The Robbers (Schiller)/Act IV

by Friedrich von Schiller

ACT IV.

SCENE, A Gallery in the Castle of Moor.

Charles de Moor in disguise, under the name of Count de Braund, and Amelia looking at a picture in the apartment,—the habit of a nun lying on the table.

Moor.

(With emotion.) He was a most excellent man!

Amelia.

You appear, Sir, to take a great interest in that picture.

Moor.

(Still looking earnestly at the picture.) A most excellent—a most worthy man!—And is he now no more?

Amelia.

No more.—Thus every joy of life must vanish. (Takes his hand affectionately.) Count! All sublunary bliss is vain!

Moor.

'Tis even so! most true! Can you have proved that truth already?—you, who scarcely yet have seen your twentieth year?

Amelia.

Yes, I have proved it!—We are called into life, only to die in sorrow.—We gain a little, that we may lose it with tears;—we engage our heart—only that those hearts may break!—

Moor.

What! have you already lost so much?

Amelia.

Nothing!—all!—nothing!

Moor.

And would you learn forgetfulness in that holy garb that lies there?

Amelia.

To-morrow I hope to do so.——Shall we continue our walk, Sir?

Moor.

So soon? Whose picture is that on the right hand? He has, methinks, a countenance that bespeaks misfortune.——

Amelia.

The picture on the left is the Count's son—he who is now master here.

Moor.

His only son?

Amelia.

Come, come away——

Moor.

But whose is that picture on the right hand?

Amelia.

Won't you walk into the garden? Come—

Moor.

But that picture on the right hand?—You are in tears, Amelia?

(Amelia goes out with precipitation.)

Moor alone.

She loves me! loves me still!—Her tears betray her! Yes, she loves me!———Oh heavens! is that the couch on which we so oft have sat—where I have hung in rapture on her neck? Are these my father's halls?—O days of bliss for ever past!—for ever! Ah! How the dear remembrance of those days shoots through my soul, like the first burst of spring!—O wretch! here should have been thy happy residence—here shouldst thou have pass'd thy days—honoured, respected, loved—here shouldst thou have seen the years of thy blest infancy revive in the blooming offspring of thy Amelia—here received the willing homage of thy happy dependants.—No more!—I must return—return to misery!—Farewel, dear mansion! my father's house!—scenes that have seen me in my years of childhood, when my free bosom beat with rapture—that have seen me this day miserable—in despair! (Walks towards the door, and then suddenly stops.) Shall I never behold her more?—not for a last adieu!—no more kiss those dear lips!—Yes, I will see her once more—once more enfold her in my arms—were I to die for it.—I must have one greedy draught of the poison of delight—and then I go as far as ocean—and despair shall bear me!

(Exit.

SCENE, A Chamber in the Castle.

Francis de Moor.

(In a deep reverie.) Begone, thou horrible image! begone!—What a coward I am!—What art thou afraid of?—Whom?—Does not this Count, this stranger, seem a spy of hell, to dog me at the heels?—Methinks I should know him.—There is something great—something, methinks, that I have seen before—in those wild and sunburnt features:—Something that makes me tremble! (He walks about for some time, and then rings the bell.) Who's there?——Francis, take care!—something lurks there for thy perdition!

Enter Daniel.

Daniel.

What are your commands, Sir?

Francis.

(Looking stedfastly at him for a considerable time.) Nothing.—Begone! Fill me some wine there—but quick.

(Exit Daniel.

Francis.

No matter—the rascal will confess all, if I put him to the torture.—I'll penetrate him with a look so dreadful, that his conscience shall betray him. (He stops before a portrait of Charles, and examines it.) That long crane's neck!—those dark, lowering eye-brows!—that eye that shoots fire! (Shuddering.) All-blasting hell! is it thy presentiment?—'Tis he! it must be Charles himself!

Enter Daniel, with a cup of wine.

Put it down there.—Look at me—stedfastly!—What, your knees are shaking!—you tremble! confess, Sir!—What have you done?

Daniel.

Nothing—as I hope for mercy!——

Francis.

Drink that wine off.—What,—do you hesitate? Speak!—quick!—What have you put in that wine?——

Daniel.

So help me, God!—nothing!——

Francis.

You have put poison in the wine!—Are you not as pale as ashes?—Confess, wretch, confess!—Who gave it you?—Was it not the Count—the Count who gave it you?

Daniel.

The Count! Almighty God! the Count has given me nothing!

Francis.

(Taking hold of him.) I'll gripe you black in the face, liar! old hoary traitor! Nothing?—Why then were you so often together?—you and he—and Amelia?—What were you whispering of?—Have I not seen her bold, her shameless glances at him? she who affected such a modest air!—Did I not observe her, when by stealth she dropp'd a tear into his wine—and how he swallowed it with such avidity?—I perceived it—in the glass I saw it—with these eyes I saw it.

Daniel.

God knows! I know not a single syllable of all that.

Francis.

Will you deny it?—give me the lie to my face? What plots, what machinations, have you devised to get rid of me?—To smother me in my sleep? to cut my throat?—to poison me in my drink—drug my meals? Confess it, wretch!—confess it this instant!—I know it all.——

Daniel.

