GRIMM. But what the devil, comrade, were you after? What were you quarreling about? The captain will be furious.

SCHWEITZER. Be that on my head. And you, wretch (to RAZMANN) you were his accomplice, you! Get out of my sight! Schufterle was another of your kidney, but he has met his deserts in Switzerland—has been hanged, as the captain prophesied. (A shot is heard.)

SCHWARZ (jumping up). Hark! a pistol shot! (Another shot is heard.) Another! Hallo! the captain!

GRIMM. Patience! If it be he, there will be a third. (The third shot is heard.)

SCHWARZ. 'Tis he! 'Tis the captain! Absent yourself awhile, Schweitzer—till we explain to him! (They fire.)

Enter CHARLES VON MOOR and KOSINSKY.

SCHWEITZER (running to meet them). Welcome, captain. I have been somewhat choleric in your absence. (He conducts him to the corpse.) Be you judge between him and me. He meant to waylay and assassinate you.

ROBBERS (in consternation). What; the captain?

CHARLES (after fixing his eyes for some time upon the corpse, with a sudden burst of feeling). Oh, incomprehensible finger of the avenging Nemesis! Was it not he whose siren song seduced me to be what I am? Let this sword be consecrated to the dark goddess of retribution! That was not thy deed, Schweitzer.

SCHWEITZER. By heaven, it was mine, though! and, as the devil lives, it is not the worst deed I have done in my time. (Turns away moodily.)

CHARLES (absorbed in thought). I comprehend—Great Ruler in heaven— I comprehend. The leaves fall from the trees, and my autumn is come. Remove this object from my sight! (The corpse of SPIEGELBERG is carried out.)

GRIMM. Give us your orders, captain! What shall we do next?

CHARLES. Soon—very soon—all will be accomplished. Hand me my lute; I have lost myself since I have been there. My lute, I say—I must nurse up my strength again. Leave me!

ROBBERS. 'Tis midnight, captain.

CHARLES. They were only stage tears after all. Let me bring to memory the song of the old Roman, that my slumbering genius may wake up again. Hand me my lute. Midnight, say you?

SCHWARZ. Yes, and past, too! Our eyes are as heavy as lead. For three days we have not slept a wink.

CHARLES. What? does balmy sleep visit the eyes of murderers? Why doth it flee mine? I never was a coward, nor a villain. Lay yourselves to rest. At day-break we march.

ROBBERS. Good night, captain. (They stretch them selves on the ground and fall asleep.)

Profound silence. CHARLES VON MOOR takes up his guitar, and plays.

BRUTUS. Oh, be ye welcome, realms of peace and rest! Receive the last of all the sons of Rome! From dread Philippi's field, where all the best Fell bleeding in her cause, I wearied come. Cassius, no more! And Rome now prostrate laid! My brethren all lie weltering in their gore! No refuge left but Hades' gloomy shade; No hope remains!—No world for Brutus more!

CAESAR. Who's he that, with a hero's lofty bearing, Comes striding o'er yon mountain's rocky bed? Unless my eyes deceive, that noble daring Bespeaks the Roman warrior's fearless tread. Whence, son of Tiber, do thy footsteps bend! Say, stands the seven-billed city firmly yet? No Caesar there, to be the soldiers friend! Full oft has he that orphaned city wept.

BRUTUS. Ha! thou of three-and-twenty wounds! Avaunt! Thou unblest shade, what calls thee back to light? Down with thee, down, to Pluto's deepest haunt, And shroud thy form in black, eternal night, Proud mourner! triumph not to learn our fall! Phillippi's altars reek with freedom's blood? The bier of Brutus is Rome's funeral pall; He Minos seeks. Hence to thy Stygian flood!

CAESAR. That death-stroke, Brutus, which thy weapon hurled! Thou, too, Brutus?—that thou shouldst be my foe! Oh, son! It was thy father! Son! The world Was thine by heritage! Now proudly go, Well mayst thou claim to be the chief in glory, 'Twas thy fell sword that pierced thy father's heart! Now go—and at yon gates relate thy story— Say Brutus claims to be the chief in glory, 'Twas his fell sword that pierced his father's heart! Go—Now thou'rt told what staid me on this shore, Grim ferryman, push off, and swiftly ply thine oar.

BRUTUS. Stay, father, stay! Within the whole bright round Of Sol's diurnal course I knew but one Who to compare with Caesar could be found; And that one, Caesar, thou didst call thy son! 'Twas only Caesar could destroy a Rome; Brutus alone that Caesar could withstand— Where Brutus lives, must Caesar die! Thy home Be far from mine. I'll seek another land.

[He lays down his guitar, and walks to and fro in deep meditation.]

Who will give me certainty! All is so dark—a confused labyrinth—no outlet—no guiding star. Were but all to end with this last gasp of breath. To end, like an empty puppet-show. But why then this burning thirst after happiness? Wherefore this ideal of unattained perfection? This looking to an hereafter for the fulfilment of our hopes? If the paltry pressure of this paltry thing (putting a pistol to his head) makes the wise man and the fool—the coward and the brave—the noble and the villain equal?—the harmony which pervades the inanimate world is so divinely perfect—why, then, should there be such discord in the intellectual? No! no! there must be something beyond, for I have not yet attained to happiness.

Think ye that I will tremble, spirits of my slaughtered victims? No, I will not tremble. (Trembling violently.) The shrieks of your dying agonies—your black, convulsive features—your ghastly bleeding wounds— what are they all but links of one indissoluble chain of destiny, which hung upon the temperament of my father, the life's blood of my mother, the humors of my nurses and tutors, and even upon the holiday pastimes of my childhood! (Shaking with horror.) Why has my Perillus made of me a brazen bull, whose burning entrails yearn after human flesh? (He lifts the pistol again to his head.)

Time and Eternity!—linked together by a single instant! Fearful key, which locks behind me the prisonhouse of life, and opens before me the habitations of eternal night—tell me—oh, tell me—whither—whither wilt thou lead me? Strange, unexplored land! Humanity is unnerved at the fearful thought, the elasticity of our finite nature is paralyzed, and fancy, that wanton ape of the senses, juggles our credulity with appalling phantoms. No! no! a man must be firm. Be what thou wilt, thou undefined futurity, so I remain but true to myself. Be what thou wilt, so I but take this inward self hence with me. External forms are but the trappings of the man. My heaven and my hell is within.

What if Thou shouldst doom me to be sole inhabitant of some burnt-out world which thou hast banished from thy sight, where darkness and never-ending desolation were all my prospect; then would my creative brain people the silent waste with its own images, and I should have eternity for leisure to unravel the complicated picture of universal wretchedness. Or wilt thou make me pass through ever-repeated births and ever-changing scenes of misery, stage by stage*—to annihilation?

[This and other passages will remind the reader of Cato's soliloquy "It must be so, Plato; thou reasonest well." But the whole bears a strong resemblance to Hamlet's "To be or not to be;" and some passages in Measure for Measure, Act iii, Sc. 1.]

Can I not burst asunder the life-threads woven for me in another world as easily as I do these? Thou mayest reduce me into nothing; but Thou canst not take from me this power. (He loads the pistol, and then suddenly pauses.) And shall I then rush into death from a coward fear of the ills of life? Shall I yield to misery the palm of victory over myself? No! I will endure it! (He flings the pistol away.) Misery shall blunt its edge against my pride! Be my destiny fulfilled! (It grows darker and darker.)

HERMANN (coming through the forest). Hark! hark! the owl screeches horribly—the village clock strikes twelve. Well, well—villainy is asleep—no listeners in these wilds. (He goes to the castle and knocks.) Come forth, thou man of sorrow! tenant of the miserable dungeon! thy meal awaits thee.

CHARLES (stepping gently back, unperceived). What means this?

VOICE (from within the castle). Who knocks? Is it you, Hermann, my raven?

HERMANN. Yes, 'tis Hermann, your raven. Come to the grating and eat. (Owls are screeching.) Your night companions make a horrid noise, old man! Do you relish your repast?

VOICE. Yes—I was very hungry. Thanks to thee, thou merciful sender of ravens, for this thy bread in the wilderness! And how is my dear child, Hermann?

HERMANN. Hush!—hark!—A noise like snoring! Don't you hear something?

VOICE. What? Do you hear anything?

HERMANN. 'Tis the whistling of the wind through the crannies of the tower—a serenading which makes one's teeth chatter, and one's nails turn blue. Hark! tis there again. I still fancy I hear snoring. You have company, old man. Ugh! ugh! ugh!

VOICE. Do you see anything?

HERMANN. Farewell! farewell! this is a fearful place. Go down into your bole,—thy deliverer, thy avenger is above. Oh! accursed son! (Is about to fly.)

CHARLES (stepping forth with horror). Stand!

HERMANN (screaming). Oh, me!*

*[In the acting edition Hermann, instead of this, says,— 'Tis one of his spies for certain, I have lost all fear (draws his sword). Villain, defend yourself! 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 especially to me—of all men on earth. Who dares interfere with my vocation?

HERMANN (starts back in affright). By heaven! That man was not born of woman. His touch withers like the stroke of death.

VOICE. Alas, Hermann! to whom are you speaking?

MOOR. What! still those sounds? What is going on there? (Runs towards the tower.) Some horrible mystery, no doubt, lies concealed in that tower. This sword shall bring it to light.

HERMANN (comes forward trembling). Terrible stranger! art thou the demon of this fearful desert—or perhaps 'one of the ministers of that unfathonable 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. Well guessed, wanderer of the night! You have divined my function. Exterminating Angel is my name; but I am flesh and blood like thee. Is this some miserable wretch, cast out of men, and buried in this dungeon? I will loosen his chains. Once more, speak! thou voice of terror Where is the door?

HERMANN. As soon could Satan force the gates of heaven as thou that door. Retire, thou man of might! The genius of the wicked is beyond the ordinary powers of man.

MOOR. But not the craft of robbers. (He takes some pass-keys from his pocket.) For once I thank heaven I've learned 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 of right.) Horrible spectre! my father!

