*[A woman in Paris, by means of a regularly performed series of
experiments, carried the art of poisoning to such perfection that
she could predict almost to a certainty the day of death, however
remote. Fie upon our physicians, who should blush to be outdone by
a woman in their own province. Beckmann, in his article on secret
poisoning, has given a particular account of this woman, the
Marchioness de Brinvilliers.-See "History of Inventions," Standard
Library Edition, vol. i, pp. 47-63.]
And how, then, must I, too, go to work to dissever that sweet and peaceful union of soul and body? What species of sensations should I seek to produce? Which would most fiercely assail the condition of life? Anger?-that ravenous wolf is too quickly satiated. Care? that worm gnaws far too slowly. Grief?-that viper creeps too lazily for me. Fear?-hope destroys its power. What! and are these the only executioners of man? is the armory of death so soon exhausted? (In deep thought.) How now! what! ho! I have it! (Starting up.) Terror! What is proof against terror? What powers have religion and reason under that giant's icy grasp! And yet-if he should withstand even this assault? If he should! Oh, then, come Anguish to my aid! and thou, gnawing Repentance!-furies of hell, burrowing snakes who regorge your food, and feed upon your own excrements; ye that are forever destroying, and forever reproducing your poison! And thou, howling Remorse, that desolatest thine own habitation, and feedest upon thy mother. And come ye, too, gentle Graces, to my aid; even you, sweet smiling Memory, goddess of the past-and thou, with thy overflowing horn of plenty, blooming Futurity; show him in your mirror the joys of Paradise, while with fleeting foot you elude his eager grasp. Thus will I work my battery of death, stroke after stroke, upon his fragile body, until the troop of furies close upon him with Despair! Triumph! triumph!-the plan is complete-difficult and masterly beyond compare-sure-safe; for then (with a sneer) the dissecting knife can find no trace of wound or of corrosive poison.
(Resolutely.) Be it so! (Enter HERMANN.) Ha! /Deus ex machina/! Hermann!
HERMANN. At your service, gracious sir!
FRANCIS (shakes him by the hand). You will not find it that of an ungrateful master.
HERMANN. I have proofs of this.
FRANCIS. And you shall have more soon-very soon, Hermann!-I have something to say to thee, Hermann.
HERMANN. I am all attention.
FRANCIS. I know thee-thou art a resolute fellow-a man of mettle.-To call thee smooth-tongued! My father has greatly belied thee, Hermann.
HERMANN. The devil take me if I forget it!
FRANCIS. Spoken like a man! Vengeance becomes a manly heart! Thou art to my mind, Hermann. Take this purse, Hermann. It should be heavier were I master here.
HERMANN. That is my unceasing wish, most gracious sir. I thank you.
FRANCIS. Really, Hermann! dost thou wish that I were master? But my father has the marrow of a lion in his bones, and I am but a younger son.
HERMANN. I wish you were the eldest son, and that your father were as marrowless as a girl sinking in a consumption.
FRANCIS. Ha! how that elder son would recompense thee! How he would raise thee from this grovelling condition, so ill suited to thy spirit and noble birth, to be a light of the age!-Then shouldst thou be covered with gold from head to foot, and dash through the streets four in hand-verily thou shouldst!-But I am losing sight of what I meant to say.-Have you already forgotten the Lady Amelia, Hermann?
HERMANN. A curse upon it! Why do you remind me of her?
FRANCIS. My brother has filched her away from you.
HERMANN. He shall rue it.
FRANCIS. She gave you the sack. And, if I remember right, he kicked you down stairs.
HERMANN. For which I will kick him into hell.
FRANCIS. He used to say, it was whispered abroad, that your father could never look upon you without smiting his breast and sighing, "God be merciful to me, a sinner!"
HERMANN (wildly). Thunder and lightning! No more of this!
FRANCIS. He advised you to sell your patent of nobility by auction, and to get your stockings mended with the proceeds.
HERMANN. By all the devils in hell, I'll scratch out his eyes with my own nails!
