Masters of the Theatre

by Delphi Classics

  CHARLES. Do you hear that? Do you hear it? What startles you? Why do you hesitate? They offer you freedom — you that are already their prisoners. They grant you your lives, and that is no idle pretence, for it is clear you are already condemned felons. They promise you honor and emolument; and, on the other hand, what can you hope for, even should you be victorious to-day, but disgrace, and curses, and persecution? They ensure you the pardon of Heaven; you that are actually damned. There is not a single hair on any of you that is not already bespoke in hell. Do you still hesitate? are you staggered? Is it so difficult, then, to choose between heaven and hell? — Do put in a word, father!

  FATHER DOM. (aside.) Is the fellow crazy? (Aloud.) Perhaps you are afraid that this is a trap to catch you alive? — Read it yourselves! Here — is the general pardon fully signed. (He hands a paper to SCHWEITZER.) Can you still doubt?

  CHARLES. Only see! only see! What more can you require? Signed with their own hands! It is mercy beyond all bounds! Or are you afraid of their breaking their word, because you have heard it said that no faith need be kept with traitors? Dismiss that fear! Policy alone would constrain them to keep their word, even though it should merely have been pledged to old Nick. Who hereafter would believe them? How could they trade with it a second time? I would take my oath upon it that they mean it sincerely. They know that I am the man who has goaded you on and incited you; they believe you innocent. They look upon your crimes as so many juvenile errors — exuberances of rashness. It is I alone they want. I must pay the penalty. Is it not so, father?

  FATHER DOM. What devil incarnate is it that speaks out of him? Of course it is so — of course. The fellow turns my brain.

  CHARLES. What! no answer yet? Do you think it possible to cut your way through yon phalanx? Only look round you! just look round! You surely do not reckon upon that; that were indeed a childish conceit — Or do you flatter yourselves that you will fall like heroes, because you saw that I rejoiced in the prospect of the fight? Oh, do not console yourself with the thought! You are not MOOR. You are miserable thieves! wretched tools of my great designs! despicable as the rope in the hand of the hangman! No! no! Thieves do not fall like heroes. Life must be the hope of thieves, for something fearful has to follow. Thieves may well be allowed to quake at the fear of death. Hark! Do you hear their horns echoing through the forest? See there! how their glittering sabres threaten! What! are you still irresolute? are you mad? are you insane? It is unpardonable. Do you imagine I shall thank you for my life? I disdain your sacrifice!

  FATHER DOM. (in utter amazement). I shall go mad! I must be gone! Was the like ever heard of?

  CHARLES. Or are you afraid that I shall stab myself, and so by suicide put an end to the bargain, which only holds good if I am given up alive? No, comrades! that is a vain fear. Here, I fling away my dagger, and my pistols, and this phial of poison, which might have been a treasure to me. I am so wretched that I have lost the power even over my own life. What! still in suspense? Or do you think, perhaps, that I shall stand on my defence when you try to seize me? See here! I bind my right hand to this oak-branch; now I am quite defenceless, a child may overpower me. Who is the first to desert his captain in the hour of need?

  ROLLER (with wild energy). And what though hell encircle us with ninefold coils! (Brandishing his sword.) Who is the coward that will betray his captain?

  SCHWEITZER (tears the pardon and flings the pieces into FATHER DOMINIC’S face). Pardon be in our bullets! Away with thee, rascal! Tell your senate that you could not find a single traitor in all Moor’s camp. Huzza! Huzza! Save the captain!

  ALL (shouting). Huzza! Save the captain! Save him! Save our noble captain!

  CHARLES (releasing his hand from the tree, joyfully). Now we are free, comrades! I feel a host in this single arm! Death or liberty! At the least they shall not take a man of us alive!

  [They sound the signal for attack; noise and tumult. Exeunt with drawn swords.]

  ACT III.

  SCENE I. — AMELIA in the garden, playing the guitar.

  Bright as an angel from Walhalla’s hall,

  More beautiful than aught of earth was he!

  Heaven-mild his look, as sunbeams when they fall,

  Reflected from a calm cerulean sea.

  His warm embrace — oh, ravishing delight!