CHARLES. Stand! I say.

HERMANN. Woe! woe! woe! now all is discovered!

CHARLES. Speak! Who art thou? What brought thee here? Speak!

HERMANN. Mercy, mercy! gracious sir! Hear but one word before you kill me.

CHARLES (drawing his sword). What am I to hear?

HERMANN. 'Tis true, he forbade me at the peril of my life—but I could not help it—I dare not do otherwise—a God in heaven—your own venerable father there—pity for him overcame me. Kill me, if you will!

CHARLES. There's some mystery here—Out with it! Speak! I must know all.

VOICE (from the castle). Woe! woe! Is it you, Hermann, that are speaking? To whom are you speaking, Hermann?

CHARLES. Some one else down there? What is the meaning of all this? (Runs towards the castle.) It is some prisoner whom mankind have cast off! I will loosen his chains. Voice! Speak! Where is the door?

HERMANN. Oh, have mercy, sir—seek no further, I entreat—for mercy's sake desist! (He stops his way.)

CHARLES. Locks, bolts, and bars, away! It must come out. Now, for the first time, come to my aid, thief-craft! (He opens the grated iron door with, housebreaking tools. An OLD MAN, reduced to a skeleton, comes up from below.)

THE OLD MAN. Mercy on a poor wretch! Mercy!

CHARLES (starts back in terror). That is my father's voice!

OLD MOOR. I thank thee, merciful Heaven! The hour of deliverance has arrived.

CHARLES. Shade of the aged Moor! what has disturbed thee in thy grave? Has thy soul left this earth charged with some foul crime that bars the gates of Paradise against thee? Say?—I will have masses read, to send thy wandering spirit to its home. Hast thou buried in the earth the gold of widows and orphans, that thou art driven to wander howling through the midnight hour? I will snatch the hidden treasure from the clutches of the infernal dragon, though he should vomit a thousand redhot flames upon me, and gnash his sharp teeth against my sword. Or comest thou, at my request, to reveal to me the mysteries of eternity? Speak, thou! speak! I am not the man to blanch with fear!

OLD MOOR. I am not a spirit. Touch me—I live but oh! a life indeed of misery!

CHARLES. What! hast thou not been buried?

OLD MOOR. I was buried—that is to say, a dead dog lies in the vault of my ancestors, and I have been pining for three long moons in this dark and loathsome dungeon, where no sunbeam shines, no warm breeze penetrates, where no friend is seen, where the hoarse raven croaks and owls screech their midnight concert.

CHARLES. Heaven and earth! Who has done this?

OLD MOOR. Curse him not! 'Tis my son, Francis, who did this.

CHARLES. Francis? Francis? Oh, eternal chaos!

OLD MOOR. If thou art a man, and hast a human heart—oh! my unknown deliverer—then listen to a father's miseries which his own sons have heaped upon him. For three long moons I have moaned my pitiful tale to these flinty walls—but all my answer was an empty echo, that seemed to mock my wailings. Therefore, if thou art a man, and hast a human heart—

CHARLES. That appeal might move even wild beasts to pity.

OLD MOOR. I lay upon a sick bed, and had scarcely begun to recover a little strength, after a dangerous illness, when a man was brought to me, who pretended that my first-born had fallen in battle. He brought a sword stained with his blood, and his last farewell—and said that my curse had driven him into battle, and death, and despair.

CHARLES (turning away in violent agitation). The light breaks in upon me!

OLD MOOR. Hear me on! I fainted at the dreadful news. They must have thought me dead; for, when I recovered my senses, I was already in my coffin, shrouded like a corpse. I scratched against the lid. It was opened—'twas in the dead of night—my son Francis stood before me— "What!" said he, with a tremendous voice, "wilt thou then live forever?" —and with this he slammed-to the lid of the coffin. The thunder of these words bereft me of my senses; when I awoke again, I felt that the coffin was in motion, and being borne on wheels. At last it was opened —I found myself at the entrance of this dungeon—my son stood before me, and the man, too, who had brought me the bloody sword from Charles. I fell at my son's feet, and ten times I embraced his knees, and wept, and conjured, and supplicated, but the supplications of a father reached not his flinty heart. "Down with the old carcass!" said he, with a voice of thunder, "he has lived too long;"—and I was thrust down without mercy, and my son Francis closed the door upon Me.

CHARLES. Impossible!—impossible! Your memory or senses deceive you.

OLD MOOR. Oh, that it were so! But hear me on, and restrain your rage! There I lay for twenty hours, and not a soul cared for my misery. No human footstep treads this solitary wild, for 'tis commonly believed that the ghosts of my ancestors drag clanking chains through these ruins, and chant their funeral dirge at the hour of midnight. At last I heard the door creak again on its hinges; this man opened it, and brought me bread and water. He told me that I had been condemned to die of hunger, and that his life was in danger should it be discovered that he fed me. Thus has my miserable existence been till now sustained—but the unceasing cold—the foul air of my filthy dungeon—my incurable grief—have exhausted my strength, and reduced my body to a skeleton. A thousand times have I implored heaven, with tears, to put an end to my sufferings—but doubtless the measure of my punishment is not fulfilled,—or some happiness must be yet in store for me, for which he deigns thus miraculously to preserve me. But I suffer justly—my Charles! my Charles!—and before there was even a gray hair on his Head!

CHARLES. Enough! Rise! ye stocks, ye lumps of ice! ye lazy unfeeling sleepers! Up! will none of you awake? (He fires a pistol over their heads.)

THE ROBBERS (starting up). Ho! hallo! hallo! what is the matter?

CHARLES. Has not that tale shaken you out of your sleep? 'Tis enough to break the sleep eternal! See here, see here! The laws of the world have become mere dice-play; the bonds of nature are burst asunder; the Demon of Discord has broken loose, and stalks abroad triumphant! the Son has slain his Father!

THE ROBBERS. What does the captain say?

CHARLES. Slain! did I say? No, that is too mild a term! A son has a thousand-fold broken his own father on the wheel,—impaled, racked, flayed him alive!—but all these words are too feeble to express what would make sin itself blush and cannibals shudder. For ages, no devil ever conceived a deed so horrible. His own father!—but see, see him! he has fainted away! His own father—the son—into this dungeon—cold— naked—hungry—athirst—Oh! see, I pray you, see!—'tis my own father, in very truth it is.

THE ROBBERS (come running and surround the old man). Your father? Yours?

SCHWEITZER (approaches him reverently, and falls on his knees before him). Father of my captain! let me kiss thy feet! My dagger is at thy command.

CHARLES. Revenge, revenge, revenge! thou horribly injured, profaned old man! Thus, from this moment, and forever, I rend in twain all ties of fraternity. (He rends his garment from top to bottom.) Here, in the face of heaven, I curse him—curse every drop of blood which flows in his veins! Hear me, O moon and stars! and thou black canopy of night, that lookest down upon this horror! Hear me, thrice terrible avenger. Thou who reignest above yon pallid orb, who sittest an avenger and a judge above the stars, and dartest thy fiery bolts through darkness on the head of guilt! Behold me on my knees behold me raise this hand aloft in the gloom of night—and hear my oath—and may nature vomit me forth as some horrible abortion from out the circle of her works if I break that oath! Here I swear that I will never more greet the light of day, till the blood of that foul parricide, spilt upon this stone, reeks in misty vapor towards heaven. (He rises.)

ROBBERS. 'Tis a deed of hell! After this, who shall call us villains? No! by all the dragons of darkness we never have done anything half so horrible.

CHARLES. True! and by all the fearful groans of those whom your daggers have despatched—of those who on that terrible day were consumed by fire, or crushed by the falling tower—no thought of murder or rapine shall be harbored in your breast, till every man among you has dyed his garments scarlet in this monster's blood. It never, I should think, entered your dreams, that it would fall to your lot to execute the great decrees of heaven? The tangled web of our destiny is unravelled! To-day, to-day, an invisible power has ennobled our craft! Worship Him who has called you to this high destiny, who has conducted you hither, and deemed ye worthy to be the terrible angels of his inscrutable judgments! Uncover your heads! Bow down and kiss the dust, and rise up sanctified. (They kneel.)

SCHWEITZER. Now, captain, issue your commands! What shall we do?

CHARLES. Rise, Schweitzer! and touch these sacred locks! (Leading him to his father, and putting a lock of hair in his hand.) Do you remember still, how you, cleft the skull of that Bohemian trooper, at the moment his sabre was descending on my head, and I had sunk down on my knees, breathless and exhausted? 'Twas then I promised thee a reward that should be right royal. But to this hour I have never been able to discharge that debt.

SCHWEITZER. You swore that much to me, 'tis true; but let me call you my debtor forever!

CHARLES. No; now will I repay thee, Schweitzer! No mortal has yet been honored as thou shalt be. I appoint thee avenger of my father's wrongs! (SCHWEITZER rises.)

SCHWEITZER. Mighty captain! this day you have, for the first time, made me truly proud! Say, when, where, how shall I smite him?

CHARLES. The minutes are sacred. You must hasten to the work. Choose the best of the band, and lead them straight to the count's castle! Drag him from his bed, though he sleep, or he folded in the arms of pleasure! Drag him from the table, though he be drunk! Tear him from the crucifix, though he lie on his knees before it! But mark my words— I charge thee, deliver him into my hands alive! I will hew that man to pieces, and feed the hungry vultures with his flesh, who dares but graze his skin, or injure a single hair of his head! I must have him whole. Bring him to me whole and alive, and a million shall be thy reward. I'll plunder kings at the risk of my life, but thou shalt have it, and go free as air. Thou hast my purpose—see it done!

SCHWEITZER. Enough, captain! here is my hand upon it. You shall see both of us, or neither. Come, Schweitzer's destroying angels, follow me! (Exit with a troop.)

CHARLES. The rest of you disperse in the forest—I remain here.



ACT V.

SCENE I. A vista of rooms. Dark night.

Enter DANIEL, with a lantern and a bundle.