FRANCIS. What? you are growing angry? What signifies your anger? What harm can you do him? What can a mouse like you do to such a lion? Your rage only makes his triumph the sweeter. You can do nothing more than gnash your teeth, and vent your rage upon a dry crust.
HERMANN (stamping). I will grind him to powder!
FRANCIS (slapping his shoulder). Fie, Hermann! You are a gentleman. You must not put up with the affront. You must not give up the lady, no, not for all the world, Hermann! By my soul, I would move heaven and earth were I in your place.
HERMANN. I will not rest till I have him, and him, too, under ground.
FRANCIS. Not so violent, Hermann! Come nearer-you shall have Amelia.
HERMANN. That I must; despite the devil himself, I will have her.
FRANCIS. You shall have her, I tell you; and that from my hand. Come closer, I say.-You don't know, perhaps, that Charles is as good as disinherited.
HERMANN (going closer to him). Incredible! The first I have heard of it.
FRANCIS. Be patient, and listen! Another time you shall hear more.- Yes, I tell you, as good as banished these eleven months. But the old man already begins to lament the hasty step, which, however, I flatter myself (with a smile) is not entirely his own. Amelia, too, is incessantly pursuing him with her tears and reproaches. Presently he will be having him searched for in every quarter of the world; and if he finds him-then it's all over with you, Hermann. You may perhaps have the honor of most obsequiously holding the coach-door while he alights with the lady to get married.
HERMANN. I'll strangle him at the altar first.
FRANCIS. His father will soon give up his estates to him, and live in retirement in his castle. Then the proud roysterer will have the reins in his own hands, and laugh his enemies to scorn;-and I, who wished to make a great man of you-a man of consequence-I myself, Hermann, shall have to make my humble obeisance at his threshold.
HERMANN (with fire). No, as sure as my name is Hermann, that shall never be! If but the smallest spark of wit glimmer in this brain of mine, that shall never be!
FRANCIS. Will you be able to prevent it? You, too, my good Hermann, will be made to feel his lash. He will spit in your face when he meets you in the streets; and woe be to you should you venture to shrug your shoulders or to make a wry mouth. Look, my friend! this is all that your lovesuit, your prospects, and your mighty plans amount to.
HERMANN. Tell me, what am I to do?
FRANCIS. Well, then, listen, Hermann! You see how I enter into your feelings, like a true friend. Go-disguise yourself, so that no one may recognize you; obtain audience of the old man; pretend to come straight from Bohemia, to have been at the battle of Prague along with my brother-to have seen him breathe his last on the field of battle!
HERMANN. Will he believe me?
FRANCIS. Ho! ho! let that be my care! Take this packet. There you will find your commission set forth at large; and documents, to boot, which shall convince the most incredulous. Only make haste to get away unobserved. Slip through the back gate into the yard, and then scale the garden wall.-The denouement of this tragicomedy you may leave to me!
HERMANN. That, I suppose, will be, "Long live our new baron, Francis von Moor!"
FRANCIS (patting his cheeks). How cunning you are! By this means, you see, we attain all our aims at once and quickly. Amelia relinquishes all hope of him,-the old man reproaches himself for the death of his son, and-he sickens-a tottering edifice needs no earthquake to bring it down-he will not survive the intelligence-then am I his only son, -Amelia loses every support, and becomes the plaything of my will, and you may easily guess-in short, all will go as we wish-but you must not flinch from your word.
HERMANN. What do you say? (E
xultingly.) Sooner shall the ball turn back in its course, and bury itself in the entrails of the marksman. Depend upon me! Only let me to the work. Adieu!
FRANCIS (calling after him). The harvest is thine, dear Hermann! (Alone.) When the ox has drawn the corn into the barn, he must put up with hay. A dairy maid for thee, and no Amelia!
SCENE II.-Old Moor's Bedchamber.
OLD MOOR asleep in an arm-chair; AMELIA.