As the living God shall save me—nothing have I said but the truth!

Francis.

Well! This once I forgive you—But I know he has given you money.—Did not he squeeze your hand?—Yes, harder than usual—like an old acquaintance?——

Daniel.

Never, indeed, Sir!

Francis.

For example—did n't he say that he knew you well—that perhaps you might know him—that one day you might discover—How? did n't he say something of that kind?

Daniel.

Not a word of it, Sir.

Francis.

That he would be revenged?—horribly revenged?

Daniel.

Not a syllable!

Francis.

What! Not a syllable?—Recollect yourself.—Have you forgot that he said he knew your late master well—very particularly well—that he loved him much—loved him as a son loves a father?—

Daniel.

I do remember—I think I heard him say something of that kind.

Francis.

(Alarm'd.) Did he say it?—say those words?—did he say he was my brother?—

Daniel.

No, he did not say that.—But when Miss Amelia was walking with him in the gallery—I was listening at the door—he stopp'd before my late master's picture, as if he had been thunderstruck—and Miss Amelia pointed to the picture, and said He was an excellent man—Yes, said he, "most excellent;" and he wiped his eyes when he said it.

Francis.

Go! quick! Call Herman hither!

(Exit Daniel.

'Tis clear as day!—'Tis Charles!—He will now come, and imperiously ask—Where is my inheritance?——And is it for this that I have lost my sleep—moved heaven and earth for this! stifled the cries of nature in my breast—and now when the reward should come—this vagabond, this beggar, steps between, and with his horrid hand tears all this fine spun web.—Softly—'Tis but a step—an easy one—a little murder!—None but a driveller would leave his work imperfect—or idly look on till time should finish it.——

Enter Herman.

Francis.

Ha! Welcome, my Eurypylus—my prompt, my active instrument!

Herman.

(Abruptly, and with rudeness.) What did you want with me, Count?

Francis.

That you should give the finishing stroke to your work—put the seal to it——

Herman.

Really?

Francis.

Give the picture the last touch.

Herman.

Poh!

Francis.

Shall I call the carriage! we'll talk over that at our airing?

Herman.

Less ceremony, Sir, if you please.—All the business that you and I have to settle to-day, may be done within the four walls of this apartment.—Mean time, a word or two with you by way of preface, which may perhaps save your breath in our after-communing.

Francis.

(Reservedly.) Hm! And what may those words be?

Herman.

(With a malignant tone of irony.) "Thou shalt have Amelia, I say—and from my hand."

Francis.

(With astonishment.) Herman!

Herman.

(In the same tone of irony, and turning his back upon him.) "Amelia has lost every support, and is the play-thing of my will.—Then you may easily guess what follows—in short all goes to a wish." (With an indignant laugh, and then haughtily to Francis.) Now Count de Moor, what have you to say to me?

Francis.

(Evasively.) To you? nothing—I had something to say to Herman.

Herman.

A truce with shuffling—Why was I sent for hither?—Was it to be a second time your fool? To hold the ladder for a thief to mount—to sell my soul, to catch a hangman's fee? What else did you want with me?

Francis.

Ha! by the way, (as if recollecting,) we must not forget the main point—Did not my valet de chambre mention it to you—I wanted to talk with you about the dowry?——

Herman.

Sir, this is bantering—or worse.—Moor, take care of yourself—beware how you kindle my fury.—Moor, we are here alone—my name is at stake against yours.—Trust not the devil, though you have raised him yourself.

Francis.

(Affecting a haughty air.) Is it thus, Sir, you speak to your master?—Tremble, slave!

Herman.

(Ironically.) For fear of losing your favour? a mighty loss—to one who is at war with himself. —Moor, I abhor you for a villain—don't make me laugh at you for a fool too—I can open tombs! and raise the dead to life!—Which of us two is now the slave?

Francis.

(Smoothly.) Come, good friend, be politic—show yourself a man of sense—don't be false to your word——

Herman.

To detect a wretch like you is the best policy—to keep faith with you would be an utter want of sense.—Faith with whom? with the father of lies—the arch-imposter!—Oh! such faith makes me shudder!—Treason is virtue here—and perfidy a faint-like quality.—But stay a little—patience!—vengeance is cunning.

Francis.

Oh! by the by—what a fool I was to forget! Did n't you lose a purse lately in this room? a hundred louis was n't it? Hah! I had almost forgot that.—Here, my good friend, take what's your own. (Offers him a purse.)

Herman.

(Throws it from him with contempt.) Curse on your Judas bribe—the earnest of damnation! —You thought to make my poverty a pander to my conscience!—But there you are soil'd, Sir, thrown out entirely.—Another purse of gold you know of may help to maintain certain folks—to furnish sustenance for———

Francis.

(With a countenance expressive of fear.) Herman, Herman! don't make me think you a traitor.—Were you to make any other use of that money than you ought to do—you were the vilest of traitors.

Herman.

(Triumphantly.) Ay truly! say you so? then know, Count Moor—I will enhance your shame—double your mess of infamy—I will prepare a banquet for you, where the whole world shall be the guests!—You understand me now, Sir—my most revered, most gracious master!