DANIEL. Farewell, dear home! How many happy days have I enjoyed within these walls, while my old master lived. Tears to thy memory, thou whom the grave has long since devoured! He deserves this tribute from an old servant. His roof was the asylum of orphans, the refuge of the destitute, but this son has made it a den of murderers. Farewell, thou dear floor! How often has old Daniel scrubbed thee! Farewell, dear stove, old Daniel takes a heavy leave of thee. All things had grown so familiar to thee,—thou wilt feel it sorely, old Eleazar. But heaven preserve me through grace from the wiles and assault of the tempter. Empty I came hither—empty I will depart,—but my soul is saved! (He is in the act of going out, when he is met by FRANCIS, rushing in, in his dressing-gown.) Heaven help me! Master! (He puts out his lantern.)

FRANCIS. Betrayed! betrayed! The spirit of the dead are vomited from their graves. The realm of death, shaken out of its eternal slumber, roars at me, "Murderer, murderer!" Who moves there?

DANIEL (frightened). Help, holy Virgin! help! Is it you, my gracious master, whose shrieks echo so terribly through the castle that every one is aroused out of his sleep?

FRANCIS. Sleep? And who gave thee leave to sleep? Go, get lights! (Exit DANIEL. Enter another servant.) No one shall sleep at this hour. Do you hear? All shall be awake—in arms—let the guns be loaded! Did you not see them rushing through yon vaulted passages?

SERVANT. See whom, my lord?

FRANCIS. Whom? you dolt, slave! And do you, with a cold and vacant stare, ask me whom? Have they not beset me almost to madness? Whom? blockhead! whom? Ghosts and demons! How far is the night advanced?

SERVANT. The watch has just called two.

FRANCIS. What? will this eternal night last till doomsday? Did you hear no tumult near? no shout of victory? no trampling of horses? Where is Char—the Count, I would say?

SERVANT. I know not, my lord.

FRANCIS. You know not? And are you too one of his gang? I'll tread your villain's heart out through your ribs for that infernal "I know not!" Begone, fetch the minister!

SERVANT. My lord!

FRANCIS. What! Do you grumble? Do you demur? (Exit servant hastily.) Do my very slaves conspire against me? Heaven, earth, and hell—all conspire against me!

DANIEL (returns with a lighted candle). My lord!

FRANCIS. Who said I trembled? No!—'twas but a dream. The dead still rest in their graves! Tremble! or pale? No, no! I am calm—quite tranquil.

DANIEL. You are as pale as death, my lord; your voice is weak and faltering.

FRANCIS. I am somewhat feverish. When the minister comes be sure you say I am in a fever. Say that I intend to be bled in the morning.

DANIEL. Shall I give you some drops of the balsam of life on sugar?

FRANCIS. Yes, balsam of life on sugar! The minister will not be here just yet. My voice is weak and faltering. Give me of the balsam of life on sugar!

DANIEL. Let me have the keys, I will go down to the closet and get it.

FRANCIS. No! no! no! Stay!—or I will go with you. You see I must not be left alone! How easily I might, you see—faint—if I should be left alone. Never mind, never mind! It will pass off—you must not leave me.

DANIEL. Indeed, Sir, you are ill, very ill.

FRANCIS. Yes, just so, just so, nothing more. And illness, you know, bewilders the brain, and breeds strange and maddening dreams. What signify dreams? Dreams come from the stomach and cannot signify anything. Is it not so, Daniel? I had a very comical dream just now. (He sinks down fainting.)

DANIEL. Oh, merciful heaven! what is this? George!—Conrad! Sebastian! Martin! Give but some sign of life! (Shaking him.) Oh, the Blessed Virgin! Oh, Joseph! Keep but your reason! They will say I have murdered him! Lord have mercy upon me!

FRANCIS (confused). Avaunt!—avaunt!—why dost thou glare upon me thus, thou horrible spectre? The time for the resurrection of the dead is not yet come.

DANIEL. Merciful heavens! he has lost his senses.

FRANCIS (recovering himself gradually). Where am I? You here, Daniel? What have I said? Heed it not. I have told a lie, whatever I said. Come, help me up! 'T was only a fit of delirium—because—because—I have not finished my night's rest.

DANIEL. If John were but here! I'll call for help—I'll send for the physician.

FRANCIS. Stay! Seat yourself by my side on this sofa! There. You are a sensible man, a good man. Listen to my dream!

DANIEL. Not now; another time! Let me lead you to bed; you have great need of rest.

FRANCIS. No, no; I prythee, listen, Daniel, and have a good laugh at me. You must know I fancied that I held a princely banquet, my heart was merry, and I lay stretched on the turf in the castle garden; and all on a sudden—it was at midday—and all on a sudden—but mind you have a good laugh at me!

DANIEL. All on a sudden.

FRANCIS. All on a sudden a tremendous peal of thunder struck upon my slumbering ear; I started up staggering and trembling; and lo, it seemed as if the whole hemisphere had burst forth in one flaming sheet of fire, and mountains, and cities, and forests melted away like wax in the furnace; and then rose a howling whirlwind, which swept before it the earth, and the sea, and heaven; then came a sound, as from brazen trumpets, "Earth, give up thy dead: sea, give up thy dead!" and the open plains began to heave, and to cast up skulls, and ribs, and jawbones, and legs, which drew together into human bodies, and then came sweeping along in dense, interminable masses—a living deluge. Then I looked up, and to! I stood at the foot of the thundering Sinai, and above me was a multitude, and below me a multitude; and on the summit of the mountain, on three smoking thrones, sat three men, before whose gaze all creation trembled.

DANIEL. Why, this is a living picture of the day of judgment.

FRANCIS. Did I not tell you? Is it not ridiculous stuff? And one stepped forth who, to look upon, was like a starlight night; he had in his hand a signet ring of iron, which he held up between the east and the west, and said, "Eternal, holy, just, immutable! There is but one truth; there is but one virtue! Woe, woe, woe! to the doubting sinner!" Then stepped forth a second, who had in his hand a flashing mirror, which he held up between the east and west, and said, "This is the mirror of truth; hypocrisy and deceit cannot look on it." Then was I terrified, and so were all, for we saw the forms of snakes, and tigers, and leopards reflected from that fearful mirror. Then stepped forth a third, who had in his hand a brazen balance, which he held up between the east and the west, and said, "Approach, ye sons of Adam! I weigh your thoughts in the balance of my wrath! and your deeds with the weight of my fury!"

DANIEL. The Lord have mercy upon me!

FRANCIS. They all stood pale and trembling, and every heart was panting with fearful expectation. Then it seemed to me as if I heard my name called the first from out the thunders of the mountain, and the innermost marrow froze within my bones, and my teeth chattered loudly. Presently the clang of the balance was heard, the rocks sent forth thunders, and the hours glided by, one after the other, towards the left scale, and each threw into it a mortal sin!

DANIEL. Oh, may God forgive you!

FRANCIS. He forgave me not! The left scale grew mountains high, but the other, filled with the blood of atonement, still outweighed it. At last came an old man, heavily bowed down with grief, his arm gnawed through with raging hunger. Every eye turned away in horror from the sight. I knew the man—he cut off a lock of his silver hair, and cast it into the scale of my sins, when to! in an instant, it sank down to the abyss, and the scale of atonement flew up on high. Then heard I a voice, issuing like thunder from the bowels *[Some editions of the original read Rauch (smoke), some Bauch, as translated.] of the mountain, "Pardon, pardon to every sinner of the earth and of the deep! Thou alone art rejected!" (A profound pause.) Well, why don't you laugh?

DANIEL. Can I laugh while my flesh creeps? Dreams come from above.

FRANCIS. Pshaw! pshaw! Say not so! Call me a fool, an idiot, an absurd fool! Do, there's a good Daniel, I entreat of you; have a hearty laugh at me!

DANIEL. Dreams come from God. I will pray for you.

FRANCIS. Thou liest, I tell thee. Go, this instant, run! be quick! see where the minister tarries all this time; tell him to come quickly, instantly! But, I tell thee, thou liest!

DANIEL. Heaven have mercy upon you! [Exit.]

FRANCIS. Vulgar prejudice! mere superstition! It has not yet been proved that the past is not past and forgotten, or that there is an eye above this earth to take account of what passes on it. Humph! Humph! But whence, then, this fearful whisper to my soul? Is there really an avenging judge above the stars? No, no! Yes, yes! A fearful monitor within bears witness that there is One above the stars who judgeth! What! meet the avenger above the stars this very night? No, no! I say. All is empty, lonely, desolate, beyond the stars. Miserable subterfuge, beneath which thy cowardice seeks to hide itself. And if there should be something in it after all? No! no! it cannot be. I insist that it cannot be! But yet, if there should be! Woe to thee if thy sins should all have been registered above!—if they should be counted over to thee this very night! Why creeps this shudder through my frame? To die! Why does that word frighten me thus? To give an account to the Avenger, there, above the stars! and if he should be just—the wails of orphans and widows, of the oppressed, the tormented, ascending to his ears, and he be just? Why have they been afflicted? And why have I been permitted to trample upon them?

Enter PASTOR MOSER.

MOSER. Your lordship sent for me! I am surprised! The first time in my life! Is it to scoff at religion, or does it begin to make you tremble?

FRANCIS. I may scoff or I may tremble, according as you shall answer me. Listen to me, Moser, I will prove that you are a fool, or wish to make fools of others, and you shall answer me. Do you hear? At the peril of your life you shall answer me.

MOSER. 'Tis a higher Being whom you summon before your tribunal. He will answer you hereafter.

FRANCIS. I will be answered now, this instant, that I may not commit the contemptible folly of calling upon the idol of the vulgar under the pressure of suffering. I have often, in bumpers of Burgundy, tauntingly pledged you in the toast, "There is no God!" Now I address myself to you in earnest, and I tell you there is none? You shall oppose me with all the weapons in your power; but with the breath of my lips I will blow them away.

