain, here drink! water fresh and cool as ice.—
Grimm.
What is the matter, Switzer?—you are bleeding.
Switzer.
Matter? a mere joke—a trifling accident, that might have cost me only my neck and a couple of legs.—I was going trotting along a steep bank of the river on the brow of yonder declivity—'Tis all sand, you know—Plump, in a moment, down goes the bank under my feet, and I made a clever tumble of ten good Rhenish yards at the least—there I lay for a while like a log and when I came to my senses, I found myself safe on the gravel, and fine fresh water just at my hand.—Poh! not a bad caper, said I, since I've got my Captain a drink by it!
Moor.
(Gives back the hat to Switzer, and wipes his face.) Why, you're all so besmeared, one can't see the cuts you got from the Bohemian dragoons.—Your water was very good, Switzer.—These cuts become you, man!
Switzer.
Poh! There's room enough for twenty more of 'em.
Moor.
Ay, my boys—it was a hot day's work—and only one friend lost.—Poor Roller! he had a glorious death! If he had died in any cause but ours, he'd had a marble monument!—Let this suffice—this tear from a man's cheek! (He wipes his eyes.) Do you remember how many of our enemies were left dead on the field?
Switzer.
Sixty Hussars—ninety three dragoons, and about forty light horse—in all, two hundred!
Moor.
Two hundred for one man!—Every one of you has his claims upon this head. (He takes off his hat.) Here I lift this poniard—so may my soul find life or death eternal, as I keep faith with you!
Switzer.
Don't swear! you don't know, if good fortune should once more smile upon you, but repentance
Moor.
No! by the ghost of Roller! I never will forsake you!
Enter Kozinski.
Kozinski.
They told me I should find him somewhere hereabout.—Ha! halloa!—What faces are these?—Should they be—if these were the men—yes, they are—I'll speak to them.
Grimm.
Have a care! Who goes there?
Kozinski.
Gentlemen, excuse me—I don't know if I am right or not.
Moor.
Suppose right.—Whom do you take us for?
Kozinski.
For men!
Switzer.
Have we shown ourselves to be so, Captain?
Kozinski.
I seek for men who can look death in the face—who can play with danger as with a tamed snake—who prize liberty above life and fame—whose names speak comfort to the oppres'd, who can appal the bold, and make the tyrant shudder!
Switzer.
(To the Captain.) I like this fellow.—Hear me, good friend! you have found the men you want.
Kozinski.
I think so,—and hope I shall be anon their fellow.—You can point me out the man I look for,—'tis your Captain, the great Count de Moor.
Switzer.
(Gives him his hand cordially.) We are brothers, my boy!
Moor.
Would you know this Captain?
Kozinski.
Thou art he!—in those features—that air,—Who could look at you, and not discover it?—(Looking earnestly at him for a long time.) It has been long my wish to see that man, whose countenance spoke terrors,—whose eye could not be borne;—'twas he who sat on the ruins of Carthage.—Now my wish is satisfied!
Switzer.
A fine mettled fellow!
Moor.
And who sent you to me?
Kozinski.
O Captain!—Fate, the cruellest fate!—I have been shipwreck'd on the stormy ocean of the world.—I have seen my fondest hopes evaporate in air,—and nought remain but the bitter recollection of disappointment;—a recollection that would drive me to madness, if I sought not to drown it, in feeding this restless, this impetuous spirit with new objects of pursuit.
Moor.
Here is another of heaven's outcasts.—Go on.—
Kozinski
I have been a soldier, and in that station unfortunate:—I embark'd for the Indies;—my vessel went to pieces in a storm;—and all my projects failed:—At last, I heard of the fame of your great exploits,—assassinations, as they term them;—and I have made a journey of forty miles in the firm resolution of offering you my services, if you deign to accept of them.—I intreat you, noble Captain, refuse not my request.
Switzer.
(Leaping with joy.) Huzza boys! Roller again, a thousand times over! A noble fellow for our troop!
Moor.
What is your name?
Kozinski.
Kozinski.
Moor.
What! Kozinski? Let me tell you, you are a light-headed young fellow, and that you are ready to take the most decisive step of life with no more consideration than a thoughtless girl. Here there's no game at bowls, no tennis-play, as you may perhaps imagine.
Kozinski.
I understand you, Sir—But you mistake me. 'Tis true—I am but four-and-twenty—but I have seen the clashing of swords, and heard the balls whistle before now.
Moor.
Have you so, young master? And have you learn'd the use of arms for no other purpose than to kill a poor traveller for a few dollars, or knock down women behind their backs? Go, go, you have run away from your nurse, child, who has threaten'd to whip you.
Switzer.
What the devil, Captain! What do you mean? Would you dismiss this Hercules, this glorious fellow, whose very look would scare Julius Cæsar into a coal-hole?
Moor.
And so when your wrong-headed schemes misgave, you thought you would go seek for an assassin.—You would become an assassin yourself.—'Sdeath, young man. Do you know what that word means? You may perhaps sleep sound, after beheading a few poppies—but to carry a murder on your soul
Kozinski.
I'll answer for all the murders that you shall give me in charge.
Moor.
What! are you so clever, then—would you take one in by a cajoling speech?—How know you whether I may n't have my bad dreams—whether I sha'nt flinch when I come to my death-bed?—How many things have you done, for which you thought you had to answer on account?
Kozinski.
Why, truly not much, except this last journey to you, my Noble Count.
Moor.