Francis.

(Quite disconcerted.) Ha! devil! Curst impostor! (Striking his forehead.) Beast that I was, to stake my fortune on a fool's caprice! 'Twas brutish!——

Herman.

Whew!—O 'twas shrewd—'twas cunning!

Francis.

(Biting his lip.) Most true—and ever will be true—there is no thread so feebly spun, as that which weaves the bands of guilt!

Herman.

Ha! what now? are angels now degraded, and the devils turn'd moralists?

Francis.

(Starts off abruptly, and with a malignant smile.) And certain folks will have much honour to be sure in their conduct.——

Herman.

(Clapping his hands.) Bravo! inimitable!—You play your part to admiration—You draw the poor fool into the snare—then wo be on his head, if he attempts to escape—O cunning fiend!—And yet, (Clapping him on the shoulder.) Sir Count! You have not got your lesson yet quite perfect.—By heavens, you must first know how far the losing gamester will venture.—Set fire to the powder-room, says the pirate, and blow all to hell—both friend and foe!

Francis.

(Goes to take down a pistol from the wall.) Here's treason—deliberate—

Herman.

(Draws out a large pistol from his pocket, and takes an aim.) Don't give yourself so much trouble—One's prepar'd for all events with you.

Francis.

(Lets fall his pistol, and throws himself back in a chair in great confusion.) Keep my secret—at least till—I—collect my thoughts.

Herman.

Yes—till you have hired a dozen assassins to seal my mouth for ever.—But heark'ee, (in his ear,) the secret is contained in a certain paper—which my heirs will open.

(Exit.

Francis.

(Alone.) What was that, Francis? Where was your courage? Your preference of mind, that us'd to be so prompt?—Betray'd by my own instruments!—The props of my good luck begin to totter—the mound is broken—and all will speedily give way to the enemy.—Now for a quick resolve—But how? but what?——If I durst but do it—to come behind him and stab him!—Durst! a wounded man's a child—I'll do it. (Stalks backwards and forwards, and then stops as if hesitating from fear.) Who's that behind me? (Rolling his eyes.) What figures are these—what sounds—yet I think I have courage—courage! yes—But if my shadow should discover me while I struck him—or a glass—or the whizzing of my arm. Ugh!—How my hair bristles!—(He lets fall a poniard from under his clothes.)—No, I am no coward—tender-hearted only—yes, that is it.—These are virtue's struggles—I honour this feeling—To kill my brother with my own hand! No, that were monstrous! No, no, no:—Let me cherish this vestige of humanity—I will not murder—Nature, thou hast conquer'd—There's something here that feels like—tenderness—Yes, he shall live.

(Exit.

SCENE, A Garden.

Amelia alone, sitting in an arbour, where several cover'd walks are seen to centre.

Amelia.

"You are in tears, Amelia!"—These were his words—and spoken with that expression.—Oh it summoned up a thousand dear remembrances—scenes of past delight—as in my days of happiness—my golden spring of love—Hark!—'tis the nightingale! O such was thy song, sweet bird, in those blest days—so bloom'd the flowers—and then I lay enraptured on his neck.—Sure, if the spirits of the dead hover around the living, this stranger is the angel of my Charles.—O false and faithless heart! and dost thou seek thus artfully to veil thy perfidy?—No, no—begone for ever from this breast, the weak, the impious wish.—Here, in this heart, where Charles lies buried, shall never human being fill his place.—And yet this stranger, this unknown—'tis wonderful my thoughts should dwell thus strong, thus constantly upon him—as 'twere my Charles's picture—his features seem to melt into the very image—of my only love! "You are in tears, Amelia!" Ha! let me fly!—To-morrow I am a saint—(Rises up.) A saint! Poor heart! O what a word was that?—how sweet to this ear was once that word—but now—now—O heart, thou hast betrayed me. I believed thee vanquish'd, and thought it fortitude—alas! 'twas but despair! (She sits down in the arbour, and covers her face with her hands.)

Enter Herman from one of the covered walks.

Herman.

(To himself.) Now let the tempest rage, tho' it should sink me to the bottom^[1]! (Sees Amelia.) Miss Amelia, Miss Amelia!

Amelia.

Ha! a spy! What seek you here?

Herman.

I bring you news—sweet, pleasant—horrible news.—If you are disposed to forgive, you shall hear wonders.

Amelia.

I have nothing to forgive.—Let me be spared your news.

Herman.

Do you not mourn a lover?

Amelia.

(Measuring him with a long look.) Child of ill-luck, what right have you to ask that question?

Herman.

The right of hate—of love——

Amelia.

Can there be love beneath a garb like that?

Herman.

Ay, even to make a man—a villain!—Had you not an uncle who died lately?

Amelia.

(With tenderness.) A father!

Herman.

They are alive! (Exit with precipitation.)

Amelia.

My Charles alive! (Running out, half frantic, after Herman, she meets Charles de Moor, who is entering by one of the walks.)

Moor.

Whither do you run, my child—thus wild, thus frantic?

Amelia.

Earth, swallow me up! That man!

Moor.