MOSER. 'Twere well that you could also blow away the thunder which will alight upon your proud soul with ten thousand times ten thousand tons' weight! That omniscient God, whom you—fool and miscreant—are denying in the midst of his creation, needeth not to justify himself by the mouth of dust. He is as great in your tyrannies as in the sweetest smile of triumphant virtue.

FRANCIS. Uncommonly well said, parson. Thus I like you.

MOSER. I stand here as steward of a greater Master, and am addressing one who, like myself, is a sinner—one whom I care not to please. I must indeed be able to work miracles, to extort the acknowledgment from your obdurate wickedness—but if your conviction is so firm, why have you sent for me in the middle of the night?

FRANCIS. Because time hangs heavy on my hands, and the chess-board has ceased to have any attraction. I wish to amuse myself in a tilt with the parson. Your empty terrors will not unman my courage. I am well aware that those who have come off short in this world look forward to eternity; but they will be sadly disappointed. I have always read that our whole body is nothing more than a blood-spring, and that, with its last drop, mind and thought dissolve into nothing. They share all the infirmities of the body; why, then, should they not cease with its dissolution? Why not evaporate in its decomposition? Let a drop of water stray into your brain, and life makes a sudden pause, which borders on non-existence, and this pause continued is death. Sensation is the vibration of a few chords, which, when the instrument is broken, cease to sound. If I raze my seven castles—if I dash this Venus to pieces—there is an end of their symmetry and beauty. Behold! thus is it with your immortal soul!

MOSER. So says the philosophy of your despair. But your own heart, which knocks against your ribs with terror even while you thus argue, gives your tongue the lie. These cobwebs of systems are swept away by the single word—"Thou must die!" I challenge you, and be this the test: If you maintain your firmness in the hour of death; if your principles do not then miserably desert you, you shall be admitted to have the best of the argument. But if, in that dread hour, the least shudder creeps over you, then woe be to you! you have deceived yourself.

FRANCIS (disturbed). If in the hour of death a shudder creeps over me?

MOSER. I have seen many such wretches before now, who set truth at defiance up to that point; but at the approach of death the illusion vanished. I will stand at your bedside when you are dying—I should much like to see a tyrant die. I will stand by, and look you steadfastly in the face when the physician takes your cold, clammy hand, and is scarcely able to detect your expiring pulse; and when he looks up, and, with a fearful shake of the head, says to you, "All human aid is in vain!" Beware, at that moment, beware, lest you look like Richard and Nero!

FRANCIS. No! no!

MOSER. Even that very "No" will then be turned to a howling "Yea!" An inward tribunal, which you can no longer cheat with sceptical delusions, will then wake up and pass judgment upon you. But the waking up will be like that of one buried alive in the bowels of the churchyard; there will come remorse like that of the suicide who has committed the fatal act and repents it;—'twill be a flash of lightning suddenly breaking in upon the midnight darkness of your life! There will be one look, and, if you can sustain that, I will admit that you have won!

FRANCIS (walking up and down restlessly). Cant! Priestly cant!

MOSER. Then, for the first time, will the sword of eternity pass through your soul;—and then, for the first time, too late, the thought of God will wake up a terrible monitor, whose name is Judge. Mark this, Moor; a thousand lives hang upon your beck; and of those thousand every nine hundred and ninety-nine have been rendered miserable by you. You wanted but the Roman empire to be a Nero, the kingdom of Peru to be a Pizarro. Now do you really think that the Almighty will suffer a worm like you to play the tyrant in His world and to reverse all his ordinances? Do you think the nine hundred and ninety-nine were created only to be destroyed, only to serve as puppets in your diabolical game? Think it not! He will call you to account for every minute of which you have robbed them, every joy that you have poisoned, every perfection that you have intercepted. Then, if you can answer Him—then, Moor, I will admit that you have won.

FRANCIS. No more, not another word! Am I to be at the mercy of thy drivelling fancies?

MOSER. Beware! The different destinies of mankind are balanced with terrible nicety. The scale of life which sinks here will rise there, and that which rises here will sink there. What was here temporary affliction will there be eternal triumph; and what here was temporary triumph will there be eternal despair.

FRANCIS (rushing savagely upon him.) May the thunder of heaven strike thee dumb, thou lying spirit! I will tear thy venomed tongue out of thy mouth!

MOSER. Do you so soon feel the weight of truth? Before I have brought forward one single word of evidence? Let me first proceed to the proofs—

FRANCIS. Silence! To hell with thee and thy proofs! The soul is annihilated, I tell thee, and I will not be gainsaid!

MOSER. That is what the spirits of the bottomless pit are hourly moaning for; but heaven denies the boon. Do you hope to escape from the Avenger's arm even in the solitary waste of nothingness? If you climb up into heaven, he is there! if you make your bed in hell, behold he is there also! If you say to the night, "Hide me!" and to the darkness, "Cover me!" even the night shall be light about you, and darkness blaze upon your damned soul like a noonday sun.

FRANCIS. But I do not wish to be immortal—let them be so that like; I have no desire to hinder them. I will force him to annihilate me; I will so provoke his fury that he may utterly destroy me. Tell me which are the greatest sins—which excite him to the most terrible wrath?

MOSER. I know but two. But men do not commit these, nor do men even dream of them.

FRANCIS. What are they?

MOSER (very significantly). Parricide is the name of the one; fratricide of the other. Why do you turn so suddenly pale?

FRANCIS. What, old man? Art thou in league with heaven or with hell? Who told thee that?

MOSER. Woe to him that hath them both upon his soul! It were better for that man that he had never been born! But be at peace; you have no longer either a father or a brother!

FRANCIS. Ha! what! Do you know no greater sin? Think again! Death, heaven, eternity, damnation, hang upon thy lips. Not one greater?

MOSER. No, not one

FRANCIS (falling back in a chair). Annihilation! annihilation!

MOSER. Rejoice, then, rejoice! Congratulate yourself! With all your abominations you are yet a saint in comparison with a parricide. The curse that falls upon you is a love ditty in comparison with the curse that lies upon him. Retribution—

FRANCIS (starting up). Away with thee! May the graves open and swallow thee ten thousand fathoms deep, thou bird of ill omen! Who bade thee come here? Away, I tell thee, or I will run thee through and through!

MOSER. Can mere "priestly cant" excite a philosopher to such a pitch of frenzy? Why not blow it away with a breath of your lips? (Exit.)

[FRANCIS throws himself about in his chair in terrible agitation. Profound stillness.]

Enter a SERVANT, hastily

SERVANT. The Lady Amelia has fled. The count has suddenly disappeared.

Enter DANIEL, in great alarm.

DANIEL. My lord, a troop of furious horsemen are galloping down the hill, shouting "murder! murder!" The whole village is in alarm.

FRANCIS. Quick! let all the bells be tolled—summon everyone to the chapel—let all fall on their knees—pray for me. All prisoners shall be released and forgiven—I will make two and threefold restitution to the poor—I will—why don't you run? Do call in the father confessor, that he may give me absolution for my sins. What! are you not gone yet? (The uproar becomes more audible.)

DANIEL. Heaven have mercy upon me, poor sinner! Can I believe you in earnest, sir? You, who always made a jest of religion? How many a Bible and prayer-book have you flung at my bead when by chance you caught me at my devotions?

FRANCIS. No more of this. To die! think of it! to die! It will be too late! (The voice of SCHWEITZER is heard, loud and furious.) Pray for me, Daniel! Pray, I entreat you!

DANIEL. I always told you,—"you hold prayer in such contempt; but take heed! take heed! when the fatal hour comes, when the waters are flowing in upon your soul, you will be ready to give all the treasures of the world for one little Christian prayer." Do you see it now? What abuse you used to heap on me! Now you feel it! Is it not so!

FRANCIS (embracing him violently). Forgive me! my dear precious jewel of a Daniel, forgive me! I will clothe you from head to foot—do but pray. I will make quite a bridegroom of you—I will—only do pray— I entreat you—on my knees, I conjure you. In the devil's name, pray! why don't you pray? (Tumult in the streets, shouts and noises.)

SCHWEIT. (in the street). Storm the place! Kill all before you! Force the gates! I see lights! He must be there!

FRANCIS (on his knees). Listen to my prayer, O God in heaven! It is the first time—it shall never happen again. Hear me, God in heaven!

DANIEL. Mercy on me! What are you saying? What a wicked prayer!

Uproar of the PEOPLE, rushing in.

PEOPLE. Robbers! murderers! Who makes such a dreadful noise at this midnight hour!

SCHWEIT (still in the street). Beat them back, comrades! 'Tis the devil, come to fetch your master. Where is Schwarz with his troop? Surround the castle, Grimm! Scale the walls!

GRIMM. Bring the firebrands. Either we must up or he must down. I will throw fire into his halls.

FRANCIS (praying). Oh Lord! I have been no common murderer—I have been guilty of no petty crimes, gracious Lord—

DANIEL. Heaven be merciful to us! His very prayers are turned to sins. (Stones and firebrands are hurled up from below; the windows fall in with a crash; the castle takes fire.)

FRANCIS. I cannot pray. Here! and here! (striking his breast and his forehead) All is so void—so barren! (Rises from his knees.) No, I will not pray. Heaven shall not have that triumph, nor hell that pastime.

DANIEL. O holy Virgin! Help! save! The whole castle is in flames!

FRANCIS. There, take this sword! Quick! Run it right through my body, that these fiends may not be in time to make holiday sport of me. (The fire increases.)

DANIEL. Heaven forbid? Heaven forbid! I would send no one before his time to heaven, much less to—(He runs away).