  With heart to heart the fiery pulses danced —

  Our every sense wrap’d in ecstatic night —

  Our souls in blissful harmony entranced.

  His kisses — oh, what paradise of feeling!

  E’en as two flames which round each other twine —

  Or flood of seraph harp-tones gently stealing

  In one soft swell, away to realms divine!

  They rushed, commingled, melted, soul in soul!

  Lips glued to lips, with burning tremor bound!

  Cold earth dissolved, and love without control

  Absorbed all sense of worldly things around!

  He’s gone! — forever gone! Alas! in vain

  My bleeding heart in bitter anguish sighs;

  To me is left alone this world of pain,

  And mortal life in hopeless sorrow dies. Enter FRANCIS.

  FRANCIS. Here again already, perverse enthusiast? You stole away from the festive banquet, and marred the mirthful pleasures of my guests.

  AMELIA. ’Tis pity, truly, to mar such innocent pleasures! Shame on them! The funeral knell that tolled over your father’s grave must still be ringing in your ears —

  FRANCIS. Wilt thou sorrow, then, forever? Let the dead sleep in peace, and do thou make the living happy! I come —

  AMELIA. And when do you go again?

  FRANCIS. Alas! Look not on me thus sorrowfully! You wound me, Amelia. I come to tell you —

  AMELIA. To tell me, I suppose, that Francis von Moor has become lord and master here.

  FRANCIS. Precisely so; that is the very subject on which I wish to communicate with you. Maximilian von Moor is gone to the tomb of his ancestors. I am master. But I wish — to be so in the fullest sense, Amelia. You know what you have been to our house always regarded as Moor’s daughter, his love for you will survive even death itself; that, assuredly, you will never forget?

  AMELIA. Never, never! Who could be so unfeeling as to drown the memory of it in festive banqueting?

  FRANCIS. It is your duty to repay the love of the father to his sons; and Charles is dead. Ha! you are struck with amazement; dizzy with the thought! To be sure ’tis a flattering and an elating prospect which may well overpower the pride of a woman. Francis tramples under foot the hopes of the noblest and the richest, and offers his heart, his hand, and with them all his gold, his castles, and his forests to a poor, and, but for him, destitute orphan. Francis — the feared — voluntarily declares himself Amelia’s slave!

  AMELIA. Why does not a thunderbolt cleave the impious tongue which utters the criminal proposal! Thou hast murdered my beloved Charles; and shall Amelia, his betrothed, call thee husband? Thou?

  FRANCIS. Be not so violent, most gracious princess! It is true that Francis does not come before you like a whining Celadon— ’tis true he has not learned, like a lovesick swain of Arcadia, to sigh forth his amorous plaints to the echo of caves and rocks. Francis speaks — and, when not answered, commands!

  AMELIA. Commands? thou reptile! Command me? And what if I laughed your command to scorn?

  FRANCIS. That you will hardly do. There are means, too, which I know of, admirably adapted to humble the pride of a capricious, stubborn girl — cloisters and walls!

  AMELIA. Excellent! delightful! to be forever secure within cloisters and walls from thy basilisk look, and to have abundant leisure to think and dream of Charles. Welcome with your cloister! welcome your walls!

  FRANCIS. Ha! Is that it? Beware! Now you have taught me the art of tormenting you. The sight of me shall, like a fiery-haired fury, drive out of your head these eternal phantasies of Charles. Francis shall be the dread phantom ever lurking behind th
e image of your beloved, like the fiend-dog that guards the subterranean treasure. I will drag you to church by the hair, and sword in hand wring the nuptial vow from your soul. By main force will I ascend your virginal couch, and storm your haughty modesty with still greater haughtiness.

  AMELIA (gives him a slap in the face). Then take that first by way of dowry!

  FRANCIS. Ha! I will be tenfold, and twice tenfold revenged for this! My wife! No, that honor you shall never enjoy. You shall be my mistress, my strumpet! The honest peasant’s wife shall point her finger at you as she passes you in the street. Ay, gnash your teeth as fiercely as you please — scatter fire and destruction from your eyes — the fury of a woman piques my fancy — it makes you more beautiful, more tempting. Come, this resistance will garnish my triumph, and your struggles give zest to my embraces. Come, come to my chamber — I burn with desire. Come this instant. (Attempts to drag her away).