AMELIA (approaching him on tip-toe). Softly! Softly! He slumbers. (She places herself before him.) How beautiful! how venerable !- venerable as the picture of a saint. No, I cannot be angry with thee, thou head with the silver locks; I cannot be angry with thee! Slumber on gently, wake up cheerfully-I alone will be the sufferer.
OLD M. (dreaming). My son! my son! my son!
AMELIA (seizes his hand). Hark!-hark! his son is in his dreams.
OLD M. Are you there? Are you really there! Alas! how miserable you seem! Fix not on me that mournful look! I am wretched enough.
AMELIA (awakens him abruptly). Look up, dear old man! 'Twas but a dream. Collect yourself!
OLD M. (half awake). Was he not there? Did I not press his hands? Cruel Francis! wilt thou tear him even from my dreams?
AMELIA (aside). Ha! mark that, Amelia!
OLD M. (rousing himself). Where is he? Where? Where am I? You here, Amelia?
AMELIA. How do you find yourself? You have had a refreshing slumber.
OLD M. I was dreaming about my son. Why did I not dream on? Perhaps I might have obtained forgiveness from his lips.
AMELIA. Angels bear no resentment-he forgives you. (Seizes his hand sorrowfully.) Father of my Charles! I, too, forgive you.
OLD M. No, no, my child! That death-like paleness of thy cheek is the father's condemnation. Poor girl! I have robbed thee of the happiness of thy youth. Oh, do not curse me!
AMELIA (affectionately kissing his hand). I curse you?
OLD M. Dost thou know this portrait, my daughter?
AMELIA. Charles!
OLD M. Such was he in his sixteenth year. But now, alas! how changed. Oh, it is raging within me. That gentleness is now indignation; that smile despair. It was his birthday, was it not, Amelia-in the jessamine bower-when you drew this picture of him? Oh, my daughter! How happy was I in your loves.
AMELIA (with her eye still riveted upon the picture). No, no, it is not he! By Heaven, that is not Charles! Here (pointing to her head and her heart), here he is perfect; and how different. The feeble pencil avails not to express that heavenly spirit which reigned in his fiery eye. Away with it! This is a poor image, an ordinary man! I was a mere dauber.
OLD M. That kind, that cheering look! Had that been at my bedside, I should have lived in the midst of death. Never, never should I have died!
AMELIA. No, you would never, never have died. It would have been but a leap, as we leap from one thought to another and a better. That look would have lighted you across the tomb-that look would have lifted you beyond the stars!
OLD M. It is hard! it is sad! I am dying, and my son Charles is not here-I am borne to my tomb, and he weeps not over my grave. How sweet it is to be lulled into the sleep of death by a son's prayer-that is the true requiem.
AMELIA (with enthusiasm). Yes, sweet it is, heavenly sweet, to be lulled into the sleep of death by the song of the beloved. Perhaps our dreams continue in the grave-a long, eternal, never-ending dream of Charles-till the trumpet of resurrection sounds-(rising in ecstasy) -and thenceforth and forever in his arms! (A pause; she goes to the piano and plays.)
ANDROMACHE.
Oh, Hector, wilt thou go for evermore,
When fierce Achilles, on the blood-stained shore,
Heaps countless victims o'er Patroclus' grave?
When then thy hapless orphan boy will rear,
Teach him to praise the gods and hurl the spear,
When thou art swallow'd up in Xanthus' wave?
OLD M. A beautiful song, my daughter. You must play that to me before I die.
AMELIA. It is the parting of Hector and Andromache. Charles and I used often to sing it together to the guitar. (She continues.)
HECTOR.
Beloved wife! stern duty calls to arms-
Go, fetch my lance! and cease those vain alarms!
On me is cast the destiny of Troy!
Astyanax, my child, the Gods will shield,
Should Hector fall upon the battle-field;
And in Elysium we shall meet with joy!
Enter DANIEL.
DANIEL. There is a man without, who craves to be admitted to your presence, and says he brings tidings of importance.