I came to bid you adieu.—But, oh heavens!—to meet you thus!

Amelia.

Go, Count! Farewel!—Yet stay—how happy had I been had you not come at this moment! O had you never come!

Moor.

You had been happy then? Farewel for ever!

(Is going out.)

Amelia.

Stay—for heaven's sake, stay!—I meant not so—O God, why did I not mean so?—Tell me, Count—what have I done that makes me seem thus guilty to myself?

Moor.

Those words are death to me!

Amelia.

My heart was so pure before my eyes beheld you.—But now—oh were they shut for ever—they have corrupted, poisoned all my heart!

Moor.

On me, me only be the curse:—thy eyes, thy heart, are guiltless, pure as angels——

Amelia.

There was his look! quite him!—O Count, I entreat—turn not on me those looks.—O spare me! spare me those looks, that stir rebellion in my breast.—O traitor Fancy, that paint'st him to my mind in every glance.—Begone, Sir—or take a crocodile's foul form, and you will please me more.

Moor.

(With a look expressive of the most passionate affection.) Young woman, that is false!

Amelia.

(Tenderly.) And if you should be faithless; if you should seek to ruin, to betray this weak, this woman's heart.—But how can falsehood dwell in eyes that look like his—that seem his own reflected?—And yet, O better it were so—and thou wert false, that I might hate thee! And yet more wretched still, should I not love thee! (Moor presses her hand to his lips with ardour.) Thy kisses burn like fire.

Moor.

'Tis my soul that burns in them!

Amelia.

Go! leave me—while it is not too late.—There is fortitude in a man's bosom.—Show that thou hast that strength of mind, and share it with me!

Moor.

Can he show fortitude who sees thee tremble?—No, here I fix me fast. (Embraces her, and lays his head on her bosom.) Here I will die!

Amelia.

(In great confusion.) Away! leave me! What have you done? Away with those lips. (She struggles with a faint endeavour.) An impious fire burns in my veins. (Tenderly, and drown'd in tears.) And didst thou come from the uttermost verge of earth to extinguish in this heart its holy flame—that love which had defied even death? (She presses him closer to her bosom.) God forgive you, young man!

Moor.

(In Amelia's arms.) Oh, if to die—to part the soul and body, be thus sweet—'tis heaven to die!^[2]

Amelia.

(With rapturous tenderness.) There where thou art, has he been a thousand times—and I, when thus I held him, forgot there was a heaven or earth.—Here his delighted eye rang'd over Nature's beauties, and felt her power with rapture. Here with enthusiasm he saw, he owned the all-pervading energy of the universal Parent; and his noble countenance, illuminated with the great idea, acquired, methought, new beauty.—Here heard the nightingale his voice—more heavenly than her own.—Here from this rose-tree he pull'd fresh roses—for me—'Twas here, oh here, he held me to his heart—and pres'd his burning lips to mine. (They give way to their emotions without controul, and mingle their kisses.) O Charles! now strike me dead! My vows are broken!

Moor.

(Tearing himself from her, as if in frenzy.) Can this be hell that snares me? (Gazing on her.)—I am happy!

Amelia.

(Perceiving the ring upon her finger.) Art thou there,—on that guilty hand?—Witness of my perjury—Away with you! (She pulls the ring from her finger, and gives it to Moor.) Take it, too dear seducer! and with it what I hold most sacred—Oh, take my all—my Charles! (She falls back upon the seat.)

Moor.

(Turns pale.) O thou Most High! Was this thy almighty will? It is the ring I gave her—pledge of our mutual faith.——Hell, be the grave of love! She gave me back my ring!

Amelia.

(Terrified.) Heavens! What is the matter——Your eyes roll wildly—and your lips are deadly pale!—O wretch! and is the pleasure of thy crime so short?

Moor.

(Commanding himself.) Nothing—tis nothing. (Throwing up his eyes to heaven.) I am still a man. (He takes off his own ring, and puts it on Amelia's finger.) Take this! delightful fiend! And with it what I hold most sacred, take my all, my Emily!

Amelia.

(Starting up.) Your Emily!

Moor.

O she was so dear to my heart! so true, so faithful—even as angels true—When we parted, we exchanged our rings, and vowed eternal constancy.—She heard that I was dead—believed it—and was constant to the dead.—She heard I was alive—and was faithless to the living.—I flew into her arms—was happy as the blest in paradise.—Think what a thunderstroke, Amelia.!—She gave me back my ring—she took her own.——

Amelia.

(Looking on the ground with astonishment.) 'Tis strange, most strange! most horrible!

Moor.

Ay, strange and horrible!—Ay, my good girl. Oh, much there is to know, much, much to learn, e'er this poor intellect can scan His nature, who smiles at human oaths, and weeps at man's fond projects.—O but my Emily is a luckless maid, unfortunate!

Amelia.

Unfortunate! Yes, since she rejected you.

Moor.

Unfortunate.—She kiss'd the man she had betray'd.

Amelia.

(With melancholy tenderness.) O then she is indeed unfortunate! From my soul I pity her—O I could love her with a sister's love.—But there is a better world than this.

Moor.