FRANCIS (following him with a ghastly stare, after a pause). To hell, thou wouldst say. Indeed! I scent something of the kind. (In delirium.) Are these their triumphant yells? Do I hear you hissing, ye serpents of the abyss? They force their way up—they besiege the door! Why do I shrink from this biting steel? The door cracks—it yields—there is no escape! Ha! then do thou have mercy upon me! (He tears away the golden cord from his hat, and strangles himself.)*

*[In the acting edition, Francis attempts to throw himself into the flames, but is prevented by the robbers, and taken alive. He is then brought before his brother, in chains, for sentence. SCHWEITZER says, "I have fulfilled my word, and brought him alive." GRIMM. "We tore him out of the flames and the castle is in ashes." After confronting Francis with his father, and a reproachful interview between the brothers, Charles delegates the judgment on Francis to Schweitzer and Kosinsky, but for himself forgives him in these words: "Thou hast robbed me of heaven's bliss! Be that sin blotted out! Thy doom is sealed—perdition is thy lot! But I forgive thee, brother." Upon this CHARLES embraces and leaves him; the ROBBERS however, thrust FRANCIS into the dungeon where he had immured his father, laughing in a savage manner. Beyond this the fate of Francis is left undetermined. Schweitzer, instead of killing himself, is made partaker, with Kosinsky, of Moor's estate.]

Enter SCHWEITZER and his band.

SCHWEITZER. Murderous wretch, where art thou? Did you see how they fled? Has he so few friends? Where has the beast crawled to?

GRIMM (stumbles over the corpse). Stay! what is this lying in the way? Lights here.

SCHWARZ. He has been beforehand with us. Put up your swords. There he lies sprawling like a dead dog.

SCHWEITZER. Dead! What! dead? Dead without me? 'Tis a lie, I say. Mark how quickly he will spring upon his feet! (Shakes him). Hollo! up with you? There is a father to be murdered.

GRIMM. Spare your pains. He is as dead as a log.

SCHWEITZER (steps aside from him). Yes, his game is up! He is dead! dead! Go back and tell my captain he is as dead as a log. He will not see me again. (Blows his brains out.)



SCENE II.—The scene the same as the last scene of the preceding Act.

OLD MOOR seated on a stone; CHARLES VON MOOR opposite; ROBBERS scattered through the wood.

CHARLES. He does not come! (Strikes his dagger against a stone till the sparks fly.)

OLD MOOR. Let pardon be his punishment—redoubled love my vengeance.

CHARLES. No! by my enraged soul that shall not be! I will not permit it. He shall bear that enormous load of crime with him into eternity!— what else should I kill him for?

OLD MOOR (bursting into tears). Oh my child!

CHARLES. What! you weep for him? In sight of this dungeon?

OLD MOOR. Mercy! oh mercy! (Wringing his hands violently.) Now—now my son is brought to judgment!

CHARLES (starting). Which son?

OLD MOOR. Ha! what means that question?

CHARLES. Nothing! nothing!

OLD MOOR. Art thou come to make a mockery of my grief?

CHARLES. Treacherous conscience! Take no heed of my words!

OLD MOOR. Yes, I persecuted a son, and a son persecutes me in return. It is the finger of God. Oh my Charles! my Charles! If thou dost hover around me in the realms of peace, forgive me! oh forgive me!

CHARLES (hastily). He forgives you! (Checking himself.) If he is worthy to be called your son, he must forgive you!

OLD MOOR. Ha! he was too noble a son for me. But I will go to him with my tears, my sleepless nights, my racking dreams. I will embrace his knees, and cry—cry aloud—"I have sinned against heaven and before thee; I am no longer worthy to be called thy father!"

CHARLES (in deep emotion). Was he very dear to you—that other son?

OLD MOOR. Heaven is my witness, how much I loved him. Oh, why did I suffer myself to be beguiled by the arts of a wicked son? I was an envied father among the fathers of the world—my children full of promise, blooming by my side! But—oh that fatal hour!—the demon of envy entered into the heart of my younger son—I listened to the serpent—and—lost both my children! (Hides his countenance.)

CHARLES (removes to a distance from him). Lost forever!

OLD MOOR. Oh, deeply do I feel the words of Amelia. The spirit of vengeance spoke from her lips. "In vain wilt thou stretch forth thy dying hands after a son, in vain fancy thou art grasping the warm hands of thy Charles,—he will never more stand by thy bedside."

(CHARLES stretches out his hand to him with averted face.)

Oh, that this were the hand of my Charles! But he is laid far away in the narrow house—he is sleeping the iron sleep—he hears not the voice of my lamentation. Woe is me! to die in the arms of a stranger? No son left—no son left to close my eyes!

CHARLES (in violent emotion). It must be so—the moment has arrived. Leave me—(to the ROBBERS.) And yet—can I restore his son to him? Alas! No! I cannot restore him that son! No! I will not think of it.

OLD MOOR. Friend! what is that you were muttering?

CHARLES. Your son—yes, old man—(faltering) your son—is—lost forever!

OLD MOOR. Forever?

CHARLES (looking up to heaven in bitter anguish). Oh this once—keep my soul from sinking—sustain me but this once!

OLD MOOR. Forever, did you say.

CHARLES. Ask no more! I said forever!

OLD MOOR. Stranger, stranger! why didst thou drag me forth from the dungeon to remind me of my sorrows?

CHARLES. And what if I were now to snatch his blessing?—snatch it like a thief, and steal away with the precious prize? A father's blessing, they say, is never lost.

OLD MOOR. And is my Francis too lost?

CHARLES (falling on his knees before him). 'Twas I who burst the bars of your dungeon. I crave thy blessing!

OLD MOOR (sorrowfully). Oh that thou shouldst destroy the son!—thou, the father's deliverer! Behold! Heaven's mercy is untiring, and we pitiful worms let the sun go down upon our wrath. (Lays his hand upon the head of CHARLES.) Be thou happy, even as thou shalt be merciful!

CHARLES (rising much affected). Oh!—where is my manhood? My sinews are unstrung—the sword drops from my hand.

OLD MOOR. How lovely a thing it is when brethren dwell together in unity; as the dewdrops of heaven that fall upon the mountains of Zion. Learn to deserve that happiness, young man, and the angels of heaven will sun themselves in thy glory. Let thy wisdom be the wisdom of gray hairs, but let thy heart be the heart of innocent childhood.

CHARLES. Oh, for a foretaste of that happiness! Kiss me, divine old man!

OLD MOOR (kissing him). Think it thy father's kiss; and I will think I am kissing my son. Canst thou too weep?

CHARLES. I felt as if it were my father's kiss! Woe unto me, were they to bring him now!

(The companions of SCHWEITZER enter in a silent and mournful procession, hanging down their heads and hiding their faces.)

CHARLES. Good heaven! (Retreats horror-struck, and seeks to hide himself. They pass by him his face is averted. Profound silence. They halt.)

GRIMM (in a subdued tone). My captain!

[CHARLES does not answer and steps farther back.]

SCHWARZ. Dear captain!

[CHARLES retreats still farther.]

GRIMM. 'Tis not our fault, captain!

CHARLES (without looking at them). Who are ye?

GRIMM. You do not look at us! Your faithful followers.

CHARLES. Woe to ye, if ye are faithful to me!

GRIMM. The last farewell from your servant Schweitzer!—

CHARLES (starting). Then ye have not found him?

SCHWARZ. Found him dead.

CHARLES (leaping up with joy). Thanks, O Sovereign Ruler of all things! —Embrace me, my children!—Mercy be henceforward our watchword!—Now, were that too surmounted,—all would be surmounted.

Enter ROBBERS with AMELIA.

ROBBERS. Hurrah! hurrah! A prize, a splendid prize!

AMELIA (with hair dishevelled). The dead, they cry, have arisen at his voice—My uncle alive—in this wood—Where is he? Charles? Uncle!—Ha? (She rushes into the arms, of OLD MOOR.)

OLD MOOR. Amelia! my daughter! Amelia! (Holds her tightly grasped in his arms.)

CHARLES (starting back). Who brings this image before my eyes.

AMELIA (tearing herself away from the old man, rushes upon CHARLES, and embraces him in an ecstasy of delight). I have him, O ye stars! I have him!

CHARLES (tearing himself away, to the ROBBERS). Let us be gone, comrades! The arch fiend has betrayed me!

AMELIA. My bridegroom, my bridegroom! thou art raving! Ha! 'Tis with delight! Why, then, am I so cold, so unfeeling, in the midst of this tumult of happiness?

OLD MOOR (rousing himself). Bridegroom? Daughter! my daughter! Thy bridegroom?*

*[Instead of this the stage edition has, "Come my children! Thy hand, Charles—and thine, Amelia. Oh! I never looked for such happiness on this side the grave. Here let me unite you forever."]

AMELIA. His forever! He forever, ever, mine! Oh! ye heavenly powers! support me in this ecstasy of bliss, lest I sink beneath its weight!

CHARLES. Tear her from my neck! Kill her! Kill him! Kill me— yourselves—everybody! Let the whole world perish! (About to rush of.)

AMELIA. Whither? what? Love! eternity! happiness! never-ending joys! and thou wouldst fly?

CHARLES. Away, away! most unfortunate of brides! See with thine own eves; ask, and hear it with thine own ears! Most miserable of fathers! Let me escape hence forever!

AMELIA. Support me! for heaven's sake support me! It is growing dark before my eyes! He flies!

CHARLES. Too late! In vain! Your curse, father! Ask me no more! I am—I have—your curse—your supposed curse! Who enticed me hither? (Rushing upon the ROBBERS with drawn sword.) Which of you enticed me hither, ye demons of the abyss? Perish, then, Amelia! Die, father! Die, for the third time, through me! These, thy deliverers, are Robbers and Murderers! Thy Charles is their Captain! (OLD MOOR expires.)

[AMELIA stands silent and transfixed like a statue. The whole band are mute. A fearful pause.]

CHARLES (rushing against an oak). The souls of those I have strangled in the intoxication of love—of those whom I crushed to atoms in the sacredness of sleep—of those whom—Ha! ha! ha! do you hear the powder-magazine bursting over the heads of women in travail? Do you see the flames creeping round the cradles of sucklings? That is our nuptial torch; those shrieks our wedding music! Oh! he forgetteth none of these things!—he knoweth how to connect the—links in the chain of life. Therefore do love's delights elude my grasp; therefore is love given me for a torment! This is retribution!