  AMELIA (falls on his neck). Forgive me, Francis! (As he is about to clasp her in his arms, she suddenly draws the sword at his side, and hastily disengages herself). Do you see now, miscreant, how I am able to deal with you? I am only a woman, but a woman enraged. Dare to approach, and this steel shall strike your lascivious heart to the core — the spirit of my uncle will guide my hand. Avaunt, this instant! (She drives him away).

  Ah! how different I feel! Now I breathe again — I feel strong as the snorting steed, ferocious as the tigress when she springs upon the ruthless destroyer of her cubs. To a cloister, did he say? I thank thee for the happy thought! Now has disappointed love found a place of refuge — the cloister — the Redeemer’s bosom is the sanctuary of disappointed love. (She is on the point going). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  In the acting edition the following scene occurs between Herman and Francis, immediately before that with Amelia. As Schiller himself thought this among the happiest of his additions, and regretted that it was “entirely and very unfortunately overlooked in the first edition,” it seems desirable to introduce it here as well as the soliloquy immediately following, which has acquired some celebrity.

  SCENE VIII. Enter HERMANN.

  FRANCIS. Ha! Welcome, my Euryalus! My prompt and trusty instrument!

  HERMANN (abruptly and peevishly). You sent for me, count — why?

  FRANCIS. That you might put the seal to your master-piece.

  HERMANN (gruffly). Indeed?

  FRANCIS. Give the picture its finishing touch.

  HERMANN. Poh! Poh!

  FRANCIS (startled). Shall I call the carriage? We’ll arrange the business during the drive?

  HERMANN (scornfully). No ceremony, sir, if you please. For any business we may have to arrange there is room enough between these four walls. At all events I’ll just say a few words to you by way of preface, which may save your lungs some unnecessary exertion.

  FRANCIS (reservedly). Hum! And what may those words be?

  HERMANN (with bitter irony). “You shall have Amelia — and that from my hand—”

  FRANCIS (with astonishment). Hermann!

  HERMANN (as before, with his back turned on FRANCIS). “Amelia will become the plaything of my will — and you may easily guess the rest-in short all will go as we wish” (Breaks into an indignant laugh, and then turns haughtily to FRANCIS.) Now, Count von Moor, what have you to say to me?

  FRANCIS (evasively). To thee? Nothing. I had something to say to Hermann. —

  HERMANN, No evasion. Why was I sent for hither? Was it to be your dupe a second time! and to hold the ladder for a thief to mount? to sell my soul for a hangman s fee? What else did you want with me?

  FRANCIS (as if recollecting). Ha! It just occurs to me! We must not forget the main point. Did not my steward mention it to you? I wanted to talk to you about the dowry.

  HERMANN. This is mere mockery sir; or, if not mockery, something worse. Moor, take care of yourself-beware how you kindle my fury, Moor. We are alone! And I have still an unsullied name to stake against yours! Trust not the devil, although he be of your own raising.

  FRANCIS (with dignity). Does this deportment become thee towards thy sovereign and gracious master? Tremble, slave!

  HERMANN (ironically). For fear of your displeasure, I suppose? What signifies your displeasure to a man who is at war with himself? Fie, Moor. I already abhor you as a villain; let me not despise you for a fool. I can open graves, and restore the dead to life! Which of us now is the slave?

  FRANCIS (in a conciliating tone). Come, my good friend, be discreet, and do not prove faithless.

  HERMANN. Pshaw! To expose a wretch like you is here the best discretion — to keep faith with you would be an utter want of sense. Faith? with whom? Faith with the prince of liars? Oh, I shudder at the thought of such faith. A very little timely faithlessness would have almost made a saint of me. But patience! patience! Revenge is cunning in resources.

  FRANCIS. Ah, by-the-by, I just remember. You lately lost a purse with a hundred louis in it, in this apartment. I had almost forgotten it. Here, my good friend! take back what belongs to you. (Offers him a purse).