Yes, where all eyes are opened! and where love looks back with horror.—That world is called Eternity.—Yes, yes, my Emily was a luckless maid! O most unfortunate——

Amelia.

Are all unfortunate and luckless whose name is Emily?

Moor.

Yes, all—Yes, when they think they press an angel to their heart, and grasp—a murderer!—Unfortunate indeed, my Emily!

Amelia.

(With an expression of deep affliction.) O I must weep for her!

Moor.

(Taking her hand, and shewing her the ring.) Weep for thyself.

Amelia.

(Knowing the ring.) Charles! Charles! O heaven and earth!

(She faints.—The scene closes.)

 

SCENE, A Forest seen by Moonlight.—In one part of the Scene a Ruined Tower.

 

The band of Robbers sleeping on the ground, Spiegelberg and Razman come forward in discourse.

 

Razman.

The night is far advanced—and the Captain not come yet.

Spiegelberg.

Harkee, Razman, I have a word for you in confidence.—Captain, did you say? Who made him our Captain? or rather has he not usurped that title, which by right was mine? What! Is it for this we have set our lives on the cast of a die?—Is it for this we have exposed ourselves to Fortune's spleen,—have scorned disgrace and infamy?—What! to be the dastard bondmen of a slave?—We slaves, who should be princes!—By heavens, Razman, I ne'er could brook it.

Razman.

Nor I, by Jupiter! But where's the remedy?

Spiegelberg.

The remedy? Are you one of those slaves, and ask that question?—Razman!—If you are the man I always took you for——Look'ee, they have observed his absence—nay, they almost give him up for lost.—Razman, methinks I hear his knell—What! does not your heart bound at the thought? the thought of liberty, my boy! Do you want courage for the business?

Razman.

Ha, Satan! how thou temptest me!

Spiegelberg.

What! Do you take me, boy? Come then—follow me quick—I know the road he took—A brace of pistols seldom fail.—Come along!

Switzer.

(Gets up secretly.) Ha! villain—I have not forgot the Bohemian forest—when you scream'd, like a pitiful scoundrel, that the enemy was upon us.—'Twas then I swore it by my soul—Have at your heart, you murderer! (Draws his sword—They fight.)

The Robbers.

(All starting up.) Murder! murder! Switzer—Spiegelberg.—Separate them——

Switzer.

(Stabs Spiegelberg.) There, villain! die!——Be quiet, my lads—Don't let this craven's fate alarm you^[3].—This envious rascal has always had a spite at our Captain—and the coward has not a flea-bite on his dainty skin—The rascal would stab a man behind the back—would skulk and murder.—What boots it that we waste ourselves in toil, have drench'd ourselves in sweat, have fed on fire and sulphur, if at the last we meet a coward's fate, and die like rats by poison?

Grimm.

Zounds, our Captain will be horribly enraged.

Switzer.

That's my concern alone—Shufterle play'd the same game, and he's hang'd, as our chief had prophesied for him.

(A shot is heard.

Grimm.

(Starting.) Hark! a pistol-shot!—Another!—Halloa, the Captain!

Kozinski.

Patience, we must hear a third shot.

(A third shot is heard.

Grimm.

'Tis he, 'tis he!—Switzer, conceal yourself for a moment—let me speak to him.

(They sound their horns.

Enter Moor.

Switzer.

(Running to meet him.) Welcome, Captain! I have been a little choleric in your absence. (Shews him the dead body.) Be you judge between me and this man—he wanted to murder you—to stab you in the back.

Moor.

Avenging Power! thy hand is here! Was it not he whose syren song seduced us?—Here consecrate this sword to the avenging God, whose ways are incomprehensible.—Switzer, 'twas not thy hand that did this deed.

Switzer.

Zounds! but it was my hand.—And may I be curs'd, if I think it the worst action of my life. (Throws down his sword upon the body, and goes out in a passion.)

Moor.

(Very thoughtfully.) I see it plain! Father of Heaven! I know it. The dry leaves fall around—the autumn of my days is come!——Take him out of my sight. (The body of Spiegelberg is carried out.)

Grimm.

Give us our orders, Captain! What's to be done now?

Moor.

Soon—very soon will all be accomplished.—Of late I've lost myself.—Bid your trumpets speak.—I want that music. I must be suckled like a child, and rear'd again to deeds of horror.—Blow your trumpets!

Kozinski.

Captain, this is the hour of midnight—sleep hangs heavy on our eye-lids—we have not shut an eye these three nights.

Moor.

And can soft Sleep rest on the murderer's lids? Why flies he then from me?—But I have been of late a dastard—a mere changeling. Blow your trumpets, I command you—I must have music to rouse my spirit from its lethargy. (They play a warlike piece of music—Moor walks about very thoughtful, and then gives a signal for them to stop.) Begone! Good night!—I'll talk to you to-morrow.

The Robbers lay themselves down on the ground, and one by one salute him. Good night, Captain. (They fall asleep.)

Moor.