AMELIA. 'Tis all true! Thou Ruler in heaven! 'Tis all true! What have I done, poor innocent lamb? I have loved this man!

CHARLES. This is more than a man can endure. Have I not heard death hissing at me from more thousands of barrels, and never yet moved a hair's breadth out of its way. And shall I now be taught to tremble like a woman? tremble before a woman! No! a woman shall not conquer my manly courage! Blood! blood! 'tis but a fit of womanish feeling. I must glut myself with blood; and this will pass away. (He is about to fly.)

AMELIA (sinking into his arms). Murderer! devil! I cannot—angel— leave thee!

CHARLES (thrusting her from him). Away! insidious serpent! Thou wouldst make a mockery of my frenzy; but I will bid defiance to my tyrant destiny. What! art thou weeping? O ye relentless, malicious stars! She pretends to weep, as if any soul could weep for me! (AMELIA falls on his neck.) Ha! what means this? She shuns me not—she spurns me not. Amelia! hast thou then forgotten? Dost thou remember whom thou art embracing, Amelia?

AMELIA. My only one, mine, mine forever!

CHARLES (recovering himself in an ecstasy of joy). She forgives me, she loves me! Then am I pure as the ether of heaven, for she loves me! With tears I thank thee, all-merciful Father! (He falls on his knees, and bursts into a violent fit of weeping.) The peace of my soul is restored; my sufferings are at an end. Hell is no more! Behold! oh behold! the child of light weeps on the neck of a repentant demon! (Rising and turning to the ROBBERS). Why are ye not weeping also? Weep, weep, ye are all so happy. O Amelia! Amelia! Amelia! (He hangs on her neck, they remain locked in a silent embrace.)

A ROBBER (stepping forward enraged). Hold, traitor! This instant come from her arms! or I will speak a word that shall make thy ears tingle, and thy teeth chatter with horror! (He holds his sword between them.)

AN AGED ROBBER. Remember the Bohemian forests! Dost thou hear? dost thou tremble? Remember the Bohemian forests, I tell thee! Faithless man! where are thy oaths? Are wounds so soon forgotten? Who staked fortune, honor, life itself for thee? Who stood by thee like walls, and like shields caught the blows which were aimed at thy life? Didst not thou then lift up thy hand and swear an iron oath never to forsake us, even as we forsook not thee? Base, perfidious wretch! and wouldst thou now desert us at the whining of a harlot?

A THIRD ROBBER. Shame on thy perjury! The spirit of the immolated Roller, whom thou didst summon from the realms of death to attest thy oath, will blush at thy cowardice, and rise from his grave full armed to chastise thee.

THE ROBBERS (all in disorder, tearing open their garments). See here! and here! Dost thou know these scars? Thou art ours! With our heart's blood we have bought thee, and thou art ours bodily, even though the Archangel Michael should seek to wrest thee out of the grasp of the fiery Moloch! Now! March with us! Sacrifice for sacrifice, Amelia for the band!

CHARLES (releasing her hand). It is past! I would arise and return to my father; but heaven has said, "It shall not be!" (Coldly.) Blind fool that I was! why should I wish it? Is it possible for a great sinner to return? A great sinner never can return. That ought I long since to have known. Be still! I pray thee be still! 'Tis all as it should be. When He sought me I would not; now that I seek him, He will not. What can be more just? Do not roll about thine eyes so wildly. He—has no need of me. Has He not creatures in abundance? One he can easily spare, and that one am I. Come along, comrades!

AMELIA (pulling him back). Stay, I beseech you! One blow! one deadly blow! Again forsaken! Draw thy sword, and have mercy upon me!

CHARLES. Mercy has taken refuge among bears. I will not kill thee!

AMELIA (embracing his knees). Oh, for heaven's sake! by all that is merciful! I ask no longer for love. I know that our stars fly from each other in opposition. Death is all I ask. Forsaken, forsaken! Take that word in all its dreadful import! Forsaken! I cannot survive it! Thou knowest well that no woman can survive that. All I ask is death. See, my hand trembles! I have not courage to strike the blow. I shrink from the gleaming blade! To thee it is so easy, so very easy; thou art a master in murder—draw thy sword, and make me happy!

CHARLES. Wouldst thou alone be happy? Away with thee! I will kill no woman!

AMELIA. Ha! destroyer! thou canst only kill the happy; they who are weary of existence thou sparest! (She glides towards the robbers.) Then do ye have mercy on me, disciples of murder! There lurks a bloodthirsty pity in your looks that is consoling to the wretched. Your master is a boaster and a coward.

CHARLES. Woman, what dost thou say? (The ROBBERS turn away.)

AMELIA. No friend? No; not even among these a friend? (She rises.) Well, then, let Dido teach me how to die! (She is going; a ROBBER takes aim at her.)

CHARLES. Hold! dare it! Moor's Amelia shall die by no other hand than Moor's. (He strikes her dead.)

THE ROBBERS. Captain! captain! what hast thou done? Art thou raving?

CHARLES (with his eyes fixed on the body). One more pang and all will be over. She is immolated! Now, look on! have you any farther demand? Ye staked a life for me, a life which has ceased to be your own—a life full of infamy and shame! I have sacrificed an angel for you. Now! look upon her! Are you content?

GRIMM. You have repaid your debt with usury. You have done all that man could do for his honor, and more. Now let's away.

CHARLES. What say you? Is not the life of a saint for the life of a felon more than an equal exchange? Oh! I say unto you if every one of you were to—mount the scaffold, and to have his flesh torn from his bones piecemeal with red-hot pincers, through eleven long summer days of torture, yet would it not counterbalance these tears! (With a bitter laugh.) The scars! the Bohemian forests! Yes, yes! they must be repaid, of course!

SCHWARZ. Compose yourself, captain! Come along with us! this is no sight for you. Lead us elsewhere!

CHARLES. Stay! one word more before we proceed elsewhere. Mark me, ye malicious executioners of my barbarous nod! from this moment I cease to be your captain.*

*[The acting edition reads,—"Banditti! we are quits. This bleeding corpse cancels my bond to you forever. From your own I set you free." ROBBERS. "We are again your slaves till death!" CHARLES. "No, no, no! We have done with each other. My genius whispers me, 'Go no further, Moor. Here is the goal of humanity— and thine!' Take back this bloody plume (throws it at their feet). Let him who seeks to be your captain take it up."]

With shame and horror I here lay down the bloody staff, under which you thought yourselves licensed to perpetrate your crimes and to defile the fair light of heaven with deeds of darkness. Depart to the right and to the left. We shall never more have aught in common.

THE ROBBERS. Ha! coward! where are thy lofty schemes? were they but soap-bubbles, which disperse at the breath of a woman?*

*[In lieu of this soliloquy and what follows, to the end, the acting edition has:—

R. MOOR. Dare not to scrutinize the acts of Moor. That is my last command. Now, draw near—form a circle around me, and receive the last words of your dying captain. (He surveys them attentively for some time.) You have been devotedly faithful to me, faithful beyond example. Had virtue bound you together as firmly as vice, you would have been heroes, and your names recorded by mankind with admiration. Go and offer your services to the state. Dedicate your talents to the cause of a monarch who is waging war in vindication of the rights of man. With this blessing I disband you. Schweitzer and Kosinsky, do you stay. (The others disperse slowly, with signs of emotion.)]



SCENE VIII.



R. MOOR, SCRWETTZER, and KOSINSKY.

R. MOOR. Give me thy right hand, Kosinsky—Schweitzer thy left. (He takes their hands, and stands between, them; to KOSINSKY,) Young man, thou art still pure-amongst the guilty thou alone art guiltless! (To SCHWEITZER.) Deeply have I imbrued thy hand in blood. 'Tis I who have done this. With this cordial grasp I take back mine own. Schweitzer! thou art purified! (He raises their hands fervently to heaven.) Father in heaven! here I restore them to thee. They will be more devoted to thy service than those who never fell. Of that I feel assured. (SCHWEITZER and KOSINSKY fall on his neck with fervor.) Not now—not now, dear comrades. Spare my feelings in this trying hour. An earldom has this day fallen to my lot—a rich domain on which no malediction rests. Share it between you, my children; become good citizens; and if for ten human beings that I have destroyed you make but one happy, my soul may yet be saved. Go—no farewell! In another world we may meet again—or perhaps no more. Away! away! ere my fortitude desert me. [Exeunt both, with downcast countenances.]

SCENE IX.

And I, too, am a good citizen. Do I not fulfil the extremity of the law? Do I not honor the law? Do I not uphold and defend it? I remember speaking to a poor officer on my way hither, who was toiling as a day-laborer, and has eleven living children. A thousand ducats have been offered to whoever shall deliver up the great robber alive. That man shall be served. [Exit.]

CHARLES. Oh! fool that I was, to fancy that I could amend the world by misdeeds and maintain law by lawlessness! I called it vengeance and equity. I presumed, O Providence! upon whetting out the notches of thy sword and repairing thy partialities. But, oh, vain trifling! here I stand on the brink of a fearful life, and learn, with wailing and gnashing of teeth, that two men like myself could ruin the whole edifice of the moral world. Pardon—pardon the boy who thought to forestall Thee; to Thee alone belongeth vengeance; Thou needest not the hand of man! But it is not in my power to recall the past; that which is ruined remains ruined; what I have thrown down will never more rise up again. Yet one thing is left me whereby I may atone to the offended majesty of the law and restore the order which I have violated. A victim is required—a victim to declare before all mankind how inviolable that majesty is—that victim shall be myself. I will be the death-offering!

ROBBERS. Take his sword from him—he will kill himself.

CHARLES. Fools that ye are! doomed to eternal blindness! Think ye that one mortal sin will expiate other mortal sins? Do you suppose that the harmony of the world would be promoted by such an impious discord? (Throwing his arms at their feet.) He shall have me alive. I go to deliver myself into the hands of justice.

ROBBERS. Put him in chains! he has lost his senses!