  HERMANN (throws it scornfully at his feet). A curse on your Judas bribe! It is the earnest-money of hell. You once before thought to make my poverty a pander to my conscience — but you were mistaken, count! egregiously mistaken. That purse of gold came most opportunely — to maintain certain persons.

  FRANCIS (terrified). Hermann! Hermann! Let me not suspect certain things of you. Should you have done anything contrary to my instructions — you would be the vilest of traitors!

  HERMANN (exultingly). Should I? Should I really? Well then count, let me give you a little piece of information! (Significantly.) I will fatten up your infamy, and add fuel to your doom. The book of your misdeeds shall one day be served up as a banquet, and all the world be invited to partake of it. (Contemptuously.) Do you understand me now, my most sovereign, gracious, and excellent master?

  FRANCIS (starts up, losing all command of himself). Ha! Devil! Deceitful impostor! (Striking his forehead.) To think that I should stake my fortune on the caprice of an idiot! That was madness! (Throws himself, in great excitement, on a couch.)

  HERMANN (whistles through his fingers). Wheugh! the biter bit! —

  FRANCIS (biting his lip). But it is true, and ever will be true — that there is no thread so feebly spun, or which snaps asunder so readily, as that which weaves the bands of guilt! —

  HERMANN. Gently! Gently! Are angels, then, superseded, that devils turn moralists?

  FRANCIS (starts up abruptly; to HERMANN with a malignant laugh). And certain persons will no doubt acquire much honor by making the discovery?

  HERMANN (clapping his hands). Masterly! Inimitable! You play your part to admiration! First you lure the credulous fool into the slough, and then chuckle at the success of your malice, and cry “Woe be to you sinner!” (Laughing and clenching his teeth.) Oh, how cleverly these imps off the devil manoeuvre. But, count (clapping him on the shoulder) you have not yet got your lesson quite perfect — by Heavens! You first learn what the losing gamester will hazard. Set fire to the powder-magazine, says the pirate, and blow all to hell — both friend and foe!

  FRANCIS (runs to the wall, and takes down a pistol). Here is treason! I must be resolute —

  HERMANN (draws a pistol as quickly from his pocket, and presents it at him). Don’t trouble yourself — one must be prepared for everything with you.

  FRANCIS (lets the pistol fall, and throws himself on the sofa in great confusion). Only keep my council till — till I have collected my thoughts.

  HERMANN. I suppose till you have hired a dozen assassins to silence my

  tongue forever! Is it not so! But (in his ear) the secret is committed

  to paper, which my heirs will publish. [Exit.]

  SCENE IX. FRANCIS, solus.

  Francis! Francis! Francis! What is all this? Where was thy courage?

  where thy once so fertile wit? Woe! Woe! And to be betrayed by thy

  own instruments! Th
e pillars of my good fortune are tottering to their

  fall, the fences are broken down, and the raging enemy is already

  bursting in upon me. Well! this calls for some bold and sudden resolve!

  What if I went in person — and secretly plunged this sword in his body?

  A wounded man is but a child. Quick! I’ll do it. (He walks with a

  resolute step to the end of the stage, but stops suddenly as if overcome

  by sensations of horror). Who are these gliding behind me? (Rolling

  his eyes fearfully) Faces such as I have never yet beheld. What

  hideous yells do I hear! I feel that I have courage — courage! oh yes to

  overflowing! But if a mirror should betray me? or my shadow! or the

  whistling of the murderous stroke! Ugh! Ugh! How my hair bristles! A

  shudder creeps through my frame. (He lets a poigniard fall from under

  his clothes.) I am no coward — perhaps somewhat too tenderhearted. Yes!

  that is it! These are the last struggles of expiring virtue. I revere

  them. I should indeed be a monster were I to become the murderer of my

  own brother. No! no! no! That thought be far from me! Let me cherish

  this vestige of humanity. I will not murder. Nature, thou hast

  conquered. I still feel something here that seems like — affection. He

  shall live. [Exit.]

  Enter HERMANN, timidly.

  HERMANN. Lady Amelia! Lady Amelia!

  AMELIA. Unhappy man! why dost thou disturb me?

  HERMANN. I must throw this weight from my soul before it drags it down to hell. (Falls down before her.) Pardon! pardon! I have grievously injured you, Lady Amelia!