(Alone awake, while there is a profound silence.) A long, long night!—on which no morrow e'er shall dawn.—Think you that I will tremble?—Shadows of the dead, the murder'd,—rise! no joint of me shall quake.—Your dying agonies, your black and strangled visages, your gaping wounds—these are but links of that eternal chain of destiny which bound me from my birth, unconscious bound me—which hung perhaps upon the humours of my nurse—my father's temperament, or my mother's blood.—Why did the great Artificer form, like Perillus, this monster, whose burning entrails yearn for human flesh. (Holding a pistol to his forehead.) This little tube unites Eternity to Time! This awful key will shut the prison-door of life, and open up the regions of futurity. Tell me! oh tell! to what unknown, what stranger coasts thou shall conduct me! The soul recoils within herself, and shrinks with terror from that dreadful thought; while fancy, cunning in her malice, fills the scene with horrid phantoms.—No, no! Whoe'er is man, must on—Be what thou wilt, thou dread unknown, so but this self remains;—this self within.—For all that is external, what has it of reality beyond that form and colour which the mind itself bestows?—I am myself my heaven or my hell. (Casting a look as to a distance.) If thou should'st give me a new earth, where I alone inhabited, companion of eternal night and silence, this mind, this active all-creative brain, would people the hideous void with its own images—would fill the vast of space with such chimera-forms, that all eternity were scarce enough to unravel them.——But perhaps it is by ever-varying scenes of misery in this ill world, that, step by step, thou leadst me to annihilation.—Oh that it were possible to stop the current of that after-life, as easy as 'tis to break the thread of this!—Thou may'st reduce me to nothing—but this liberty thou can'st not take from me. (He cocks the pistol, and then suddenly stops.) And shall I then rush to death, through slavish dread of living here in torment? Bend this man's soul beneath the scourge of misery?—No—I will bear it all. (He throws away the pistol.) My pride shall conquer sufferance.—Let my destiny be accomplished! (The night becomes more dark, and a bell at a distance strikes twelve.)

Enter Herman, who speaks, and is answered by a voice from the tower.

Herman.

Hush! Hush! How the howlet cries! The village clock strikes twelve;—all fast asleep—except remorse—and vengeance. (He goes to the tower, and knocks.) Come up, thou man of sorrow! Tenant of the tower! Thy meal is ready.

Moor.

(Draws back, shuddering.) What can that mean?

Voice from the tower.

Who knocks there?—Is it thou, Herman, my raven?

Herman.

Yes, 'tis thy raven Herman—Come to the grate, and eat.—Thy comrades of the night make fearful music.—Old man, dost thou relish thy meal?

Voice.

Yes—hunger is keen.—O thou who sendst the ravens! accept my thanks—for this thy bread in the wilderness!—How fares it with my good friend Herman?

Herman.

Hush! hark.—What noise is that?—Do you hear nothing?

Voice.

No.—Do you hear any thing?

Herman.

The wind whistles through the rents of the tower—a music of the night that makes the teeth chatter, and the nails turn blue.—Hark, 'tis there again.—I hear a murmuring noise, like those who groan in sleep.—You have company, old man—hu! hu! hu!

Voice

Do you see any thing?

Herman.

Farewel, farewel! Your deliverer is at hand—your avenger! (He is going hastily out.)

Moor.

(Approaches, shuddering.) Stop!

Herman.

Who is that?

Moor.

Stop! speak! Who art thou? What hast thou to do here? Speak!

Herman.

(Coming forwards.) 'Tis one of his spies—that's certain.——I have lost all fear. (Draws his sword.) Defend yourself, coward! you have a man before you.

Moor.

I'll have an answer. (Strikes the sword out of his hand.) What boots this childish sword-play? Didst thou not speak of vengeance?—Vengeance belongs exclusively to me—of all the men of earth.—Who dares infringe my rights?

Herman.

By heaven! 'tis none of woman born—for that arm withers like the stroke of death.

Voice.

Alas, Herman! is it you who are speaking?—Whom do you speak to?

Moor.

What! still those sounds?—What is a-doing here? (Runs towards the tower.) Some horrible mystery, for certain, is conceal'd in that tower. This sword shall bring it to light.

Herman.

(Comes forward trembling.) Terrible stranger! art thou the wandering spirit of this desert—or perhaps one of the ministers of that unfathomable retribution, who make their circuit in this lower world, and take account of all the deeds of darkness?—Oh! if thou art, be welcome to this tower of horrors!

Moor.

Traveller of the night! you have divined my function—the Exterminating Angel is my name—but I am flesh and blood, as thou art.—Is this some miserable wretch, cast out of men, and buried in this dungeon? I will loose his chains.—Once more speak! thou Voice of terror! Where is the door?

Herman.

As soon could Satan force the gates of heaven, as thou that door.—Retire, thou man of strength! the genius of the wicked soils the common intellect of man. (Strikes the door with his sword.)

Moor.

But not the craft of robbers. (He takes some pass-keys from his pocket.) For once, I thank my God I've learnt that craft! These keys would mock hell's foresight. (He takes a key, and opens the gate of the tower.—An old man comes from below, emaciated like a skeleton. Moor springs back with affright.) Horrible spectre! my father!

Enter, from the dungeon, the Old Count de Moor.

O. Moor.

I thank thee, O my God! the hour of my deliverance is come!

Moor.