OLD M. To me there is but one thing in this world of importance; thou knowest it, Amelia. Perhaps it is some unfortunate creature who seeks assistance? He shall not go hence in sorrow.
AMELIA.-If it is a beggar, let him come up quickly.
OLD M. Amelia, Amelia! spare me!
AMELIA (continues to play and sing.)
ANDROMACHE.
Thy martial tread no more will grace my hall-
Thine arms shall hang sad relics on the wall-
And Priam's race of godlike heroes fade!
Oh, thou wilt go where Phcebus sheds no light-
Where black Cocytus wails in endless night
Thy love will die in Lethe's gloomy shade.
HECTOR.
Though I in Lethe's darksome wave should sink,
And cease on other mortal ties to think,
Yet thy true love shall never be forgot!
Hark! on the walls I hear the battle roar-
Gird on my armor-and, oh, weep no more.
Thy Hector's love in Lethe dieth not!
(Enter FRANCIS, HERMANN in disguise, DANIEL.)
FRANCIS. Here is the man. He says that he brings terrible news. Can you bear the recital!
OLD M. I know but one thing terrible to hear. Come hither, friend, and spare me not! Hand him a cup of wine!
HERMANN (in a feigned voice). Most gracious Sir? Let not a poor man be visited with your displeasure, if against his will he lacerates your heart. I am a stranger in these parts, but I know you well; you are the father of Charles von Moor.
OLD M. How know you that?
HERMANN. I knew your son
AMELIA (starting up). He lives then? He lives! You know him? Where is he? Where? (About to rush out.)
OLD M. What know you about my son?
HERMANN. He was a student at the university of Leipzic. From thence he travelled about, I know not how far. He wandered all over Germany, and, as he told me himself, barefoot and bareheaded, begging his bread from door to door. After five months, the fatal war between Prussia and Austria broke out afresh, and as he had no hopes left in this world, the fame of Frederick's victorious banner drew him to Bohemia. Permit me, said he to the great Schwerin, to die on the bed of heroes, for I have no longer a father!-
OLD M. O! Amelia! Look not on me!
HERMANN. They gave him a pair of colors. With the Prussians he flew on the wings of victory. We chanced to lie together, in the same tent. He talked much of his old father, and of happy days that were past-and of disappointed hopes-it brought the tears into our eyes.
OLD M. (buries his face in his pillow).-No more! Oh, no more !
HERMANN. A week after, the fierce battle of Prague was fought-I can assure you your son behaved like a brave soldier. He performed prodigies that day in sight of the whole army. Five regiments were successively cut down by his side, and still he kept his ground. Fiery shells fell right and left, and still your son kept his ground. A ball shattered his right hand: he seized the colors with his left, and still he kept his ground!
AMELIA (in transport). Hector, Hector! do you hear? He kept his ground!
HERMANN. On the evening of the battle I found him on the same spot. He had sunk down, amidst a shower of hissing balls: with his left hand he was stanching the blood that flowed from a fearful wound; his right he had buried in the earth. "Comrade!" cried he when he
saw me, "there has been a report through the ranks that the general fell an hour ago-" "He is fallen," I replied, "and thou?" "Well, then," he cried, withdrawing his left hand from the wound, "let every brave soldier follow his general!" Soon after he breathed out his noble soul, to join his heroic leader.
FRANCIS (feigning to rush wildly on HERMANN). May death seal thy accursed lips! Art thou come here to give the death-blow to our father? Father! Amelia! father!
HERMANN. It was the last wish of my expiring comrade. "Take this sword," faltered he, with his dying breath, "deliver it to my aged father; his son's blood is upon it-he is avenged-let him rejoice. Tell him that his curse drove me into battle and into death; that I fell in despair." His last sigh was "Amelia."
AMELIA (like one aroused from lethargy). His last sigh-Amelia!
OLD M. (screaming horribly, and tearing his hair). My curse drove him into death! He fell in despair!
FRANCIS (pacing up and down the room). Oh! what have you done, father? My Charles! my brother!
The Robbers Page 5