CHARLES. Not that I have any doubt but that justice would find me speedily enough if the powers above so ordained it. But she might surprise me in sleep, or overtake me in flight, or seize me with violence and the sword, and then I should have lost the only merit left me, that of making my death a free-will atonement. Why should I, like a thief, any longer conceal a life, which in the counsels of the heavenly ministry has long been forfeited?

ROBBERS. Let him go. He is infected with the great-man-mania; he means to offer up his life for empty admiration.

CHARLES. I might, 'tis true, be admired for it. (After a moment's reflection.) I remember, on my way hither, talking to a poor creature, a day-laborer, with eleven living children. A reward has been offered of a thousand louis-d'ors to any one who shall deliver up the great robber alive. That man shall be served. [Exit.]



FIESCO, OR THE GENOESE CONSPIRACY.

A TRAGEDY.

By Frederich Schiller



AUTHOR'S PREFACE.

The chief sources from which I have drawn the history of this conspiracy are Cardinal de Retz's Conjuration du Comte Jean Louis de Fiesque, the Histoire des Genes, and the third volume of Robertson's History of Charles the Fifth.

The liberties which I have taken with the historical facts will be excused, if I have succeeded in my attempt; and, if not, it is better that my failure should appear in the effusions of fancy, than in the delineation of truth. Some deviation from the real catastrophe of the conspiracy (according to which the count actually perished [A] when his schemes were nearly ripe for execution) was rendered necessary by the nature of the drama, which does not allow the interposition either of chance or of a particular Providence. It would be matter of surprise to me that this subject has never been adopted by any tragic writer, did not the circumstances of its conclusion, so unfit for dramatic representation, afford a sufficient reason for such neglect. Beings of a superior nature may discriminate the finest links of that chain which connects an individual action with the system of the universe, and may, perhaps, behold them extended to the utmost limits of time, past and future; but man seldom sees more than the simple facts, divested of their various relations of cause and effect. The writer, therefore, must adapt his performance to the short-sightedness of human nature, which he would enlighten; and not to the penetration of Omniscience, from which all intelligence is derived.

In my Tragedy of the Robbers it was my object to delineate the victim of an extravagant sensibility; here I endeavor to paint the reverse; a victim of art and intrigue. But, however strongly marked in the page of history the unfortunate project of Fiesco may appear, on the stage it may prove less interesting. If it be true that sensibility alone awakens sensibility, we may conclude that the political hero is the less calculated for dramatic representation, in proportion as it becomes necessary to lay aside the feelings of a man in order to become a political hero.

It was, therefore, impossible for me to breathe into my fable that glowing life which animates the pure productions of poetical inspiration; but, in order to render the cold and sterile actions of the politician capable of affecting the human heart, I was obliged to seek a clue to those actions in the human heart itself. I was obliged to blend together the man and the politician, and to draw from the refined intrigues of state situations interesting to humanity. The relations which I bear to society are such as unfold to me more of the heart than of the cabinet; and, perhaps, this very political defect may have become a poetical excellence.

[A] Fiesco, after having succeeded in the chief objects of his undertaking, happened to fall into the sea whilst hastening to quell some disturbances on board of a vessel in the harbor; the weight of his armor rendered his struggles ineffectual, and he perished. The deviation from history in the tragedy might have been carried farther, and would perhaps have rendered it more suitable to dramatic representation.—Translation.



FIESCO; OR, THE GENOESE CONSPIRACY.

A TRAGEDY.



DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

ANDREAS DORIA, Duke of Genoa, a venerable old man, eighty years of age, retaining the traces of a high spirit: the chief features in this character are dignity and a rigid brevity in command.

GIANETTINO DORIA, nephew of the former, and pretender to the ducal power, twenty-six years of age, rough and forbidding in his address, deportment, and manners, with a vulgar pride and disgusting features.

FIESCO, Count of Lavagna, chief of the conspiracy, a tall, handsome young man, twenty-three years of age; his character is that of dignified pride and majestic affability, with courtly complaisance and deceitfulness.

VERRINA, a determined republican, sixty years of age; grave, austere, and inflexible: a marked character.

BOURGOGNINO, a conspirator, a youth of twenty; frank and high-spirited, proud, hasty, and undisguised.

CALCAGNO, a conspirator, a worn-out debauchee of thirty; insinuating and enterprising.

SACCO, a conspirator, forty-five years of age, with no distinguishing trait of character.

LOMELLINO, in the confidence of the pretender, a haggard courtier.

ZENTURIONE, ZIBO, Malcontents. ASSERATO,

ROMANO, a painter, frank and simple, with the pride of genius.

MULEY HASSAN, a Moor of Tunis, an abandoned character, with a physiognomy displaying an original mixture of rascality and humor.

A GERMAN of the ducal body-guard, of an honest simplicity, and steady bravery.

THREE SEDITIOUS CITIZENS.

LEONORA, the wife of Fiesco, eighteen years of age, of great sensibility; her appearance pale and slender, engaging, but not dazzling; her countenance marked with melancholy; her dress black.

JULIA, Countess dowager Imperiali, sister of the younger Doria, aged twenty-five; a proud coquette, in person tall and full, her beauty spoiled by affectation, with a sarcastic maliciousness in her countenance; her dress black.

BERTHA, daughter of Verrina, an innocent girl.

ROSA, Maids of Leonora. ARABELLA,

Several Nobles, Citizens, Germans, Soldiers, Thieves.

(SCENE—Genoa. TIME—the year 1547.)



ACT I.



SCENE I.—A Saloon in FIESCO'S House. The distant sound of dancing and music is heard.

LEONORA, masked, and attended by ROSA and ARABELLA, enters hastily.

LEONORA (tears off her mask). No more! Not another word! 'Tis as clear as day! (Throwing herself in a chair.) This quite overcomes me——

ARABELLA. My lady!

LEONORA (rising.) What, before my eyes! with a notorious coquette! In presence of the whole nobility of Genoa! (strongly affected.)—Rosa! Arabella! and before my weeping eyes!

ROSA. Look upon it only as what it really was—a piece of gallantry. It was nothing more.

LEONORA. Gallantry! What! Their busy interchange of glances—the anxious watching of her every motion—the long and eager kiss upon her naked arm, impressed with a fervor that left in crimson glow the very traces of his lips! Ha! and the transport that enwrapped his soul, when, with fixed eyes, he sate like painted ecstacy, as if the world around him had dissolved, and naught remained in the eternal void but he and Julia. Gallantry? Poor thing! Thou hast never loved. Think not that thou canst teach me to distinguish gallantry from love!

ROSA. No matter, Signora! A husband lost is as good as ten lovers gained.

LEONORA. Lost? Is then one little intermission of the heart's pulsations a proof that I have lost Fiesco? Go, malicious slanderer! Come no more into my presence! 'Twas an innocent frolic—perhaps a mere piece of gallantry. Say, my gentle Arabella, was it not so?

ARABELLA. Most certainly! There can be no doubt of it!

LEONORA (in a reverie). But does she then feel herself sole mistress of his heart? Does her name lurk in his every thought?—meet him in every phase of nature? Can it be? Whither will these thoughts lead me? Is this beautiful and majestic world to him but as one precious diamond, on which her image—her image alone—is engraved? That he should love her? —love Julia! Oh! Your arm—support me, Arabella! (A pause; music is again heard.)

LEONORA (starting). Hark! Was not that Fiesco's voice, which from the tumult penetrated even hither? Can he laugh while his Leonora weeps in solitude? Oh, no, my child, it was the coarse, loud voice of Gianettino.

ARABELLA. It was, Signora—but let us retire to another apartment.

LEONORA. You change color, Arabella—you are false. In your looks, in the looks of all the inhabitants of Genoa, I read a something—a something which—(hiding her face)—oh, certainly these Genoese know more than should reach a wife's ear.

ROSA. Oh, jealousy! thou magnifier of trifles!

LEONORA (with melancholy enthusiasm). When he was still Fiesco; when in the orange-grove, where we damsels walked, I saw him—a blooming Apollo, blending the manly beauty of Antinous! Such was his noble and majestic deportment, as if the illustrious state of Genoa rested alone upon his youthful shoulders. Our eyes stole trembling glances at him, and shrunk back, as if with conscious guilt, whene'er they encountered the lightning of his looks. Ah, Arabella, how we devoured those looks! with what anxious envy did every one count those directed to her companions! They fell among us like the golden apple of discord—tender eyes burned fiercely—soft bosoms beat tumultuously—jealousy burst asunder all our bonds of friendship——

ARABELLA. I remember it well. All Genoa's female hearts were in rebellious ferment for so enviable a prize!

LEONORA (in rapture). And now to call him mine! Giddy, wondrous fortune!—to call the pride of Genoa mine!—he who from the chisel of the exhaustless artist, Nature, sprang forth all-perfect, combining every greatness of his sex in the most perfect union. Hear me, damsels! I can no longer conceal it—hear me! I confide to you something (mysteriously)—a thought!—when I stood at the altar with Fiesco,—when his hand lay in mine,—a thought, too daring for woman, rushed across me. "This Fiesco, whose hand now lies in thine—thy Fiesco"—but hush! let no man hear us boast how far he excels all others of his sex. "This, thy Fiesco"—ah, could you but share my feelings!—"will free Genoa from its tyrants!"

ARABELLA (astonished). And could this dream haunt a woman's mind even at the nuptial shrine?

LEONORA. Yes, my Arabella,—well mayest thou be astonished—to the bride it came, even in the joy of the bridal hour (more animated). I am a woman, but I feel the nobleness of my blood. I cannot bear to see these proud Dorias thus overtop our family. The good old Andreas—it is a pleasure to esteem him. He may indeed, unenvied, bear the ducal dignity; but Gianettino is his nephew—his heir—and Gianettino has a proud and wicked heart. Genoa trembles before him, and Fiesco (much affected)— Fiesco—weep with me, damsels!—loves his sister.

ARABELLA. Alas, my wretched mistress!

LEONORA. Go now, and see this demi-god of the Genoese—amid the shameless circles of debauchery and lust! hear the vile jests and wanton ribaldry with which he entertains his base companions! That is Fiesco! Ah, damsels, not only has Genoa lost its hero, but I have lost my husband!