Shade of the aged Moor! who has disturbed thy ashes in the grave? Hast thou brought with thee into the world of spirits some foul crime, that bars the gates of paradise on thy soul?—I will say prayers and masses of the dead, to gain thy spirit peace.—Hast thou hid in the earth the widow or the orphan's gold; and now, in expiation of that guilt, pour'st at the midnight hour the shriek of misery?—I'll dig that treasure up, though guarded by hell's dragons.—Or comest thou now, at my request, to expound to me the dread enigmas of eternity? Speak, speak! I will not blanch, nor stop the affrighted ear!

O. Moor.

I am no spirit—but alive, as thou art! O life indeed of misery!

Moor.

What! wast thou not in thy grave?

O. Moor.

I was indeed interr'd^[4].—Three complete moons have I languished in this dark dungeon, where not a ray of light can penetrate—where no sweet air or healthful breath can enter—where the hoarse ravens croak, and the owls shriek.

Moor.

Heaven and earth! Who has done that?

Herman.

(With savage joy.) A son!

O. Moor.

Do not curse him.

Moor.

(Darting furiously on Herman.) Serpent-tongued liar! a son! Speak that again—repeat it was a son, and I plunge my dagger in thy impious throat. A son!

Herman.

And were all hell let loose, I still must say, his son!

Moor.

(Petrified with horror.) O everlasting Chaos!

O. Moor.

If thou art a man, and hast a human heart! O my unknown deliverer—hear the miseries of a father, punished in his own sons. For three long moons have I poured my complaints to these walls of rock, which echoed to my groans.—Oh! if thou art a man, and hast a human heart—

Moor.

A prayer that would move even wolves to pity.

O. Moor.

I lay upon a sickbed. Scarce had I begun to gain a little strength, when they brought me a man who gave me the dreadful intelligence that my eldest son had fallen in battle, and with his latest breath had told, that my inhuman malediction had driven him to despair and death.

Herman.

A false, most horrible imposture—That villain was myself—seduced by him—that son—with bribes and promises to disappoint all your inquiries and researches after his elder brother—corrupted by that unnatural son to blast the miserable remnant of your days.

O. Moor.

And was it thou? O heavens! Was it a concerted plan? Was I then deceived?

Moor.

(Removing to a little distance.) Dost thou hear that, Moor? The light begins to dawn.—A day of horrors!

Herman.

Here, crush the viper!—I was his vile accomplice—I suppressed your Charles's letters, changed those from you, and substituted others in their place, conceived in terms of barbarous resentment. Thus have you been deceived—thus cruelly was he cut off from your inheritance—banished from your heart.

Moor.

(With an expression of unutterable anguish.) And hence become a robber and a murderer! (Strikes his breast and his forehead.) O fool, fool, fool!—the victim of infernal treachery!—and now a murderer and assassin! (Walks about in great agitation.)

O. Moor.

Francis! May all——(suppressing rage) But I will curse no more—and I saw nothing—nothing suspected.—O fond indulgent dotard!

Moor.

(Stops suddenly.) And that poor father in a dungeon! (Suppressing his anguish.) What cause have I for rage or for complaint? (With affected composure.) Go on, Sir.

O. Moor.

I fainted at the news.—They must have thought me dead—for when I came to myself, I was on a bier, and shrouded as a corpse.—I beat upon the lid of the coffin—it was opened—'twas in the dead of night—my son Francis stood before me.—"What," said he, with a voice of horror, "Must you then live for ever?" And with these words, he shut the coffin. The thunder of that voice bereaved me of my senses.—When I again recovered them, I found the bier in motion.—After some time it stopped.—The coffin was again opened, and at the entry of this dungeon I found my son Francis, with that man who had brought me the bloody sword of my son Charles.—I fell at Francis' feet, embraced his knees—and wept, conjured him, supplicated.—The tears, the supplications of his father, never reach'd his iron heart.—"Throw down that carcase," said he, with a voice of thunder, "he has lived too long."—They threw me down into that dungeon, and my son Francis locked the iron door upon me.

Moor.

Impossible! impossible!—Your memory or your senses play you false!

O. Moor.

It may be so.—Hearken, but restrain yourself.——Thus I lay for twenty hours—and none knew of my sufferings. No foot of man e'er treads this solitary waste—for 'tis the common report that the ghosts of my forefathers haunt this dreadful tower, drag their chains among the ruins, and chant at the hour of midnight the song of death. At last I heard the creaking of the iron door.—It was opened, and this man brought me some bread and water.—He told me that I was condemned to be starved to death in that dungeon, and that he forfeited his own life, if it were known that he brought me the smallest particle of food.—It was by his means I have preserved a miserable being so long—but the chilling cold, the foul air, and the anguish of my own mind……my strength was quite exhausted, my body was emaciated to a skeleton.—A thousand times have I prayed to God to put an end to my sufferings;—but the measure of my punishment must not have been complete—or perhaps there is yet in store for me some happiness—some bliss the Almighty has decreed to come, for which he has deigned thus miraculously to preserve me.—But come what will, my sufferings are just—most merited.—Oh my Charles, my Charles!—Before thy hairs were gray!

Moor.