Has your tutor been amusing you with the history of Robin Hood?—Such senseless scoundrels should be sent to the galleys.—And thus you have heated your childish imagination with the conceit of being a great man.—Do you thirst for fame? for honour? Would you buy immortality by murders? Mark me well, young man! no laurel springs for the assassin—no triumph waits the victories of the robber—but curses, dangers, death, disgrace!—Seest thou yon gibbet on the side of the hill?
Spiegelberg.
(Walking about in a huff.) What an ass! blockhead; abominable, stupid ass! Is that the way? I would have set about it in another manner.
Kozinski.
What shall he fear, who does not fear death?
Moor.
Bravo! well said! you have been a clever youth at school—you have got your Seneca by heart most perfectly.—But, my good friend, with those fine sentences you will not lull to sleep the sufferings of nature—they will avail you nought against the sharp tooth of anguish.—Think well, young man, (he takes him by the hand,) think on the step you are going to take—I advise you as a parent—sound first the depth of the precipice, before you dare to leap it.—If in this world you can yet catch at a single glimpse of joy—there may be moments when you would awake—and then—it might be too late.—Here thou withdraw'st thyself at once from the circle of humanity.—Man thou must be, or devil.—Once more then, my son, let me intreat—if one spark of hope lurks in your bosom, fly this dreadful association.—You may deceive yourself, impose on your own mind—and take perhaps for fire, for spirit, what in the end is despair.—Take my counsel—retreat—fly, while it is yet time.
Kozinski.
No! never will I fly.—If you refuse my entreaty, hear at least the story of my misfortunes.—Yourself will then put a dagger into my hand—you will.—But sit down here a moment, and listen to me with attention.
Moor.
I'll hear you.
Kozinski.
Know, then, I am a gentleman of Bohemia.—By the sudden death of my father, I became master of a considerable estate.—In the neighbourhood—a paradise to me, there dwelt an angel—a young lady, beautiful beyond expression—and chaste as the light of heaven.—But why speak thus to you, who cannot comprehend me—You never loved! you never were beloved!
Switzer.
Softly, softly!—How our Captain reddens!
Moor.
Have done!—I'll hear you another time—to-morrow—another time—when I have seen blood!—
Kozinski.
Blood, blood?—Only hear me, Sir! Your soul shall be satiated with blood.She was of plebeian birth, a German—but such her air and look as to dispel those mean prejudices.—With sweet reserve, and the most amiable modesty, she had accepted a ring from my hand, as a pledge of the sincerity of my vows, and the next day I was to have led my Amelia to the altar!—(Moor rises up.) While in this state of rapturous bliss, and in the midst of the preparations for our nuptials, I was called to court by an express order.—I went—They produced letters to me of the most treasonable nature, which it was alledged I had written.—I blushed at the baseness of the attempt.—My sword was instantly taken from me, and I hurried to a dungeon, where for some time my senses entirely forsook me.
Switzer.
And notwithstanding—Well, go on.—I see what must follow[1].
Kozinski.
Here I remained a tedious month, and knew not the extent of my misfortune.—I suffered the most extreme anxiety for my Amelia, to whom I knew that my imprisonment would give the deepest affliction.—At length I had a visit from the first minister, who was pleased to congratulate me on the full proof of my innocence, and, with many flattering compliments, he read me the warrant for my release, and gave me back my sword. I flew in triumph to my country-seat, to clasp my lov'd Amelia in my arms—She was gone—she had been carried off in the middle of the night, and none could tell where—no creature had seen, or could give any account of her.—This was a thunderstroke—I flew to town—made enquiry at court.—Every body's eyes were fixed upon me— but none could give me the least intelligence.—At last, through a grated window of the palace, I discovered my Amelia—she contrived to throw me a letter
Switzer.
Did n't I say so?
Kozinski.
Death and fire! Thus stood the case—'Twas given her in choice, either to see her lover die, or to become the Prince's mistress.—She decided the contest between love and honour, (smiling),—by saving me!
Switzer.
Well—what did you do then?
Kozinski.
I remained fix'd to the spot, as if I had been struck with lightning.—Blood was my first thought! blood my last!—I foam'd at the mouth, like a tyger—seizing a three-edged sword, I ran furiously to the palace of the minister—he had been the infamous pander.—They had perceived me while in the street; for, when I got in, I found all the apartments locked.—In answer to my eager enquiries, I was told he was gone to wait on the Prince.—Thither I flew directly—he was not to be found.—I return'd once more to his house, forc'd open the door of his apartment, and there found the base wretch—but at the very moment five of six of his domestics beset me at once, and took my sword from me.
Switzer.
(Stamps with his feet.) And was nothing done to the wretch?—no vengeance?—
Kozinski.
I was immediately thrown in irons—brought to trial—condemn'd—and mark me now—by a singular exertion of lenity—banish'd as a malefactor from the Prince's dominions for ever—my whole fortune confiscated to the minister.—Amelia, poor Amelia, remains as a lamb within the tyger's grasp,—and I must bend submissive to the yoke of despotism.
Switzer.
(Rises, and whets his sword.) Captain! this is something to work upon—this must set us a-going[2]
Moor.
(Who had been walking about in great agitation, stops all at once.) I must see her—come along—rise there.—Kozinski, thou remain'st with us.—Quick—prepare to set out this moment!
The Robbers.
Where?—What now?
Moor.
Where!—Who is it that asks where? (To Switzer.) Traitor, I know you want to keep me back.—But, by the hope of heaven! if
Switzer.
Traitor! I a traitor?—Lead on to hell, and I'll follow you!
Moor.
(Falls on his neck.) Yes, brother! I know you will.—She suffers in anguish and despair—that is enough—Come, my brave boys!—Courage—To Franconia we go!—there we must be within eight days.
(Exeunt.
End of Act Third.