ROSA. Speak lower! some one is coming through the gallery.

LEONORA (alarmed). Ha! 'Tis Fiesco—let us hasten away—the sight of me might for a moment interrupt his happiness. (She hastens into a side apartment; the maids follow.)



SCENE IL

GIANETTINO DORIA, masked, in a green cloak, and the MOOR, enter in conversation.

GIANETTINO. Thou hast understood me!

MOOR. Well——

GIANETTINO. The white mask——

MOOR. Well——

GIANETTINO. I say, the white mask——

MOOR. Well—well—well——

GIANETTINO. Dost thou mark me? Thou canst only fail here! (pointing to his heart).

MOOR. Give yourself no concern.

GIANETTINO. And be sure to strike home——

MOOR. He shall have enough.

GIANETTINO (maliciously). That the poor count may not have long to suffer.

MOOR. With your leave, sir, a word—at what weight do you estimate his head?

GIANETTINO. What weight? A hundred sequins——

MOOR (blowing through his fingers). Poh! Light as a feather!

GIANETTINO. What art thou muttering?

MOOR. I was saying—it is light work.

GIANETTINO. That is thy concern. He is the very loadstone of sedition. Mark me, sirrah! let thy blow be sure.

MOOR. But, sir,—I must fly to Venice immediately after the deed.

GIANETTINO. Then take my thanks beforehand. (He throws him a bank-note.) In three days at farthest he must be cold.

[Exit.

MOOR (picking up the note). Well, this really is what I call credit to trust—the simple word of such a rogue as I am!

[Exit.



SCENE III.

CALCAGNO, behind him SACCO, both in black cloaks.

CALCAGNO. I perceive thou watchest all my steps.

SACCO. And I observe thou wouldst conceal them from me. Attend, Calcagno! For some weeks past I have remarked the workings of thy countenance. They bespeak more than concerns the interests of our country. Brother, I should think that we might mutually exchange our confidence without loss on either side. What sayest thou? Wilt thou be sincere?

CALCAGNO. So truly, that thou shalt not need to dive into the recesses of my soul; my heart shall fly half-way to meet thee on my tongue—I love the Countess of Fiesco.

SACCO (starts back with astonishment). That, at least, I should not have discovered had I made all possibilities pass in review before me. My wits are racked to comprehend thy choice, but I must have lost them altogether if thou succeed.

CALCAGNO. They say she is a pattern of the strictest virtue.

SACCO. They lie. She is the whole volume on that insipid text. Calcagno, thou must choose one or the other—either to give up thy heart or thy profession.

CALCAGNO. The Count is faithless to her; and of all the arts that may seduce a woman the subtlest is jealousy. A plot against the Dorias will at the same time occupy the Count, and give me easy access to his house. Thus, while the shepherd guards against the wolf, the fox shall make havoc of the poultry.

SACCO. Incomparable brother, receive my thanks! A blush is now superfluous, and I can tell thee openly what just now I was ashamed even to think. I am a beggar if the government be not soon overturned.

CALCAGNO. What, are thy debts so great?

SACCO. So immense that even one-tenth of them would more than swallow ten times my income. A convulsion of the state will give me breath; and if it do not cancel all my debts, at least 'twill stop the mouths of bawling creditors.

CALCAGNO. I understand thee; and if then, perchance, Genoa should be freed, Sacco will be hailed his country's savior. Let no one trick out to me the threadbare tale of honesty, if the fate of empires hang on the bankruptcy of a prodigal and the lust of a debauchee. By heaven, Sacco, I admire the wise design of Providence, that in us would heal the corruptions in the heart of the state by the vile ulcers on its limbs. Is thy design unfolded to Verrina?

SACCO. As far as it can be unfolded to a patriot. Thou knowest his iron integrity, which ever tends to that one point, his country. His hawk-like eye is now fixed on Fiesco, and he has half-conceived a hope of thee to join the bold conspiracy.

CALCAGNO. Oh, he has an excellent nose! Come, let us seek him, and fan the flame of liberty in his breast by our accordant spirit.

[Exeunt.



SCENE IV.

JULIA, agitated with anger, and FIESCO, in a white mask, following her.

JULIA. Servants! footmen!

FIESCO. Countess, whither are you going? What do you intend?

JULIA. Nothing—nothing at all. (To the servants, who enter and immediately retire.) Let my carriage draw up——

FIESCO. Pardon me, it must not. You are offended.

JULIA. Oh, by no means. Away—you tear my dress to pieces. Offended. Who is here that can offend me? Go, pray go.

FIESCO (upon one knee). Not till you tell me what impertinent——

JULIA (stands still in a haughty attitude). Fine! Fine! Admirable! Oh, that the Countess of Lavagna might be called to view this charming scene! How, Count, is this like a husband? This posture would better suit the chamber of your wife when she turns over the journal of your caresses and finds a void in the account. Rise, sir, and seek those to whom your overtures will prove more acceptable. Rise—unless you think your gallantries will atone for your wife's impertinence.

FIESCO (jumping up). Impertinence! To you?

JULIA. To break up! To push away her chair! To turn her back upon the table—that table, Count, where I was sitting——

FIESCO. 'Tis inexcusable.

JULIA. And is that all? Out upon the jade! Am I, then, to blame because the Count makes use of his eyes? (Smilingly admiring herself.)

FIESCO. 'Tis the fault of your beauty, madam, that keeps them in such sweet slavery.

JULIA. Away with compliment where honor is concerned. Count, I insist on satisfaction. Where shall I find it, in you, or in my uncle's vengeance?

FIESCO. Find it in the arms of love—of love that would repair the offence of jealousy.

JULIA. Jealousy! Jealousy! Poor thing! What would she wish for? (Admiring herself in the glass.) Could she desire a higher compliment than were I to declare her taste my own? (Haughtily.) Doria and Fiesco! Would not the Countess of Lavagna have reason to feel honored if Doria's niece deigned to envy her choice? (In a friendly tone, offering the Count her hand to kiss.) I merely assume the possibility of such a case, Count.

FIESCO (with animation). Cruel Countess! Thus to torment me. I know, divine Julia, that respect is all I ought to feel for you. My reason bids me bend a subject's knee before the race of Doria; but my heart adores the beauteous Julia. My love is criminal, but 'tis also heroic, and dares o'erleap the boundaries of rank, and soar towards the dazzling sun of majesty.

JULIA. A great and courtly falsehood, paraded upon stilts! While his tongue deifies me, his heart beats beneath the picture of another.

FIESCO. Rather say it beats indignantly against it, and would shake off the odious burden. (Taking the picture of LEONORA, which is suspended by a sky-blue ribbon from his breast, and delivering it to JULIA.) Place your own image on that altar and you will instantly annihilate this idol.

JULIA (pleased, puts by the picture hastily). A great sacrifice, by mine honor, and which deserves my thanks. (Hangs her own picture about his neck.) So, my slave, henceforth bear your badge of service.

[Exit.

FIESCO (with transport). Julia loves me! Julia! I envy not even the gods. (Exulting.) Let this night be a jubilee. Joy shall attain its summit. Ho! within there! (Servants come running in.) Let the floors swim with Cyprian nectar, soft strains of music rouse midnight from her leaden slumber, and a thousand burning lamps eclipse the morning sun. Pleasure shall reign supreme, and the Bacchanal dance so wildly beat the ground that the dark kingdom of the shades below shall tremble at the uproar!

[Exit hastily. A noisy allegro, during which the back scene opens, and discovers a grand illuminated saloon, many masks—dancing. At the side, drinking and playing tables, surrounded with company.



SCENE V.

GIANETTINO, almost intoxicated, LOMELLINO, ZIBO, ZENTURIONE, VERRINA, CALCAGNO, all masked. Several other nobles and ladies.

GIANETTINO (boisterously). Bravo! Bravo! These wines glide down charmingly. The dancers perform a merveille. Go, one of you, and publish it throughout Genoa that I am in good humor, and that every one may enjoy himself. By my ruling star this shall be marked as a red-letter day in the calendar, and underneath be written,—"This day was Prince Doria merry." (The guests lift their glasses to their mouths. A general toast of "The Republic." Sound of trumpets.) The Republic? (Throwing his glass violently on the ground.) There lie its fragments. (Three black masks suddenly rise and collect about GIANETTINO.)

LOMELLINO (supporting GIANETTINO on his arm). My lord, you lately spoke of a young girl whom you saw in the church of St. Lorenzo.

GIANETTINO. I did, my lad! and I must make her acquaintance.

LOMELLINO. That I can manage for your grace.

GIANETTINO (with vehemence). Can you? Can you? Lomellino, you were a candidate for the procuratorship. You shall have it.

LOMELLINO. Gracious prince, it is the second dignity in the state; more than threescore noblemen seek it, and all of them more wealthy and honorable than your grace's humble servant.

GIANETTINO (indignantly). By the name of Doria! You shall be procurator. (The three masks come forward). What talk you of nobility in Genoa? Let them all throw their ancestry and honors into the scale, one hair from the white beard of my old uncle will make it kick the beam. It is my will that you be procurator, and that is tantamount to the votes of the whole senate.

LOMELLINO (in a low voice). The damsel is the only daughter of one Verrina.

GIANETTINO. The girl is pretty, and, in spite of all the devils in hell, I must possess her.

LOMELLINO. What, my lord! the only child of the most obstinate of our republicans?

GIANETTINO. To hell with your republicans! Shall my passion be thwarted by the anger of a vassal? 'Tis as vain as to expect the tower should fall when the boys pelt it with mussel-shells. (The three black masks step nearer, with great emotion.) What! Has the Duke Andreas gained his scars in battle for their wives and children, only that his nephew should court the favor of these vagabond republicans! By the name of Doria they shall swallow this fancy of mine, or I will plant a gallows over the bones of my uncle, on which their Genoese liberty shall kick itself to death. (The three masks step back in disgust.)