It is enough. (To the band asleep.) Rise there, you senseless logs—you hearts of stone!—What! will none of you awake? (He fires a pistol over them. They start to their feet immediately.)

Robbers.

Halloa! halloa! What is the matter?

Moor.

Could you sleep out that tale? A tale that might have roused even sleep eternal.—Mark here, mark here! What are this world's laws? mere knavery—a game with loaded dice.—Discord is set at large, and ranges wild as hell.—The bands of nature are dissolved—a son has slain his father!

Robbers.

What does the Captain say?

Moor.

Slain! did I say—that word is tame—'tis palliative—A son has racked his father—killed him in torment—broken him on the wheel—even that is varnish of his horrible crime.—The cannibal himself would shudder at it.—Oh God! he has devoured him.—See, see there! he faints! A son confined his father in that tower—cold, naked, hungry, and athirst.—Look there, look there! This is my father!

Robbers.

(Coming round the old man.) Your father?

Switzer.

(Approaches with respect, and throws himself at the old man's feet.) Father of my Captain! I kiss your feet.—I draw this dagger, and I here devote it to thy service!

Moor.

Revenge! revenge! revenge—this violated, profaned, this hoary head!—Here I tear for ever the fraternal bond. (He rends his coat from top to bottom.) Here, in the face of heaven, I curse him! curse every drop of blood within him!——Hear me, O moon and stars! and thou black canopy of night, that witnessest this horror! hear my cries! Hear me, O God! thrice-terrible avenger—thou who reign'st above yon pallid orb—and judgement doom'st, and dart'st thy fiery bolts through darkness—behold me raise this hand aloft! and hear my oath! May nature curse me! expel me, like some horrible abortion, from out the circle of her works—if here, upon this stone, I do not shed that parricide's blood—till the foul vapour from the fountain of his heart rise into air, and dim the blessed sun! (Rises from his knees.)

Robbers.

This is a stroke of hell!—Let them now call us villains.—Now, by all the dragons of darkness, we never did any thing half so horrible!

Moor.

Yes, and by all the groans of those poor wretches whom your daggers have dispatched—by those who perished on that dreadful day when fire and ruin raged at our command—no murderous plan shall be devised, no scheme of rapine be resolved or meditated, till every man among us glut his steel, and dye his garments purple in that monster's blood.—Who could e'er have thought that we were destined to serve as instruments in the Almighty's hand, and minister to his justice? Our fate's mysterious clue is now unravelling. This day the invisible arm of a superior Power gives dignity to our vocation.—Adore his Majesty, who honours you this day as agents in his hands to execute his wondrous purposes!—employs you as his angels to execute his stern decrees, and pour the vials of his wrath.——Be all uncovered! fall on your knees, and humbly kiss the dust—then rise all hallowed men! (They fall on their knees, and make a solemn prostration to the earth.)

Switzer.

Now give your orders, Captain! Say what we shall do.

Moor.

Rise, Switzer, and touch these sacred locks. (He brings him to his father, and makes him take hold of a lock of his hair.) You remember, when you cleft the head of that Bohemian trooper who had raised his sabre to kill me, when I was fainting with fatigue, and my knees were sinking under me—'twas then I promised you a high reward, a kingly recompence—But to this hour I never have been able to discharge that debt.

Switzer.

And may you never be! It is my pride, to call you still my debtor.

Moor.

No.—This day I will discharge it.——Switzer, thou art honoured this day above all mortals.—Be thou the avenger of my father. (Switzer rises.)

Switzer.

Most honoured Captain! this day thou hast made me for the first time truly proud.—Give orders how, and when, and where, thy friend shall strike.

Moor.

The precious minutes are already number'd.—Thou must be speedy. Choose out the worthiest of the band, and lead them straight to yonder castle.—Seize him, were he asleep.—Drag him from out his bed, though he lie couch'd in pleasure's lap.—Lay hold of him at table, while, like the swine, he gorges.—Tear him from the altar, though on his knees before the crucifix.—But hear what I most solemnly command: Bring him to me alive! This hand shall hew that man in pieces, and feed the famish'd vultures with his limbs, who dares to wound his kin, or rob him of a single hair.—I must have him all entire.—Bring him to me alive, bring him entire, and millions shall be your reward.——I'll plunder kings, I'll set my life at nought, to earn for thee a glorious recompence. Thou hast my purpose—haste thee to accomplish it!

Switzer.

It is enough! here take my hand upon it! Captain, you shall see two of us—or none. Come, Switzer's ministers of vengeance. (Exit, followed by a part of the band, and Herman.)

Moor.

Let the rest disperse themselves in the forest—I remain here.

 

End of Act Fourth.

1. Germ. Und sollt er mir auch bis an die gurgel schwellen.
2. Germ. So ist sterben das meisterstuck des lebens. To die is the masterpiece of existence.
3. Germ. Lasst euch die hasenjagd nicht aufwecken. Don't be roused at the hunting of this hare.
4. Germ. Das heist, ein todter hund liegt in meiner vater gruft. That is, A dead dog lies in my father's tomb.—An expression of which the Translator does not see the force, and therefore he has omitted it.